Murder & the Married Virgin (12 page)

Quinlan went back to his desk and sat down. “I’m sold, Shayne. Don’t tell me what you’re going to do. I’d rather not know.”

“That’s the way I like it,” Shayne said with satisfaction. “I’ve wasted too much time here already.” He got up and hurried out.

LUCY HAMILTON stared at Shayne when he walked into the office a short time later. Her brown eyes shone with deep concern and her generous mouth tightened in disapproval of the lump on his head and the patch of purplish skin on his right cheek.

Shayne’s grin faded to a frown. “This is a hell of a greeting,” he growled.

“I’ve been terribly worried about you—and frightened. You could at least let me know—about things.” Her lips trembled and she tightened them again.

“Everything’s all right—I hope,” Shayne told her in a tone that carried no conviction.

“Everything’s just fine and dandy,” she retorted, “except that you’ve got yourself all beaten up again and the police have a dragnet out all over New Orleans for you.” A film of tears misted her eyes.

Shayne leaned over and caught her chin, tilted her face up. His grin came back and he said with more assurance, “It’s all right. But you’ll have to get used to seeing my face like this—and maybe worse. And having the police looking for me, too.”

“You just go around barging into trouble,” she accused, “and getting your name in the headlines—for
murder.”

“Yeh. This is one of my busy days.” He gave her chin a pinch and said, “By the way, remind me to make love to you sometime when you’re like this. What’s Drinkley’s first name?”

“Oh—you—” She pushed his hand away. “His name is Theodore.”

“How did he act last night?”

“A fine spot you put me in,” she charged. “He didn’t want to go with me. And you’re dead wrong if you think he wasn’t head over heels in love with the Moe girl. He talked about her all the time and hardly ate a thing. I believe he’ll go crazy wondering if you don’t find out why she did it.”

“I’m finding out,” he said. “Did you try to help him forget her?”

He arched a bushy red brow at her and lowered his right hip to the desk.

Lucy nodded. “But it wasn’t any use. He doesn’t even see another girl. He’s really a poet at heart, Michael. He spoke of their love in the most beautiful terms.” She sighed.

“I know. Their love was fine and clean—like wonderful music.” He made a sardonic gesture. “How long were you out with him?”

“He took me home about nine o’clock. I suggested doing something else, thinking it might cheer him up, but I think he wanted to be alone with his grief.” She looked up at him, the mist still in her eyes, saw the cynical smile on his mouth and burst out, “And I hate you when you’re cynical, Michael Shayne. There is that kind of love in the world. But you wouldn’t know about that.” She jammed a sheet of paper in the typewriter and turned it viciously.

With a far-away look in his gray eyes, Shayne said, “No, I wouldn’t know about that. Put a call through to the warden of the state penitentiary. While you’re waiting for it look in the directory and see if you can find a man by the name of Lane listed under private detectives. Alex Lane,” he added after a moment’s thought.

She typed the instructions as he gave them, looked up at the knot on his head and said, “Before I do anything you’re going to tell me what happened to you. Why do you always forget to duck?”

Shayne said gravely, “I made a pass at the wrong girl.”

“No girl did that to you.”

“Her boy friend came in at the wrong time.” He got up from the desk and said, “Shake it up on those calls,” and went into the inner office.

He was somberly contemplating the bare clean walls, when Lucy came in and perched herself on the corner of his desk. “Your call to the warden is in,” she said, “but the operator said the lines were all busy and it would be at least an hour before they’d be ready on it. And there’s a Lane and McGregor Detective Agency listed. Will that be the one?”

“Might be. Gabby Lane was on his own when I knew him. Try them.”

Lucy referred to a number on a paper in her hand, pulled his desk phone toward her and dialed. She said, “One moment, please,” and handed the receiver to Shayne.

He asked, “Is Alex Lane connected with your firm?”

A girl said, “Yes. I’ll put him on.”

Shayne waited until a heavy voice said, “Yeah?”

He grinned at Lucy and said, “Gabby?” into the mouthpiece.

He got a “Yep” this time.

“This is Mike Shayne, Gabby, and I wish you wouldn’t be so damned garrulous.”

Gabby Lane said, “What’s that mean? Read about you this morning. Trouble, huh?”

“Plenty,” Shayne told him. “I need some help from a man who’s kept up his contacts here.”

Gabby Lane didn’t say anything.

“On your regular basis,” Shayne told him impatiently. “I’ll pay the bill.”

“Twenty-five and expenses for an op?”

“I don’t want any damned op,” Shayne shouted. “I want you.”

“Fifty. Part days count full rate.”

Shayne said, “That Scotch partner of yours has got you trained. Fifty’s all right. Can you come to my office in about an hour?”

“See you,” said Gabby, and hung up.

“Some day,” Shayne told Lucy, “Gabby is going to choke himself trying to find one word that’ll do the job of two.”

Lucy was excited. “What’s the rush about, Michael? Is it the necklace?”

He nodded absently.

“What about Trueman’s murder? Did you threaten him last night over gambling—or something?”

“Don’t ever read the papers,” he advised slowly. “I didn’t kill Trueman and Quinlan knows I didn’t. I just came from his office.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful,” she breathed. “When I saw you come in looking all beaten up—all I could think of was the newspaper story.”

He touched his bruised and swollen head and asked, “How does it look? Feels like the lump’s getting smaller.”

Lucy chuckled and cocked her head sideways, “Looks as if you were trying to grow another head—or a blunt horn.” She leaned toward him and ran the tip of her finger over a portion of his face and added, “There’re three purplish streaks on your face.”

“I must have fallen on my face when the guy bopped me. It’s nothing.”

“Why do you always have to get so rough solving a case?” she asked, annoyed. “Isn’t there some other way?”

Shayne chortled. “Not that I’ve learned. Some people do it by sitting around and adding up the answers, but I’m not smart that way.” He patted her hand and added in a lighter tone, “Don’t worry about me, Lucy. Lots of jobs nowadays and you can always get another one.”

Lucy swung from the desk. “I hate you,” she said succinctly, “and I hope the girl’s boy friend has a gun next time he comes in unexpectedly.”

Shayne grinned at her stiff straight back as she walked out and slammed the door. He went to the window and stared out for a long moment, then turned abruptly and strode out to Lucy’s desk.

“Call up the Dragoon Hotel and get Drinkley on the phone,” he directed. “When he answers make your voice husky and talk fast. Tell him it’s Lana and to come to your apartment quick. The back way—same as he used last night. Hang up as soon as you’ve told him that.”

“Lana? Who’s she?” Her brown eyes narrowed with suspicion. “What are you up to now?”

“I’m going to check on a hunch and have a showdown with Drinkley. Go ahead and make that call.” Shayne put his coat over his arm and picked up his hat.

Lucy was mumbling some words. She wrinkled her nose and rehearsed aloud, looking at Shayne for approval before dialing.

“That’s it—and call him Ted,” Shayne said, standing on widespread legs while he waited.

When she finished the call her hand shook when she replaced the receiver, and her face was pale. “I—did it—”

“Swell job,” Shayne said. “I’ll get you a Hollywood contract. If Gabby Lane comes have him wait here for me.”

“All right.… But I still don’t believe—”

Shayne didn’t wait to hear what she didn’t believe. He went down to his car, drove to the Armentieres Apartments and parked near the alley at a point where he could watch the outside stairway leading up to the rear entrance of Lana’s fourth-floor apartment.

He sat hunched behind the wheel dragging on a cigarette while he waited. Maybe it wouldn’t work. Maybe it hadn’t been Drinkley who had socked him last night. His head ached with a steady, dull pain, and he was tired of too much thinking.

He threw the cigarette away when he saw a figure coming furtively down the alley wearing a khaki overcoat and a cap pulled low down over his forehead. The figure went hurriedly up the stairs and stopped at the fourth floor.

Shayne waited until he went in the door, then followed. The door leading from the balcony into the bedroom was open and he stepped inside to hear angry voices in the front room.

“I didn’t telephone you,” Lana was declaring vehemently. “You’re acting crazy, Ted. I covered up for you this morning—”

“That’s right—and in a big way,” Shayne said pleasantly, strolling forward to stand in the doorway.

Lieutenant Drinkley let go of Lana’s wrists and whirled to face him. His thin face was pinched and white and his eyes were hot with fear. He took a wavering step backward and muttered, “Shayne.”

Shayne said, “Don’t blame Lana for this. She even committed a neat bit of perjury this morning to keep you in the clear.” To Lana he said, “Sit down. We’ll all talk this over.”

Lana tossed her head angrily. “Nothing would suit me better.” She pushed a chair close to the couch and sat down.

Shayne sat on the couch and Drinkley brought a light occasional chair and placed it to form a semicircle.

“You’re both in this pretty deep,” Shayne warned them. “It wasn’t smart to bop me last night, Drinkley. What were you afraid I was going to learn?”

Drinkley’s hands trembled and he bit his bloodless bottom lip. “I didn’t—I don’t know—what you mean,” he stammered.

Shayne said mildly, “I don’t mind the beating so much, but I hate being framed for murder. That’s what your perjured denial of my alibi did this morning, Lana.”

Lana gave Drinkley a quick calculating glance, shook her tawny head from side to side and said, “If you mean that crazy story you dreamed up about getting attacked here, you’re nuts.”

Shayne touched his injury lightly. “For a dream, it hurts like hell.” He shrugged and said, “All right. This is off the record. I talked myself out of the murder frame for the time being. Now I want to get some things straight.”

He eyed Drinkley angrily. “How deeply are you involved with Lana?”

“I’m not. It’s all over. I swear it is. It’s been over since I met Katrin. Ask Lana. She’ll tell you.” Drinkley jerked in a breath between each statement and wet his dry lips when he finished.

Lana’s smile was contemptuous. “She’s dead now, Ted. You don’t have to keep on pretending you loved her.”

“But I did. You know I did. I told you I loved Katrin. My God, Lana, if I thought—”

“You do think it,” Shayne said harshly. “That’s what’s eating your guts, isn’t it, Drinkley? You think Lana told Katrin about you two. You’re afraid that’s why Katrin committed suicide.”

Drinkley winced as though a sharp whip struck him, but he said nothing.

“What kind of evidence did Lana have on you? A tape recording or something?” Shayne’s words lashed at the young lieutenant.

“Yes—that damned recording.” Drinkley cowered back. “She got me drunk up here once and I made a recording with her. And she wouldn’t give it back to me.”

“So you destroyed all the recordings last night?”

“I guess so,” he said wearily. “I destroyed all I could find. Katrin was terribly sensitive, Mr. Shayne. If she ever heard that awful recording—knew I’d been drunk—there’s no telling how she’d take it.” He covered his face with his hands.

Lana’s hands were folded in her lap and her tawny eyes were full of contempt for Drinkley. She said quietly to Shayne, “I didn’t believe he’d go through with it. I still don’t believe he would have. He was just infatuated with her.”

“You lied about getting in Thursday morning,” Shayne said to Drinkley. “You spent the night with Lana, didn’t you?”

Drinkley jerked himself from his slumped position and exclaimed, “No! That’s a lie! I was up here, all right—early in the evening. She wrote me that I had to see her before Thursday. I came to beg her to let Katrin and me have our happiness. I begged her to return the recording to me. She refused.”

“So you were here—in New Orleans—while Katrin was dying alone in her locked room,” said Shayne thoughtfully.

“Yes. That’s why it’s so terrible. I believe Lana did it to her, Mr. Shayne. And that makes it my fault. I believe Lana called her after I left here that night…”

“You fool!” Lana burst out. “I told you I wouldn’t lift a finger to keep you if you insisted on going through with it. I think your conscience is hurting you. Didn’t you call Katrin that night? Didn’t you finally realize you couldn’t live without me?”

Drinkley jumped up, his face livid and his fists doubled.

Shayne hastily intercepted him and pushed him back in his chair. “Stop accusing each other,” he growled. “None of this stuff can turn murder into suicide.”

Both of them stared at him fixedly.

“Don’t try to look shocked or surprised,” Shayne snapped. “I said last night Katrin was murdered. That’s when you couldn’t stand any more and hit me,” he told Drinkley. “Were you afraid of what I was going to find out?”

“I—don’t know,” he answered meekly. “I guess I went crazy when I heard you say Katrin—was murdered. Lana had called me from the Laurel Club and said she was going to bring you up here. I didn’t know what she would tell you.”

“And you didn’t want me to find out you had lied about the time you reached New Orleans.” Shayne’s angular jaw was set, his tone grim.

“I didn’t know what to think. I was—scared.”

“And you left me knocked out cold on the floor. Thought I was dead.”

“No. I knew you were all right. I was panic-stricken after I hit you. And then Lana kept on drinking until she passed out. She wouldn’t tell me anything.” Drinkley paused in his weak-voiced recital, then whispered, “It’s all like a terrible nightmare. I don’t know what to do.”