Brett Halliday - Murder and the Married Virgin

It was mid-morning when Michael Shayne walked into the small reception hall of his recently acquired offices on the fourth floor of the International Building in New Orleans. He scowled at the white light illuminating the room and accentuating the drabness of the furnishings. When he rented the two-room suite a month previously, the walls and ceilings were mellow with a smooth accumulation of dust and the residue from smoke, and he had zestfully searched through second-hand stores for suitable equipment. He liked old things. He had liked the walls and ceilings as they were, but before he could move his prized purchases into the suite an ambitious building manager had the ceilings painted white, installed long tubes of fluorescent lights, and redecorated the walls with creamy tints.

The oak railing in the reception room which partitioned off a space for a typewriter desk had been sandpapered and freshly varnished. Lucy Hamilton sat at the desk tapping her pencil impatiently.

She stopped tapping the pencil when her employer came toward the railing. Her brown eyes were bright with excitement. “It’s high time you-”

“What’s up?” Shayne shrugged out of his damp trench coat, dropped it on the railing, pulled off his hat and let a little stream of water trickle from the brim to the faded rug.

The telephone rang and she reached for it, saying, “The darned thing has been ringing all morning,” and into the mouthpiece, “Michael Shayne. Investigations.”

“I’ll take it in the inner office,” Shayne said, turning toward the door in the center of the reception room.

Lucy quickly covered the instrument with her hand. “You’ll take it here-you’ve a client waiting in there. A Mr. Teton of some insurance company is on the phone. This is the third time he’s called.”

Shayne frowned and reached out a long arm to take the receiver. He said, “Shayne speaking.”

A worried voice answered, “Mr. Shayne? This is Teton of Mutual Indemnity.”

Shayne waited for him to go on. After a moment the worried voice asked, “Did you hear me?”

“Perfectly.” Shayne fished out a cigarette with his free hand and stuck it between his lips, looked at Lucy and pointed to the end of the cigarette.

“I understand you did some work for our company in Miami,” Mr. Teton continued, “and since you’ve opened an office in New Orleans I wondered if you’d care to discuss an annual retainer with me.”

Lucy struck a light to his cigarette. He drew in a deep draft of smoke, nodded his thanks, exhaled slowly and said, “No. I don’t want to get tied up on another of those retainer deals. Any time you have anything hot I’ll be glad to discuss the individual case with you.” He hung up and said to Lucy, “A client, eh? Does he look like office rent?”

“I don’t know. He’s a young lieutenant named Drinkley. He’s been waiting half an hour.”

“A lieutenant?” he snorted. “Do you know the kind of salary our democracy pays lieutenants?”

“No. But he’s nice, and he’s terribly worried. You’ve got to talk to him.”

“Nice worried clients drawing a lieutenant’s pay won’t add up to your weekly salary,” Shayne told her.

The telephone rang again. “You’re awfully mercenary this morning,” she said and lifted the receiver. “Michael Shayne. Investigations.” She listened for a moment, said, “Yes, he’s right here,” and handed the instrument to him. Wrinkling her small straight nose she whispered, “It’s Mr. Teton again.”

Shayne growled, “Yeh?” into the mouthpiece.

“I guess we were cut off a moment ago, Mr. Shayne.” Mr. Teton was now both worried and apologetic.

“I hung up.”

“I see,” Mr. Teton said vaguely, evidencing that he didn’t see at all. “We were discussing the possibility of retaining you to do some work for us.”

“I’ll discuss it, but not on an annual basis. Your company stuck me on one of those deals two years ago. I got called in every time a butler lifted a silver salt shaker. No soap.”

“Yes-well-” Mr. Teton laughed nervously. “I quite understand your point of view, Mr. Shayne. The fact is, I have a particular case in mind. We’ve sustained quite a loss and we’d like to have you look into it.”

“Keep talking,” Shayne said. He settled one hip on the desk, winked at Lucy’s alert, interested face, then scowled at the clean wall.

“An emerald necklace belonging to a Mrs. Lomax has been stolen. Our coverage is quite large.”

“How much?”

“Ah-a hundred and twenty-five thousand, to be exact,” Mr. Teton moaned.

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Shayne said with satisfaction. “I can be had for ten per cent.”

“Ten per cent? That’s pretty stiff.”

“Wire whoozit in your New York office,” Shayne said curtly. “Tell him Mike Shayne has wised up and has gone out of business recovering a million dollars worth of junk for a five grand retainer. Call me back when you’re ready to draw up a ten per cent contract.” He hung up again.

Lucy was leaning forward, elbows resting on the desk, her chin cupped in her hands. An amused smile tilted the corners of her mouth. “You are mercenary this morning,” she repeated. “I could hear every word he said. Whew! Ten per cent of a hundred and twenty-five-”

“It’s your fault,” he said bitterly. “I pay you eighty bucks a week and-well, hell, what do you suppose I thought-”

“Not having a lewd mind,” she told him sweetly, “I wouldn’t know.” She turned her face to hide a smile and the dimple quivered in her left cheek. “You have a client waiting, remember?”

Shayne gave a grunt of disgust and strode to the closed door, jerked it open and went in.

The inner office was spacious with large double windows on the east. Rain misted the glass, but bright light from overhanging tubes gleamed upon the fresh walls and ceilings. A large oak desk stood in the center of an old rug, with a swivel chair behind it. Two steel filing cabinets occupied one corner, and three new chairs upholstered in bright red leather were arranged in a semicircle in front of the desk.

A young man in an officer’s uniform jumped up from the center chair as Shayne entered. His blond hair was tousled as though his fingers had nervously trenched it. There were lines of strain or fatigue on his high forehead and around his mouth. His eyes were a smoldering blue in the dark hollows surrounding them. He stood very straight and asked, “Mr. Shayne?”

Shayne took three long strides forward, towering above the slight officer as he held out his hand. The hand he gripped was hot and moist. Shayne said, “Lieutenant Drinkley?”

“Yes, sir. I’ve just finished officer’s training at Miami Beach. I heard about you there, Mr. Shayne. That’s the reason I’ve come to see you this morning.” His voice was thin and reedy with emotion. He kept his lips clamped together when he wasn’t speaking, as though he feared he might scream.

Shayne shoved one of the red chairs closer to his desk on his way to the swivel chair. He said, “Sit down,” and went on around the desk and sat down. He studied his potential client through half-closed eyes, then said, “You couldn’t have heard anything very good about me in Miami.” He pulled out the top right-hand drawer and set out a bottle of cognac and two six-ounce glasses.

“Quite the contrary,” Drinkley said. “I met a reporter there, Timothy Rourke. He talked about you a lot.”

“Oh-Tim.” Shayne’s rugged face broke into a wide grin. He poured both glasses half full of cognac and shoved one across the desk. “We’ll drink to Tim, the lug.”