Brett Halliday - Murder and the Married Virgin

“Two ninety-four,” Lucy said, and added anxiously, “You’re not going to take a long trip like that by coach, are you?”

Shayne laughed. “I’m not going anywhere. Be seeing you later.” He hung up, took a long drink from Quinlan’s bottle of brandy and looked at his watch. It was 10:25.

Quinlan had been puffing on his cigar and listening to Shayne’s side of the conversation with interest. He asked, “What’s all this about a trip?”

Shayne settled back and lit a fresh cigarette from the end of his stub. He mashed the stub out in an ash tray and asked, “Do you want to take another long shot on my say-so?”

“After the one you’ve just pulled out of the hat I’ll ride to hell and back with you,” the inspector assured him.

Shayne winced. “I can be wrong,” he warned.

“I’ll take a chance on you.”

“All right. Wire Craigville, Wisconsin, and have the cops meet the Flyer at eleven-forty this morning and arrest Anton Moe, brother of the late Katrin Moe.”

Inspector Quinlan’s exultant mood vanished before Shayne’s eyes and he became the cold-eyed officer of the law. He said curtly, “Say that again.”

Shayne repeated his request, slowly and doggedly.

“Arrest him for what? I thought they couldn’t locate her brother-or any relatives.”

“Just arrest him and charge him with being an escaped convict named Hodge, for one thing,” Shayne told him.

Quinlan picked up his fountain pen and slowly drew it through one cupped hand. His finely molded features were set, his eyes incredulous. “Holding out again,” he said.

“Holding out hell!” Shayne said. “I’m telling you.”

“One of the men who escaped from the pen is Katrin Moe’s brother? Are you positive?” he asked.

Shayne said wearily, “Hell, no, I’m not positive. It’s another hunch. Suit yourself about playing it.” He emptied the pint bottle and tossed it across at a waste-basket. He was getting damned tired of guessing, and he wasn’t too sure that any of his guesses were right.

Quinlan stared at him for a long moment before saying, “All right. I’ll do it on your say-so.”

Shayne didn’t say anything more. He let it lie like that. A feeling of lassitude possessed him. Always before, when it came to winding up a tough case, he was a mass of nerves. He was on edge and driven by a sharp certitude that demanded action. He felt none of this now. It didn’t help any when the inspector called over the intercommunication system and sent the telegram to Craigville. Shayne felt only a mild pity for any man who was so easily led to act on a Shayne hunch.

After Quinlan hung up the receiver Shayne arose abruptly. He didn’t want to answer any more questions. He said, “Let’s go down and see what Jordan is giving out.”

“Let’s,” said Quinlan, and they went silently down the steps.

The boudoir was a small square room in the basement. A heavy backless chair was bolted to the floor in the exact center of the room.

Neal Jordan sat on the chair with a wide leather band about each thigh to keep him from rising. He was completely naked. A single light was suspended just above his head with a cone reflector throwing the rays directly downward, making one circle of glaring radiance and leaving the rest of the room in shadow. Four men were loosely grouped around him. They were questioning him calmly and persuasively about the murder of Dan Trueman.

He didn’t answer them. He didn’t look at them. He sat forward with his elbows on his knees, his forehead resting on his interlaced hands. Great beads of sweat ran together and formed rivulets running down from his magnificent body, but he remained relaxed and immobile.

Shayne looked sharply for any sign of physical weakening. There was nothing more than a healthy redness and sweat from the heat of the glaring light.

He knew that Jordan was waiting them out. There were no signs of a struggle on his body to show that he had fought with Dan Trueman, but he already knew that, having seen him stripped to the waist in the Lomax basement.

The men who were questioning him had grown hoarse and less persuasive. Inspector Quinlan drew Shayne aside and whispered worriedly, “Are you sure he’s the one? It’s a miracle if the man who killed Trueman got off without a scratch.”

Shayne said, “Your men picked him up. I gave you three to play with-the only three men in the house.”

“I don’t like it,” Quinlan said stonily. “They’re not getting anywhere with him.”

Before answering Shayne again studied the nude form in the chair. He said, “It’s pretty gentle treatment for a suspected murderer.”

“We have to be damned careful,” Quinlan complained. “A boy almost died down here a few years ago and he was later proved innocent. This generally wears them down.”

“If you can get them started talking,” said Shayne. “As long as he dumbs up like this he’s safe.” Worms began eating at the lining of his belly. He recognized the feeling. He had to get going. He couldn’t stand around and wait it out. “I’m going to try my luck,” he said, and walked inside.

Shayne shouldered one of the detectives aside and reached out to brush aside Neal’s clasped hands. He laughed and said, “You should stay at home when murders are being committed.”

Neal’s muscular body tautened. He said, “You bastard.”

Shayne laughed again. “You’re outsmarted and you might as well admit it.”

“Outsmarted hell! I’ve just been figuring this out. It’s one of your frames. You needed somebody to take the rap and you picked on me.”

Shayne laughed with genuine amusement. He jeered, “You’re perfect for it. You’ll have to admit I pick a good sucker.”

“I see it all now.” Neal was excited. “That picture you stole from my dresser. That is what you stole it for-to be sure your phony witnesses would recognize me in a line-up. You know it was too dark there last night for-” He stopped suddenly and breathed hard through set teeth as he realized what he had said.

Shayne exhaled a long sigh and turned to Quinlan. “Is that what you wanted, Inspector?”

“It’s plenty,” Quinlan said, “to hang him.”

Neal said, “You’re crazy. This whole thing is crazy.”

“So you think it was too dark on the street last night for you to be recognized,” Quinlan said. “I don’t know what picture you’re talking about, but the identification was authentic and Shayne had nothing to do with it.”

“I didn’t say anything about the street last night,” Neal said with controlled fury. “I just said it was too dark last night for anyone to recognize anybody.”

The inspector spoke to a policeman behind Jordan: “Read that line back.”

The policeman read from his notes: “You know it was too dark there last night for-”

“Why did you stop so suddenly? Why didn’t you finish the sentence?” Quinlan demanded.

“Because I realized how it sounded. I didn’t mean to say there. I didn’t mean any particular place. Why do you think I would have killed Trueman? He’s never harmed me. I scarcely knew him.”

“What did you do with the necklace?”

“What necklace?”

“The emerald necklace you passed to him. The one you fought over in his office.”

“You’re crazy,” Neal said again, and there was more conviction in his voice.

“We’ve got you dead to rights,” Quinlan told him in a cold, even tone. “We’ve got the motive and we’ve got an identification from eye-witnesses.”

Neal had recovered his normal composure. He shrugged and replied with deliberation, “You’re doing the talking.” He put his face down against his hands again to shield it from the awful brightness.