Brett Halliday - The Homicidal Virgin

“Then you won’t help me?”

“Certainly not. Get it through your head that you’re the only person who can help yourself at this point.”

Shayne got to his feet and walked across to stand over her as she huddled defensively away from him on the sofa, and he made his voice more gentle:

“This is a hell of a story you told me, Jane, and if it’s true, your stepfather deserves to be shot. But that’s neither here nor there. There are laws to take care of people like Saul Henderson. If you’ll come with me tonight, I’ll guarantee you’ll never have to see the son-of-a-bitch again. I can’t guarantee you’ll end up with your inheritance, but I think there’s a good chance you will.”

“But it would mean testifying against him, wouldn’t it? Standing up in court and admitting what I did… the sort of horrible person I am.”

“It would mean preferring charges against him,” said Shayne evenly. “I doubt it would come into open court. Judges are human, and there are ways of handling things like this.”

“But he would just deny everything,” she said tearfully. “I haven’t any proof. It would be my word against his. And everyone would believe him. I’d just be an hysterical teen-ager… because I’m only nineteen.”

Shayne controlled his exasperation and said, “Jane. I’m putting it to you straight. There’s only one answer… and that’s to never go back into his house again. Come with me tonight. I’ll take you to my girl-friend’s apartment. Give up this crazy idea of hiring someone to murder him. You’ll just end up in the electric chair yourself that way.”

She lay back on the sofa looking up at him like a wounded animal. She breathed fast and irregularly through widely parted lips and her eyes seared him.

“Get out,” she spat. “I hope I never see you again. Take your corny advice and stick it. Men are all alike and I should have known better than to think different. Get out.”

Shayne hesitated a long moment. The girl was clearly on the verge of hysteria, and his first impulse was to call the house detective and a doctor.

But he fought down that impulse, reminding himself that he hadn’t the right to do anything like that. Sure, she was plenty neurotic, maybe psychotic, but what high-strung girl wouldn’t be after what she had gone through?

He got out his wallet and took one of his own business cards from it, and scribbled his home telephone number on it before handing it to her.

He said, “This guy, Michael Shayne, is a close friend of mine. He’s legal, but he knows how to cut corners and I guarantee he can be trusted. He can help you if anybody in the world can. That’s his private number I’ve written down. Settle back and think over everything I’ve said. Forget this murder routine you’re hipped on. If you decide you want help, call Michael Shayne… any time of the night or day. And God help you, Jane Smith,” he ended under his breath as he turned away from her and walked out of the hotel suite.

Michael Shayne did not return to his newly rented hotel room that night. He took a taxi directly from the Beach to his own apartment hotel on the north bank of the Miami River, and strode into the empty lobby, surprising Pete who was dozing behind the desk.

The night clerk sat up with a jerk and said, “Gee, Mr. Shayne, it’s been sort of dull around here the last few days without you.”

Shayne said, “I’ve had it pretty dull myself. Any mail or messages?”

“I’ll bet you’ve had it dull.” Pete winked at him knowingly. “A few letters. And just about an hour ago Mr. Rourke called and wanted you to call him back. I tried that number you gave me but room eight-oh-six didn’t answer.”

Shayne nodded, absently riffling half a dozen unimportant letters. “Just cancel out that number for the future. I’ll call Rourke from upstairs.”

He went up to the familiar suite he had occupied for so many years, shrugged out of his jacket as he entered. He crossed the comfortably shabby living room in long strides, glad to be shucking off Mike Wayne’s identity and becoming himself again.

In the small kitchen he put ice cubes in a tall glass, ran water over them, and carried it and a four-ounce wine-glass to the center table in the living room. He got a bottle of cognac from a wall cupboard, filled the wine-glass to the brim, and settled back comfortably to try Tim at the newspaper office. The City Desk told him Rourke had checked out for the night, and Shayne called his home number.

“Mike! I’ve been wondering how the hell you made out with Jane Smith. I haven’t had a single damned word from you since we talked about her. Pete says you haven’t been home nights. You been shacked up with her?” Rourke’s voice was cheerfully expectant.

“I just made contact tonight. Left her in a hotel on the Beach half an hour ago.”

“And?”

“There’s no story, Tim.”

“Nuts! There must be some story.”

“It’s not for your youthful ears… nor for your rag to publish.” Shayne paused and took a sip of cognac. “But there’s a chance… a slim chance… that she may be calling in Mike Shayne, in person, to help her out of a spot. If she does that, I might have something for you eventually.”

“I’m coming around,” Rourke said eagerly. “You at home?”

“Sitting here with a drink and wondering whether Jane Smith will come to her senses and telephone me.”

Rourke said, “See you,” and hung up.

Shayne replaced the receiver slowly and lit a cigarette. Would Jane take his lecture to heart and telephone a private detective for help? He didn’t think so. Not really. He closed his eyes and her face appeared before him as it had been at the last when she spat, “Get out,” at him.

He hadn’t handled it well, he thought morosely. God in heaven! he had actually sat back and preached at her. What she needed was sympathy and understanding. And he had walked out on her leaving her alone and hysterical and hopeless.

Impulsively he reached for the telephone, half a mind to call her at the Palms Terrace. As Michael Shayne. Would she recognize his voice over the telephone? Probably not. He could tell her that his old friend, Mike Wayne, had asked him to get in touch with her. Then she wouldn’t feel so lost and alone. She’d realize that Wayne had been touched by her story… that he truly wanted to help her, and perhaps she would accept Shayne’s help.

But he paused with his hand on the instrument. No, damn it. The call must come from her. It wouldn’t be any good if it wasn’t her decision. She had to learn to stand on her own two feet and to fight her own way free. Certainly, he thought, after girding herself up to go through with meeting a strange man tonight and pleading with him to murder her stepfather… after the way that meeting ended… certainly she would give up her insane plan and begin considering the alternatives he had suggested.

He relaxed and swallowed an ounce of cognac, chasing it down with ice water. Now, he thought his telephone would ring. He began waiting for the sound hopefully.

His cognac glass was empty and he was still waiting, less hopefully, when Timothy Rourke entered the room.

The reporter grinned at him and crossed to the wall cabinet without an invitation and selected a bottle of bourbon that was already open. He carried it into the kitchen where he slugged a generous amount into a glass, added an ice cube and a moderate amount of water. He came back to sprawl his lean frame into a deep chair opposite Shayne and said, “Tell me about our Jane Smith. How’d it go?”

Shayne shrugged. “Pretty much according to schedule. She cased me as Mike Wayne this evening, and then went through a long rigmarole to make sure I didn’t call in the cops.” He grinned at the memory and added, “Damn well planned, too. Jane is no dumbbell. She fixed it so she could look me over in person before deciding whether to confide in me or not.”