Brett Halliday - Murder and the Married Virgin

Pain closed his eyes involuntarily. He wasn’t sure he could get up if he tried, and began slowly flexing his muscles, beginning with his fingers and toes. When he opened his eyes again he managed to move his head out of the matted blood and away from the glaring streak of light coming through the window. The chair in which he had been sitting last night was overturned, as was the table. The entire room was in disorder, and Shayne tried hard to remember whether he had fought the intruder who had slugged him.

Pain throbbed in his head when he jerked himself to a sitting position and forced his eyes to stay open.

Then he saw Lana lying just inside the bedroom door. Her feet and legs were bare and a blue silk nightgown was twisted around her body from the knees up.

From where he sat, she looked dead.

He tried to get up but sank back when his head reeled and the room grew black. He inched himself toward the girl and felt her legs. They were warm. The nightgown partially covered her face and he pulled it away. The smell of stale liquor rose to his nostrils from her regular breathing. He muttered, “Drunk, by God, and passed out.”

Lana gave no sign of consciousness when he spoke. Shayne dragged himself to his feet and caught the foot of the bed, hung on until the dizziness passed. The room was cold. He looked around to see the rear door in the bedroom open. Staggering to the door he discovered a stairway leading down to the alley from the tiny balcony outside.

His assailant must have come in that way.

He came unsteadily back to the bed, took a blanket from it and spread it over Lana. His eyes were bleak and his mouth set in grim lines as he stood looking down at her for a moment, then he went out to find the bathroom.

He found it a few steps down the hallway, on the right. A door on the left, he realized, opened into the bedroom.

Turning on the cold water tap, he let it run a while and examined his head in the mirror. There was a big lump above his right ear. He stripped off his shirt and stuck his head in the basin of cold water, carefully fingering the hair around the lump until the dried blood was gone. He drained the water out and filled the basin again, found a washrag and scrubbed the stains from his face.

The throbbing pain subsided to a steady aching. He combed his hair as best he could, put on his shirt and went to the kitchen. There was a quart bottle of gin overturned on the sink and a fifth of brandy was uncorked. He held it up to the light and saw that it was half full, tilted it to his lips and took a long drink.

Back in the living-room Shayne stood for a moment creasing his brow in deep thought and scowling at the tape recorder.

Abruptly he strode to the bedroom and began quietly opening the drawers of a high chest. He didn’t know what he was looking for, but knew he would recognize it if he found it. In the wide bottom drawer he found several purses. The third one he searched yielded a folded telegram tucked behind a tiny mirror in its container.

The message was from Miami, Florida, dated the preceding Monday. It read: Letter received. Will see you Wednesday night. It was signed Ted.

Stuffing the telegram in his pocket he went out, got his coat and hat, and left the apartment. As the elevator took him down he remembered the guns he had taken from Trueman’s punks the night before, and knew before he felt in his pockets that they were gone.

Outside, the air was cold and bracing. He decided against putting his hat on after trying for a comfortable position. He swung away with long strides, and twenty minutes later he was climbing the stairway to his apartment on Carondelet.

A man was waiting for him at the top of the stairs; a florid man with a good-natured face and sleepy eyes.

Intercepting him, the man asked, “Are you Shayne?”

“That’s right.” Shayne put his key in the lock and opened the door.

“Sorry bud, you’re wanted at headquarters.”

Shayne turned slowly and the man flashed a city detective’s badge.

“Is this a pinch?” Shayne growled.

“Make it easy on yourself. It’ll be one if that’s the way you want it.”

“What’s up?”

“Damned if I know. My name’s Greetin. I’ve been waiting for you to come home since four o’clock. Inspector Quinlan wants you.”

Shayne considered for a moment, then nodded. “I’ll go along. I’ve had a tough night.” He tenderly touched the lump on his head.

Greetin grinned. “It must’ve been. No hard feelings, you understand.”

“Hell, no. You’ve got a job.” Shayne stepped inside and the city detective followed him.

“I’ve heard about you,” Greetin told him. “I been wondering how’s it for a private eye. Big money?”

“Better stay on a regular payroll,” Shayne advised. “How about a cup of coffee before we go?”

Greetin looked uncertain and somewhat uneasy. He said, “Well-don’t mind if I do,” and went with Shayne to the kitchen. He sat down on the only chair and studied the redhead curiously while the coffee brewed.

When it was ready to pour Shayne took down a bottle of brandy and asked, “How about a coffee royal?” He poured his mug a third full of brandy and filled it with hot coffee.

Greetin sniffed the aroma and said, “Don’t care if I do, but make it light.”

They took the mugs to the living-room and sat down. Shayne asked, “You’re sure you don’t know what’s up at headquarters?”

Greetin relaxed after a noisy swig of coffee royal. “Not a damned thing. Say, this coffee is all right. I hear you drink a lot when you’re on a case.”

Shayne grinned. “A snort of brandy puts me in touch with the cosmic forces.”

Greetin looked puzzled. “What you mean by that?” Shayne hid another grin of amusement behind the rim of his mug. “It’s this way. When things get to happening fast you have to give the subconscious time to put things it already knows together-figure them out-so you can tie it all in with what happens next.” Greetin nodded slightly, his eyes still puzzled. “I don’t get it. You’re not going to try to pull a fast one on me? I’ve heard about that, too.”

“Hell, no. We’d better get going. I want to know what’s cooking.”

“Yeh. We’d better.” Greetin finished his coffee. “Quinlan’s liable to send somebody to check on me.”

Shayne swung into his top coat, carefully arranged his hat at a cocky angle to keep pressure from the lump on his head, and they went out to his car.

Inspector Quinlan was alone in his office twiddling a fountain pen and there was impatience in his cold blue eyes. He looked up at Greetin and said, “It took you long enough,” when they walked in.

“This bird just got home,” Greetin told him. “He’ll tell you himself.”

Shayne said, “That’s right, Inspector.”

“Better beat it, then, and get some sleep, Greetin,” the inspector snapped.

Shayne sat down across the desk and lit a cigarette. “How official is this?” he asked.

“Homicide,” Quinlan said curtly. “You can talk it over with me alone, or you can have a transcript made for the record. Or you can refuse to answer questions without the advice of counsel.”

“Who’s been bumped off?” Shayne blew a smoke cloud and looked up at it.

“Dan Trueman.”

Shayne met Quinlan’s stony eyes. He reached up and eased his hat from his head and said bluntly, “I’ll talk for the record.”

“Good enough.” The inspector pressed a button on his desk and presently a gray-haired man limped into the room carrying a notebook. He sat down beside the desk and took a pencil from behind his ear.

Shayne grinned at Quinlan and droned, “Michael Shayne-thirty-nine-occupation, private detective. Now, ask me some questions, Inspector.”