Brett Halliday - Murder and the Married Virgin

There was nothing new in the newspaper account. Katrin’s death was treated as suicide, though the motive was an admitted mystery. A sob writer had got hold of the wedding-day angle and played it up heavily, with pictures of Lieutenant Drinkley and his bride-to-be. Nowhere in the story was there any suggestion that there might be a connection between the girl’s death and the loss of the necklace; and Mrs. Lomax’s negligence in leaving the necklace out of the safe was glossed over.

Shayne studied the newspaper picture of Katrin Moe, wondering whether it had been taken recently. Her face was round and full-cheeked with a firm, pointed chin. Her eyes were big and solemn, and there was no hint of a smile in her expression. Her hair was plaited in two braids and coiled around her head. Soft curls of short-cut hair or new growth made a halo around her face.

He folded the newspaper and sailed it across the room, went into the bedroom, stripping off his shirt as he went. He shaved and took a tepid shower, then dressed swiftly and carefully. He selected a pin-striped suit of dark blue that made him look younger, and a solid blue shirt with a lighter blue tie slashed across with bars of white. A gray topcoat and a snap-brim felt of a lighter shade finished the transformation from the man who’d ridden down in the elevator at the Dragoon Hotel that afternoon into a person whom he hoped Lieutenant Drinkley’s visitor wouldn’t recognize.

When he went outside a high wind was rapidly dispersing the clouds. He hesitated for a moment beside his car, then swung off briskly to Canal and down to Chartres and the French Quarter. He stopped under a canopied entrance where three steps led down from the sidewalk and a neon sign above read, The Laurel Club.

Inside a small foyer there was a red neon arrow pointing left and blue light above it flowed through the words Cocktail Lounge.

He checked his hat and topcoat and went into a large room softly lighted by concealed fluorescent tubes around the low ceiling. A bar ran the length of the room at one end, accommodated by leather-upholstered stools and a rail. Horseshoe seats hugged the tables set against the other three walls. Strolling past the booths, he glanced into the few that were occupied. He went on to the bar and studied the faces reflected in the mirror. None of the faces were familiar.

Shayne cut across to a center booth from which he could see both the main entrance and a door at the rear of the cocktail lounge. A waiter was coming toward him when he saw her come in. She had changed to a silvery green evening gown that clung to her slender figure and left bare her firm-fleshed shoulders and arms.

The girl who had visited Lieutenant Drinkley’s hotel room stopped and looked around at the booths, then went slowly to the bar.

When the waiter approached Shayne to take his order, Shayne asked, “Can I get quicker service at the bar?”

“Yes, sir. It’s a little early for the booths to be filled and all the waiters haven’t come on yet.”

Shayne said, “Okay,” and went to the bar. He sat down beside the girl with the tawny hair and ordered cognac.

Shayne was watching the girl’s reflection while he spoke. She gave him a swift, low-lidded glance, fumbled in a glittering evening bag and brought out a cigarette case. She snapped the case open. It was empty. Shayne took out his pack and shook one out.

The girl said, “Thanks,” and dug into her bag for a match.

Shayne took a cigarette for himself, struck a match to both, and said, “Those little bags aren’t good for much, are they?”

She looked levelly at him as she lit her cigarette. She chuckled and said, “I never seem to have anything but the habit, anyway.”

The bartender set a sidecar before Shayne. He said, “Make it two,” lifting one bushy red brow to query the girl.

She nodded and asked, “How come you’re on the loose?”

“I’m new in town.” He appraised her with a frank, steady gaze and added, “A girl like you shouldn’t be here alone-accepting drinks from a strange man.”

“I work here,” she told him, and turned to pick up the sidecar the waiter set on the bar.

Shayne lifted his glass and touched hers. He said, “So that’s it. Well, here’s to bigger and better percentages.” He shoved a five-dollar bill toward the bartender. “Let me know when that’s used up.”

“You seem to know all the answers,” she said, and there was a fleeting return of the sullenness around her mouth that he had noticed in the elevator.

“I’ve been around,” he told her, then asked abruptly, “What’s your name?”

“Lana Moore.” She turned to him as she spoke and added, “You’ll only give me a phony if I ask yours, so I’ll call you Red.”

“Make it Mike.” He shoved the two empty glasses aside and held up two fingers when he caught the bartender’s eye.

She laughed and said, “Five dollars’ worth of these ought to fix things up between us, Red. You see, I kind of go for red hair. But you’ll be thinking it’s a line,” she ended seriously, as the bartender set two sidecars before them.

“It’s a good one if it is.” He drained his glass, pushed it aside and folded his arms on the bar. “What’s your racket? Tell me about it.”

She sipped reflectively, said, “I get a percentage here and at other places. If I can entice you back to the gambling room I get a rakeoff on your losses.” She laughed deep in her throat.

Except for her first low-lidded glance, the girl gave no indication that she recognized him as the man who had ridden down in the elevator with her at the Dragoon Hotel.

After they had drunk four sidecars Shayne suggested, “Let’s find something to eat.”

“There’s a nice dining-room here,” she told him, “with a fair floor show. But it isn’t the hottest one in the Quarter.”

Lana Moore eased herself from the stool, tucked her arm in his and they went out and through the corridor into the dining-room. The head waiter met them with a deferential bow and seated them at a table for two near the velvet rope separating a small stage from the diners. The large room was less than half filled, but the first floor show was already in progress. The acts were risque without being indecent, and Shayne was beginning to understand why Dan Trueman never had any trouble with the law.

When a waiter brought the menus Shayne laid his aside and said, “You know the joint, Lana. Order for both of us.”

“I’d love to,” she answered with a pleased smile. “We’ll start with a Sazerac cocktail,” she went on, looking up at the waiter, “shrimp salad with Arnaud’s dressing and oysters Rockefeller.”

Shayne made a wry face. “That’s not much food for a hungry man.”

She laughed delightedly. “You evidently haven’t eaten oysters Rockefeller. We’ll have a Petit Brule and coffee later.”

“I’ll trust your judgment,” he said. “Now tell me what the hell are you doing in this racket.”

The waiter was coming with the cocktails. When he went away she took a long drink from her glass, set it down and looked across the table at Shayne. Her tawny eyes were cold and her mouth sullen again. “It’s a good racket,” she said huskily. “I make enough money and I get back at men.”

Shayne tasted the Sazerac and puckered his mouth in distaste. “Somebody has ruined good bourbon and vermouth and absinthe by mixing them,” he complained. “So you’re getting back at men?” He raised one brow quizzically.

Lana’s laugh was mirthless. She was getting drunk and her voice was thick and halting when she said, “Once upon a time I sowed one teeny little oat-on a plain in Montana. It was a tame little oat, Red-not the least bit wild, but it came a cropper. I went through hell-you know, little mid-west town, ashamed to go home to my parents-”