Brett Halliday - Murder and the Married Virgin

“Are you busy tonight?” Shayne asked.

She turned, putting her hands behind her to grip the railing. “No,” she said, looking up at him expectantly.

Shayne’s preoccupied gaze swept over her neat gray suit of clinging wool and the white collar of her blouse frilling around her throat. “How do you manage to look as fresh when you’re leaving as you do in the mornings?” he asked.

Lucy chuckled. “Why, Detective Shayne-didn’t you know? I use Ivorlux for my complexion-and things.” Her tone was light and there was laughter in her eyes, but it went away before the brooding intensity of his face.

“That’s swell,” he said. “You could go right to dinner, couldn’t you-without changing?”

“If it isn’t too formal,” she said eagerly. “Where are we going?”

“Take a cab to the Dragoon Hotel,” he instructed, “and call Lieutenant Drinkley in four-twelve. Express my regrets-tell him something came up suddenly that’ll keep me busy on the case. Explain that we planned to make it a threesome, but I can’t make it.”

“What are you talking about,” she exclaimed. “He wouldn’t want to take me to dinner. He’d consider it a sacrilege-”

“Take him to some quiet place like Madame Martin’s where the drinks are good and the lights aren’t too bright,” Shayne went on, his voice tense and a scowl between his eyes. “Turn on your charm and see what happens. Lead him on a little, if you get what I mean.” He paused to look at her as if he saw her for the first time since he started talking. “This,” he ended harshly, “is a business assignment.”

“But-Michael,” she breathed, “you don’t think he was just pretending this morning! He seemed so heartbroken. He was heartbroken,” she amended defiantly. “I could tell. I’ll bet he won’t go to dinner with me.”

Shayne said grimly, “Don’t worry. He’ll jump at the chance.”

“I don’t believe it,” she said passionately. “I don’t know what’s happened, but you’re wrong-if you really want a woman’s viewpoint. You see, he told me about Katrin when he was waiting for you this morning.”

Shayne nodded gloomily. “I know. He put on a good act.”

“It wasn’t an act. You can’t make me believe it. You’re so darned cynical sometimes I’d like to-to kick you.” She was still clutching the low railing behind her and her chin jutted defiantly.

Shayne said, “I deserve to be kicked for swallowing every cock-and-bull story that’s handed me. Go along and see for yourself. But don’t get too damned maudlin with pity,” he added as he turned toward his inner office. “I want an objective report on what happens.”

“That’s just what you’ll get,” she retorted as he disappeared and slammed the door behind him.

Shayne poured a drink, set it on the desk and called the Orange Cab Company. He explained what he wanted, gave the number of the cab that had taken the girl from the Dragoon Hotel, and was told, “We’ll have the driver call you as soon as he calls in, Mr. Shayne.”

He hung up and took a drink of cognac, relaxed in his chair and stared somberly at the wall. He wasn’t getting anywhere. A whole day shot and he wasn’t any closer to collecting a fee than he’d been that morning. He had stopped feeling sorry for Lieutenant Drinkley, but that was about all he had accomplished. He frowned and tried to switch his thoughts away from the young officer.

There was a loud knock on the outer door of the office. Shayne waited for Lucy to answer it. The knock came again, louder and more insistent. He suddenly realized that Lucy had gone to keep her engagement with Lieutenant Drinkley, and yelled, “Come in.”

The door opened. Shayne called out, “Come on in here,” and listened while hesitant footsteps came nearer.

The door opened and a husky young man came in holding a cabbie’s cap in his hand. He said, “Mr. Shayne?”

“Who are you?”

“Bud Stanley from the Orange Taxi Company. I had a call from the office sayin’ you wanted to see me.”

“Yeh. About a fare you picked up about a half an hour ago at the Dragoon. Remember?”

“Sure thing. A dame-and plenty classy.”

“Where’d you take her?”

“Armentiers Apartments on Chartres-just beyond Bienville.” The driver twisted his cap around his finger, then asked awkwardly, “What’s this for, boss? Police?”

“Hell, no. Private stuff. Your office told you I was all right, didn’t they?”

“Sure. I’ve heard about you, Mr. Shayne, but look-I don’t wanta get mixed up in nothin’. You know what I mean.”

Shayne said impatiently, “You’ll just help me cut a corner if you’ve got anything. Know anything else about the girl? Her name-which apartment?”

“It ain’t much, but I’ve seen that dame before.”

Shayne reached in his pocket and brought out a handful of coins and selected three half-dollars. He stacked them on the desk and asked. “Where?”

“She hangs out at the Laurel Club,” Stanley told him. “Makes a pick-up once in a while, maybe.”

“A hustler?” Shayne asked with interest.

“N-o-o. Not that way, I don’t think. But I drove her once when she was pretty tight. Quite a while ago,” he amended.

Shayne pulled the silver pieces back. Putting them in his pocket he said, “That’s worth a five-spot,” and took out his wallet.

“Thanks.” Bud reached out a grimy hand for the bill.

“Was she alone when you drove her-when she was tight?” Shayne held the bill in his hand.

“No, sir. She had a soldier with her.”

Shayne tossed the bill across the table. The cabbie took it and went out.

Shayne finished his drink, tugging absently at his ear lobe. A pattern was beginning to emerge-if he could only see it clearly. The Laurel Club figured in it somehow. There were too many signposts.

He called headquarters and asked for Chief McCracken and was informed that the chief had gone home. He called the chief’s house and got him there.

“What do you know about the Laurel Club, Mac?” he asked.

“Off the record?” McCracken chuckled.

“Sure.”

“It’s on Chartres between St. Louis and Toulouse. Dan Trueman runs it and there’s never any trouble. He keeps his shows clean enough to avoid the vice squad, and if there’s any gambling in the back room we’ve never had a squawk to base a raid on.”

Shayne said, “Fair enough,” and added reflectively, “Dan Trueman?”

“He’s after your time,” McCracken told him. “No record, and he’s built the club up from a shoestring to a nice take. That’s all I can give you, Mike. Still hunting for emeralds?”

Shayne grunted. “And no luck. Thanks, Mac.” He hung up and ran his hand over a bristly growth of red whiskers. He got up and turned off the lights in both offices at a switch in the reception room.

It was a short drive down to St. Charles and up to Carondelet where he had a three-room walk-up apartment in an old two-story residence that had been remodeled and modernized. He parked his car at the curb and went up the path and wooden steps to the veranda. Stairs led directly up from the double entrance doors, and the pleasant smell of highly seasoned food pervaded the house as he climbed them at a brisk pace.

He entered a high-ceilinged corner room with freshly papered walls and a new rug on the floor. An antique chandelier gave light from a dozen small bulbs when he flipped the switch.

It was unpleasantly warm in the apartment and he opened a double window before going into the bedroom where he took off his coat and tie.

He picked up the evening paper which had been pushed under his door and settled himself comfortably, glanced over the headlines, then carefully read the newspaper account of the death of Katrin Moe and the theft of the Lomax necklace.