Brett Halliday - Murder and the Married Virgin

“If you’ll wait here, I’ll tell Mr. Lomax,” the girl said.

Shayne waited until she was a few steps away, then followed her. He stopped to hang his coat and hat on the hall rack and continued toward the sliding double doors through which the girl disappeared. He met her as she re-entered the hall, and she said, “It’s all right, sir. Mr. Lomax said you was to come in.”

He entered a spacious library, the high ceilings paneled with wide boards riven from the hearts of cypress logs. The inner wall was lined with bookshelves, and deep chairs with accommodating end tables were informally arranged around a long table in the center.

A thin man of average height arose from one of two fireside chairs near a cheery gas log set in an ornate fireplace at the farther end of the room. He had the appearance of a man who had died in his late forties and had, by some miracle, been reanimated without the restoration of organic function. A fringe of white hair decorated his bony scalp from ear to ear. His sharp jaw and long nose gave him a dish-mouthed look, and his lips were bloodless. His eyes were a mild, murky blue beneath bristling white brows, and he wore a velvet jacket over a vest and white shirt.

Nathan Lomax’s step was agile as he advanced to meet Shayne. He said in a deep, resonant voice, “So you’re from the insurance company.”

“Shayne,” the detective said. “I’ve been retained to recover the emerald necklace.” He grasped his host’s extended hand. The flesh was soft and lifeless, but his grip was firm and strong.

“I see,” said Lomax, and urged Shayne toward the fireplace. “Warm yourself, Mr. Shayne, and if you’d like a drink-”

“Too near lunch. Thanks.” Shayne’s nostrils flared in an unconscious sniff for the smell of gas. He turned his back to the fire and spread out his hands to its warmth. There was no odor of gas in the room, only a pleasant warmth and fresh, washed air which was apparently forced through the units of a modern air-conditioning plant.

Mr. Lomax stood directly in front of him and said without preamble, “I’ve been expecting someone from your office. I realize that my wife’s negligence puts me in an odd position to press a claim. I wish you’d tell me frankly how your company feels about the matter.”

Shayne’s rugged features gave no hint of his surprise. This was the first time he had ever had a client bring up that touchy subject. He fished a cigarette from his breast pocket and lit it before saying, “I don’t believe there’s going to be any trouble on that score. It’s up to our legal department, of course, but Mutual Indemnity has a reputation for paying off the face of a policy promptly in a case like this.”

Mr. Lomax looked relieved. He said, “I hope there won’t be any difficulty. It’s really my wife’s claim, as you probably know. And you know how women are about business matters.” He gestured with a white and purple-veined hand toward one of the fireside chairs.

Shayne sat down.

Lomax seated himself in the other chair. “Mrs. Lomax,” he continued, “can’t perceive that her negligence enters into the matter at all.” His murky blue eyes were harassed as he looked levelly at Shayne.

“We’ll cross that bridge if we come to it,” Shayne assured him. “Frankly, we’re not worried about the claim. We intend to recover the necklace.”

“Indeed? That’s splendid. You have a clue, I presume.”

“Lots of them.” Shayne grinned wryly. “At the moment I’m following up the suicide of your maid this morning.”

“You think that she-that Katrin could have taken it? Oh, no, Mr. Shayne. I’m certain that Katrin is-was wholly innocent.”

“Why did she commit suicide?”

There was a long silence. Mr. Lomax sighed deeply into the silence.

Presently he said, “I’m afraid we’ll never know. I presume you are acquainted with the-ah-tragic facts surrounding her death.”

“Her engagement to the young lieutenant?” Shayne asked sharply.

“Yes. A very sad case. I don’t understand it. I don’t understand it at all, Mr. Shayne.” He interlaced his fingers and the veins throbbed like long purple worms in the milky whiteness of his hands.

“That’s just it,” Shayne said. “It doesn’t make sense. I want to look over the death room, and I want to talk to everyone who knew her.”

“Certainly.” His host arose with stiff dignity and preceded Shayne briskly through the door leading into the hallway and up the curving stairway to a hall architecturally similar on the second floor. Here the feminine touch was evidenced in carpeting of dull rose blending with pastel walls and mirror panels that reflected Shayne’s long body and grim, angular face as his host led the way to a less pretentious stairway to the gabled third story.

The hall was small, and the door straight ahead was closed as was the one to the left. The right-hand door sagged open and the upper pine panel had been shattered. Mr. Lomax turned to it, explaining, “Neal, our chauffeur, smashed the panel when no one could get an answer from Katrin this morning. I reached through the opening myself and turned the key in the lock to open the door.”

Shayne stood on the threshold studying every detail of the small, clean bedroom. There was one gabled window overgrown with ivy. A single iron bedstead painted white stood in one corner, and near the foot of the bed was a hot air inlet. The floor was spotless around a square rug bright with color, and crisp curtains were looped back from the window. A highboy stood against one wall, its empty drawers carelessly pulled out. A small, doorless closet was empty, the cretonne curtain drawn aside and flung over the extension rod on which it hung. A hatbox and two new suitcases lay open on the floor, and feminine garments lay in little heaps around them. On Shayne’s left, set in a small recess of the wall, was a gas grate. An out-of-date dressing-table with triple mirrors held a few toilet articles which had evidently been left unpacked for use on Katrin’s wedding morning. A straight chair covered with chintz of a delicate pattern had a ruffled skirt that touched the floor all around, reminding Shayne of a demure little old lady, and completed the furnishings in the room.

Shayne drew in deep breaths of air faintly tinged with the odor of gas. The sweet, cloying odor of death. He said, “It’s odd-I didn’t catch any smell of gas coming up the stairs. I should think it would have filled the house when you opened the door.”

“A certain amount did escape into the rest of the house,” Mr. Lomax said, “but it was carried off by the air-conditioner. The plant is very efficient, carrying the stale air out of the house entirely and bringing in fresh air that is washed by the humidifier before it goes into the furnace.”

“I see,” said Shayne absently, “but it didn’t clear the room of the gas from the grate fast enough.”

“The police think she must have turned it on immediately after retiring, though they believe that her death did not occur until early this morning.” Mr. Lomax wandered idly around the room as he spoke.

From his position on the threshold, Shayne said, “If you have a furnace and the house is air-conditioned, why do you have these gas grates?”

“They were installed when the house was built-before the new plant was installed. They are still used on chilly spring and early fall mornings and evenings.”

Shayne moved into the room and looked around with a baffled expression. “I suppose the police searched thoroughly for a death message.”

“They went over everything-and found nothing.” Mr. Lomax sighed and compressed his white lips. “I believe they were searching for the necklace also, though I assured them that a girl like Katrin could not possibly have stolen it.”