Brett Halliday - Murder and the Married Virgin

Mrs. Brown seated herself in one of the chairs and invited Shayne to take the other. She placed a work-roughened hand on each knee, held her stout body stiffly erect, and said, “A furriner she may have been, but a sweeter girl I’ve never known, and that’s the Lord’s truth,” in a tone of undisguised hostility. She crossed herself and settled back in the chair.

Shayne said, “I’m trying to get at the bottom of this-find out the truth. Why did Katrin Moe kill herself?”

“I’m not believin’ she did. Didn’t I sit with her while she finished packin’, and wasn’t she the happiest girl in the world waitin’ for this day to come? Sure, and she said nothin’ to me when I went out and she locked her door for the night.”

“You’re sure the gas wasn’t on while you were with her?”

She gave him a look of withering scorn. “And would I be sittin’ there breathin’ the poison stuff and not know it?”

“But you did hear her lock her door-and it was still locked this morning when she was found.”

Mrs. Brown shook her head obstinately. “I’m not sayin’ that’s not a fact, but you mark my words, mister, that girl was a pure darlin’, and when the truth comes out it’ll not be her to blame.”

“Did she always lock her door at night?” Shayne asked.

“And why wouldn’t she?” She drew her full mouth into a tight, straight line.

“You tell me,” Shayne coaxed.

“With that Eddie traipsin’ in drunk and creepin’ up the stairs at all hours. Though I get my walkin’ papers for the tellin’ of it, I’ll not hold back the truth. A wild one he is, pawin’ at Katrin and Rose even when he’s far gone in drink.” She was sitting up straight again, her hands on her knees, one foot shoved forward like a sprinter getting on his mark for the race.

Shayne hunched forward and asked, “What about the chauffeur?”

“Now there’s a different kind. A gentleman if ever I saw one with his polite manners and always more than willin’ to give a hand. And he keeps to his place like a proper gentleman should. Into the kitchen for his meals and back to his room over the garage or down to his workshop in the cellar. And it’s not that he mightn’t do different, mind you,” she added darkly, and smacked her lips.

“How different?” Shayne asked bluntly.

She stiffened her jaw and shook her head. “It’s not for me to be spreadin’ gossip around.”

Shayne lowered his head and looked at the floor, said, “The only way I can find out things is for people to tell me,” then looked up quickly to see an odd eagerness in her eyes. “You ought to tell me what you can. We’ve got to clear Katrin’s name in this mess.”

“Sure and you’re right.”

Shayne sat back in his chair. “You were saying that the chauffeur-”

“Neal Jordan,” she said, and left her mouth lax.

“You say he could do differently-”

“Sure. What with that Clarice makin’ her eyes at him. Ay, and her mother, too, I’ll be bound, only she was more sly about it. Humph! Pulling the wool over the old man’s eyes like she tries to.”

“Nothing you say to me will go any further,” Shayne said with gentle assurance. “There’s one other thing, Mrs. Brown. Do you know where yesterday’s paper is?”

“Sure and it’s right here in my room. Katrin gave it to me yesterday mornin’ when she finished readin’ it. I don’t read much but the front page.” She pushed down on her knees and pulled her body up, went to the table and got the paper and handed it to him.

Shayne turned the first three pages and nodded. A small item had been clipped from the right-hand column near the center of the page. He refolded the paper and got up to replace it on the table. He started out the door, then turned to ask, “Do you know anything about Katrin’s brother?”

“Brother? No. Katrin wasn’t one to blab about herself and her family. I didn’t know she had a brother.” Her tone was full of curiosity.

“Did you know Katrin had been married? Ever see her wear a wedding ring?”

Mrs. Brown’s mouth hung open for an instant before she gasped, “Married-weddin’ ring,” and snapped her mouth shut.

Again she was on the defensive, glaring defiance at Shayne.

“Did you ever see the ring?” Shayne persisted.

“Can’t a girl have a weddin’ ring all ready when she’s goin’ to get married? Can’t she put it on her finger and look at it and dream about the happiness she’s goin’ to have in just a little while? What if the poor girl did have a weddin’ ring? Sure, I saw her wearin’ it once. ’Twas on one of her days off, and she must’ve forgot about puttin’ it on.”

“Did you ask her about the ring when you saw it?” Shayne’s gray eyes were cold and demanding.

Mrs. Brown backed away from him and some of the red went out of her face. She stammered, “I was goin’-to tease her about it. But-” She took another step backward and contacted her chair. Sinking into it she continued, “-But she turned so white and looked so scared-I–I didn’t. I remember now. But I didn’t think anything more about it-then.”

Shayne saw her cross herself again before he turned to go out the door.

The second-floor living-room was richly furnished and the feminine motif prevailed throughout. Shayne had walked quietly down the stairway and the sound of his footsteps was deadened by the deep carpet in the hallway.

He stood for a moment in the open doorway, unnoticed by the three silent occupants of the room.

A young girl with dark brown hair cut short and curled upward in soft ringlets lolled in a deep chair of apple-green satin that brightened the dull gold of her skirt and blouse. Her red lips were set in a smile of ironical amusement. An odd fleshy bump on her chin was centered with a cleft which gave her an impish look in spite of the boredom in her dark eyes.

An older woman with too-black hair was stretched out on a chaise longue of gold satin, her head resting on a rose cushion. A powder-blue robe softened her sharp features; her cheeks were pale and her thin mouth was made to look generous by an over-application of dark rouge. Her eyes were closed and a fringe of black lashes curled up from her cheek.

Mr. Lomax sat in a blue mohair chair across from the girl, his feet resting on the matching ottoman, and the gas grate burned with a blue flame before them.

In spite of the relaxed appearance of the family, Shayne felt the tension of the silence. He cleared his throat and Mr. Lomax turned to see him, then quickly arose to say, “Come right in, Mr. Shayne. We’ve been waiting for you.”

Mr. Lomax first introduced his wife, who blinked long lashes at Shayne and asked in a low, pleasant voice, “Are you going to make trouble with me over what my husband calls my negligence with the necklace?”

“I hope not,” Shayne said. “I expect to recover it for you.”

She said, “Oh?” and Shayne couldn’t tell whether his reply pleased her or not. His gray eyes looked over the length of her slender body. She looked under forty but was probably nearer fifty.

Mr. Lomax coughed discreetly and said, “Mr. Shayne, this is our daughter Clarice.”

Shayne looked at her gravely. She quirked her lips and said, “It was an inside job, wasn’t it? Whom are you going to arrest?”

Shayne fished a cigarette from his pack. Clarice extended her hand and said, “Thanks.” He gave it to her and took out another, lit them both from the same match. He judged her to be about eighteen, pampered, and the kind of a girl who took a perverse delight in shocking her parents. She slanted her eyes up at him and insisted, “Well, wasn’t it?”

“Clarice!” Mr. Lomax expostulated mildly.