Murder & the Married Virgin Read online

  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.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  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.

  Ignoring her father, Clarice went on, “That’s my theory. I don’t believe the necklace was stolen in that robbery. I think somebody in this house snatched it yesterday thinking it would be laid to the burglar. Why, it might have even been someone in the house working hand in hand with the burglar,” she added, as though the idea had sudde
nly come to her.

  “Clarice!” her father repeated sharply.

  “Isn’t it a good theory?” she demanded of Shayne.

  “It makes sense,” he agreed. “Who’s your candidate?”

  “Katrin,” she said viciously. “She was always snooping around. She helped mother change that night and must have known it wasn’t locked up in the safe. And she cleaned up mother’s room afterward.”

  Mrs. Lomax said languidly, “That’ll do, Clarice. What do you think, Mr. Shayne? Why did the poor girl commit suicide on the eve of her wedding?”

  “I had hoped some of you could help me figure that out,” Shayne told her.

  “Katrin stole the necklace, I tell you,” Clarice said sullenly. “She was in love with some poor man and was frantic to marry him before Lieutenant Drinkley got here. Then she had an attack of conscience after doing it.”

  “What makes you think she wasn’t in love with the lieutenant?” Shayne’s voice was harsh.

  Clarice frowned. “Are you going to give us the third degree or something? Maybe she was in love with him, but I think she knew their marriage wouldn’t work out. Ted Drinkley didn’t really love her, you know,” she ended smugly.

  “That’s what you think,” an ironic voice interrupted. “After all the passes you made at him, you keep kidding yourself he’s in love with you.”

  “Eddie!” Mr. Lomax chided warningly.

  Shayne jerked himself around to face a young man of medium height with pudgy features and a pimpled, unhealthy complexion. A mop of ash-blond hair grew low on his forehead and his eyes were pale blue like his father’s. He wore dark blue trousers and a shirt emblazoned with big red poppies, the short tail of which hung outside his trousers. He looked like a college boy who wanted desperately to be tough. His shoulders sloped forward and he swaggered as he advanced to join the group around the fireplace.

  “Mr. Shayne,” said Nathan Lomax, “this is our son, Eddie.”

  “You’re the detective? You got any clues yet?” The boy flopped into a chair and let his knees fall wide apart and put the toes of his shoes together. His mouth stayed open after asking the questions. He looked up at Shayne and his blond lashes touched his thick, overhanging brows.

  “I’m gathering a few clues,” Shayne told him. “Where were you last night?”

  “Me?”

  “You.” Shayne took a step toward him and his voice was hard as he continued, “You folks act as if none of this touches you. A necklace worth a hundred and fifty thousand dollars has been stolen and a girl has been murdered…”

  “Murdered!”

  Shayne turned quickly to see Mrs. Lomax sitting up. There was a look of terror, or of horror, in her black eyes. She sank back immediately, saying, “Oh—no. Katrin committed suicide,” and her eyes grew languorous again.

  “You seem to be very certain of suicide, Mrs. Lomax,” Shayne said, “perhaps you can tell me the reason.” He looked steadily down at her.

  Mrs. Lomax avoided his gaze. “I don’t know the reason,” she answered, “but anyone can see that it couldn’t have been murder.”

  The muscles in Shayne’s cheeks quivered and a frown trenched his brow. He wondered whether the fleeting terror in her eyes was intended to distract his attention from Eddie, or shock at his announcement that Katrin had been murdered. Her lowered lashes made her eyes inscrutable.

  He turned again to Eddie and repeated, “Where were you last night?”

  Mr. Lomax had been politely standing while Shayne stood. He sank into his chair and ran a trembling hand over his bony scalp.

  Eddie shifted his eyes to his father and murmured, “Murdered,” in a stricken tone.

  Shayne made a savage gesture. “Katrin Moe may have turned on the gas with her own hand, but she was forced into it by something—or someone. Where were you last night?”

  Eddie dragged his gaze from his father and along the carpet to his pointed-in toes. “It’s none of your business,” he burst out. “I didn’t—”

  “If you’ve nothing to hide you’d better tell him, son,” his father advised.

  “And for heaven’s sake close your mouth,” Clarice said scornfully. “You’re drooling.”

  “Keep your own trap shut,” Eddie snapped. “What is this? A pinch? What right has he got to know where I was last night?”

  “I think this is what they call routine,” Mrs. Lomax said in the short silence that followed.

  “You didn’t come home to dinner last night, Eddie,” Mr. Lomax reminded him.

  “I didn’t get home until two o’clock,” Eddie admitted sullenly. “The cops say Katrin was dead by that time, so what does it matter where I was?”

  “How old are you?” Shayne asked.

  “I’m twenty-one.”

  Shayne stood on wide-spread legs before him. “For the last time, where were you last night?”

  Eddie cowered away from him. “Different places just bumming around,” he mumbled, “from ten till two. I was at the Laurel Club most of the time,”

  Mr. Lomax said, “Eddie!” reproachfully.

  “Well, that’s about the only place in town where I’m welcome with the money I get to spend,” he snapped. “Dan Trueman’s a good egg.”

  “Anybody see you at the Laurel Club?” Shayne interposed.

  “Sure. Lots of people. Dan saw me leave just before two o’clock. Sis knows he did.” He glanced angrily at Clarice.

  Clarice glared back.

  “Clarice—at the Laurel Club?” Mr. Lomax frowned, “You know that’s not true. Clarice was at the Country Club dance.”

  “Maybe she started out at the Country Club,” Eddie told him, ignoring his sister’s warning look, “but at two o’clock she was at the Laurel Club. The sedan was parked in the driveway and Neal was waiting for her. That’s how I came to see Dan. He was talking with Neal when I came out.”

  Shayne stepped back nearer the grate and watched the trio narrowly.

  Mr. Lomax’s white hands lolled on his emaciated legs, but there was anger in his murky eyes. He asked, “Is this true, Clarice?”

  Clarice’s eyes flashed. She said, “You act as if I should be kept wrapped up in cellophane. Sure, I dropped by there. I was bored at the dance. There wasn’t anybody to dance with, so I asked Neal to drive me some place where there was a little excitement.”

  Mrs. Lomax’s face was passive. She lay inert on the chaise longue with her eyes half closed.

  “I’ll have a talk with Neal,” Mr. Lomax said after a short silence. There was a harsh implication in his voice that caused Shayne to glance hastily at him. He looked white and shaken, and blood pulsed in the raised purple veins on his chalky hands.

  “I’m sure it wasn’t Neal’s fault, Nathan,” Mrs. Lomax said calmly. “He’s just the chauffeur and has to drive where he’s told.”

  “When Neal takes Clarice out I expect him to look after her,” her husband stated flatly.

  “You sound so dreadfully Victorian, Dad.” Clarice laughed shrilly and got up. She smoothed her skirt over her slim hips and stretched her torso upward, accentuating her small pointed breasts. Glancing at Shayne, she said, “I’m sure you find this discussion just too, too interesting.”

  “I’m learning a lot.” Shayne’s mouth was grim. “Did you see your brother at the Laurel Club?”

  “No. I didn’t go back to the gambling room. I just had a cocktail and came on home.” She gave a sniff of disdain and added, “The Laurel Club was pretty tame, too.”

  When Shayne again turned to Nathan Lomax his chin was resting on his chest and he was gently pressing the veins in his hand. Mrs. Lomax had arranged her pillows so that she sat up. Her hands were laxly folded in her lap and she appeared unperturbed by her daughter’s comments.

  Shayne asked, “You and Mrs. Lomax were both at home last night?”

  “Why, yes. We retired early. Mrs. Lomax was weary after her trip, and I read for a time.”

  “I’ve wondered about that trip.” Shayne turned to Mr
s. Lomax. “Why did you drive to Baton Rouge?”

  She opened her eyes wide and tried to wither him with a look.

  “It’s really quite simple. I’m district chairman of the Garden Club. We met in Baton Rouge. I trust you don’t disapprove,” she ended icily.

  Shayne asked Lomax, “May I see the place from which the necklace was stolen?”

  “Certainly.” He arose with agility and led the way across the room to one of three doors, opened it and waited for Shayne to go in, then closed it. He said, “This is my wife’s dressing-room. The door to the left leads to my bedroom and the one on the right to Mrs. Lomax’s.”

  The modernistic motif of the dressing-room was startling in comparison to the conventional library and the soft pastel shades of the upstairs living-room. Shayne’s reflection stared back at him from the long chromium and black mirror of the magnificent dressing-table set between two French windows hung with black and silver-striped drapes. On either side a full-length mirror reflected his tall, gaunt frame as he stepped forward. The low table was equipped with three drawers on each side and a long narrow center drawer. A couch of silver satin was decorated with silver and black cushions, and around a grayish furry rug the floor was inset with black and white tile. The top of the dressing-table was bare.

  “As you see,” Mr. Lomax said, “all of the toilet articles were stolen. They were valuable, of course. Mrs. Lomax has exquisite taste in such things, and I have humored her.”

  “Yeh,” Shayne muttered, absently studying the modernistic murals around the walls, the most intriguing of which was a writhing octopus powdering its nose while ogling into a fantastic mirror.

  Mr. Lomax opened the top left-hand drawer. “Mrs. Lomax remembers distinctly putting the jewel box containing the necklace in this drawer before she left for Baton Rouge. Katrin, of course, tidied the room afterward. I can’t understand why Katrin didn’t bring it to me to be put in the safe.”

  “Mrs. Lomax usually puts it away herself?”

  “Yes. She treasured the necklace. But, like myself, she trusted Katrin implicitly.”