Brett Halliday - Murder and the Married Virgin

Gabby Lane was waiting with his feet on Shayne’s desk. A wizened little man with big ears, he looked like a gnome. He wore an old, ill-fitting suit that enhanced the illusion. Shayne had known him well ten years before, and knew him to be one of the cleverest tails in the business.

Apparently feeling that a special greeting was in order after ten years, Lane said, “Hi,” as Shayne walked in.

Shayne grinned. “You’re as long-winded as ever, I see,” and held out his hand to grip Gabby Lane’s limp fingers. “How’s tricks?”

Lane’s feet remained on the desk. He lifted his thin shoulders and dropped them in answer to the question.

“Glad to hear it,” Shayne said. He sat down in his swivel chair and leaned forward. “Did you read the paper this morning?”

Gabby stifled a yawn and nodded.

Shayne said, “I need the man who killed Dan Trueman. You got any ideas?”

“Nope.”

“Have you any contacts around the Laurel Club? Anybody to help me pull a fast one-a frame?”

Gabby considered this for a moment. He finally nodded and said, “It’ll cost.”

“You know the side entrance to the club?”

Gabby nodded.

“I need a couple of bozos who saw a certain man in that vicinity about the time Trueman got his. That’s all. Just place him there. They don’t have to swear they saw him go in or anything complicated like that.”

“Was he?”

Shayne answered honestly, “I don’t know. Up until fifteen minutes or so ago I was sure of it. Now, I’ll be damned if I know what makes. But I’m way out on a limb and I’ve got to play it straight.”

“Cost more if he wasn’t. How many in the know?”

“You and I. It’s got to look legitimate. I want the cops to pick him up and your men to point him out in a line-up.”

“Bad business if it’s a bust.”

Shayne shrugged. “Mistaken identity. They can’t hang a man for making a mistake.”

“Hurt their reps,” Gabby pointed out. He studied his fingertips for a moment, then said, “Five C’s on the line. If it busts, another five C’s.”

Shayne said bitterly, “And fifty for you, I suppose.”

“Right.”

“Perjury has gone up since I was here.”

Gabby shrugged.

Shayne said, “All right.” He took out his wallet and counted out five of the bills he had won at the Laurel Club. He pulled the photograph of Neal and his mother from his vest and handed it to Lane. “That’s the guy. It’s a good likeness. Here’s the easy part of it. His picture was in yesterday’s paper in connection with the Moe girl’s suicide. He had driven her several places the afternoon before. Now when your boys turn in the tip, they say they spotted him from that. Keep this photo out of it but have them study it so there won’t be any slip-ups in the identification at headquarters.”

Gabby studied the photograph. He said, “Lomax-chauffeur,” pocketed the bills Shayne gave him and got up.

“When can I expect to hear from you?” Shayne asked.

“Couple hours,” said Gabby, and ambled out.

Shayne followed him to the outer door. When he closed it and turned around he was surprised to see an expression of violent aversion on Lucy’s face.

He asked, “What the hell?”

“I thought you were a detective,” she said bitterly. “I didn’t know you went around framing people.” She yanked a desk drawer open and took out her purse, opened it, and began stuffing it with small personal belongings from the drawer.

“You eavesdropped,” Shayne said.

“I couldn’t help it. The door was open. You made it plain enough. You’re paying five hundred dollars to have some men perjure themselves by swearing the Lomax chauffeur was at the Laurel Club last night while a murder was being committed.” She sprang up and jammed an absurd little hat down on her brown hair.

Shayne covered an amused smile by pretending to rub his jaw.

“And I thought you were decent,” Lucy went on, averting her eyes. “I thought, by golly, I was in love with you this morning.” She started toward the door with her head high.

Shayne stopped her with a big hand on her wrist. “Don’t walk out on me, Lucy.”

“Get out of my way, Michael Shayne. I certainly am walking out. You think you can buy anything, but you can’t buy me. Not for a hundred times eighty dollars a week.” She laughed hysterically, and her fingernails scratched at Shayne’s hand on her wrist.

Shayne held her wrist tighter and slowly moved her toward one of two chairs in the small reception room. He said, “Sit down.”

She sat down and he let her wrist go. She massaged the angry red spot his tight hold had made and did not look at him when he drew the other chair up in front of her.

He said, “You’re going to listen to me and then you can suit yourself about walking out. I’m in a tight spot with a murder frame around my neck. I fast-talked Inspector Quinlan into a few hours of grace to give him another suspect. If I don’t produce, he’ll slap me in jail and two murders will never be solved.”

“Two murders!” she gasped.

“Two,” he told her implacably. “Katrin Moe and Dan Trueman.

“Do you think the chauffeur-is guilty?”

Shayne hesitated, tugging at the lobe of his left ear. “This is the God’s truth, Lucy,” he said finally. “I should lie to you but I’ll be damned if I will. I don’t know. I thought I did. I had a beautiful theory all built up and I sold the inspector on it. I thought the chauffeur was our man, and Quinlan thinks so. He’s waiting for me to prove it. He doesn’t know my theory has been blown sky-high.”

Lucy’s interest was gaining over her anger. “But if you haven’t any evidence against the chauffeur-”

“I’ve got to go on the way I started. I can’t stop now. I’ve got to give the inspector somebody to work on while I build up another theory.”

Lucy shuddered. “And they’ll beat him with hoses and things until he confesses, whether he’s guilty or not,” she argued, anger flaring again.

Shayne said, “All right. So maybe they’ll beat him.” His eyes were bleak. “Maybe he’s guilty. Even if he isn’t I’ll be gaining time to find out who is. I’ve got to keep going now,” he went on earnestly. “If Quinlan ever suspected how uncertain I am he’d throw me in the can and let me rot there.”

Lucy said in a subdued tone, “But there is such a thing as playing square.”

“Not in homicide work. Not if you stay on top. Scruples are something the boys write about in detective novels.”

She shuddered again and looked away from him. “You sound so ruthless. I don’t think you care about anything-or anybody.”

“I’m working for a fee,” he said. “Twelve and a half grand is riding on this case.” He considered her averted face for a moment, and a look of humility erased the harshness of his features. He started to say something else, but turned abruptly and said over his shoulder, “If you walk out now don’t come back. I’ll send a check for two weeks’ salary.” He went into his office and closed the door.

At his desk he sat with his heavy shoulders hunched forward easing his fingertips around the wound on his head. He felt old and tired and he wondered if he ought to get out of the business. It was no place for a man when he got soft. Once you started wondering whether an end justified a means, you were lost.

He sat like that for a long time without moving. His eyes brooded across the room, unseeing. Subconsciously, he was listening for some movement from the outer office-the scrape of a chair or the slam of the outer door that would tell him Lucy was walking out. No sound came to him. The silence grew oppressive. There had been another girl once who had walked out on him in a different way. Death was one thing you couldn’t beat. For the first time in months he hungered acutely for Phyllis. He had thought that pain was whipped after leaving Miami and its memories behind him. Lucy was helping him to whip it. She was a lot like Phyllis. If Lucy left him too-His telephone rang.