The Homicidal Virgin ms-38 Read online

  “He debauched me when I was sixteen. He raped me in a bedroom beside the one where my mother lay dying of cancer. I couldn’t cry out and let her know. I couldn’t.”

  Again her bowed shoulders shook with violent sobbing. “Even now I’m glad I didn’t. I’m proud that I submitted to him and she never knew. He was all she had to cling to. She adored him. And she died adoring him.”

  She jerked her head up and stared at Shayne fiercely. “Do you understand that I’m glad and proud… even though he kept on using my body. Because my mother never knew or suspected. That’s why I hate him so. Because he turned me into the sort of creature who is proud of being used by a monster like that. Look at me!”

  She drew herself erect, smoothing back her hair scornfully. “Tonight you thought I was a sweet young thing. I saw it in your eyes. But I’m debauched. Hideous. A monstrosity. Worse than any syphilitic whore who walks the streets of Miami. Because they let men use their bodies because they want to. To earn money. That’s clean compared to me.

  “So now I have shocked you.” She turned away coldly. “I knew, of course, that it couldn’t be. In my wildest imaginings I knew deep down inside of me that I’d never find a man who could sympathize and understand. Why don’t you go, Mike Wayne? I know you can’t stand to even look at me any more.”

  She stood rigidly at the window with her back to him. Slim and defiant and so woefully young.

  Shayne said, “I’ll stick around awhile, Jane Smith. Why don’t you go back and sit down and tell me more about the situation?”

  She turned and looked at him wonderingly. “You mean it, don’t you? You’re not utterly revolted by the sight of me?”

  “I’m not revolted at all,” Shayne assured her flatly. “What I do wonder right now is what sort of hold your stepfather still has on you that makes his murder seem the only way out.”

  The word seem to jar her queerly. “Murder?” she repeated. “I never once thought of that word. Call it an execution. Riddance. An extermination. Is it murder when you crush a loathsome cockroach underfoot? Don’t they hang men who rape young girls? You don’t call that murder, do you?”

  Shayne said, “It’s a question of semantics. You feel so trapped that the only way out is to have Saul Henderson killed. Why? What sort of hold has he over you? You said your mother is dead.”

  “Yes. She died two months ago.” Jane Smith returned composedly to the sofa. “Adoring my stepfather and believing him to be the finest man on earth. She left a will dividing her estate evenly between us, naming him as my legal guardian and placing my share of the money in trust to be administered by him as he sees fit until I’m twenty-one. Two years from now. Two years of being under his thumb… at his beck and call. Two more years during which I can’t call my soul my own. Living in the same house with him. Lying in my bed at night trembling with fear that he will walk in through the door and force himself upon me. Dying a thousand deaths each night he doesn’t come, and consumed with hatred and shame when he does.” Her voice died away listlessly.

  Shayne said harshly, “Do you mean that you’re going on with the affair even after your mother’s death?”

  “What else can I do? I have no money except what he doles out to me. Nothing. I’m utterly dependent on him for what I eat.”

  “Defy him,” said Shayne savagely. “My God, this is the Twentieth Century. Slavery has gone out of style.”

  She said, “You don’t know Saul Henderson.”

  “You must have some money of your own. Walk away from him and use it. How much is your share of the estate worth?” he demanded abruptly.

  “About a quarter of a million.”

  “Which will come to you with no strings attached in two years. Go out and borrow on it if you need cash to break away from him. Hell, the town is full of money-lenders who’ll advance you whatever you need. They’ll charge exorbitant interest, of course, but what do you care? You can afford to pay twenty percent for a couple of years.”

  “You don’t quite understand, Mike Wayne… or whatever your name is.” Jane crossed her arms across her breasts and squeezed them tightly. “There was an added provision in mother’s will. I told you she looked on Saul as a sort of God. I get my share only if I conduct myself like a devoted daughter and live in his house under his discipline until I’m of age. If I fail to do that… and he can prove it in court… my share reverts to him and I’ll be dependent on him for the rest of my life.”

  “Your mother,” said Shayne bitterly, “was a fool.”

  “Of course she was. Saul took her in completely. But that’s spilled milk now, isn’t it? These are the facts I have to live with.”

  “What happens if Henderson dies before you’re twenty-one?”

  “Then I get my half at once. Don’t you see? That’s what I’m banking on. He doesn’t deserve to live. And the moment he dies, I’m free. That’s why I mentioned fifty thousand dollars. I haven’t anything right now, but the moment Saul Henderson is dead I can pay anything. I’ll give you a demand note. I’ll sign any sort of legal document you want so you can collect after his death. It’s as simple as that. Will you or won’t you?”

  “Kill your stepfather so you can collect your share of your mother’s estate immediately?” asked Shayne.

  “So I can become a free woman,” she cried out wildly. “So I can rid myself of the incubus he has become. I can’t go on like I am. I’m going crazy.”

  “Then walk away from him,” Shayne advised her evenly.

  “He’ll follow me and bring me back. Legally, he’s my guardian.”

  “Nuts. Prefer charges against him. Tell any judge in the country what you’ve just told me, and he’ll spend the rest of his life in jail while you enjoy your inheritance.”

  “I’ve threatened him with that,” she cried out desperately, “and he laughs at me. He says to go ahead and try to make it stick. And even if I did succeed, think of the disgrace and scandal. It would be a Roman holiday for the newspapers. I can’t face that. I just can’t.”

  “Almost anything is better than murder,” Shayne told her.

  “I’m in love,” she told him in a choked voice. “For the first time in my life, I know what love is. With a nice clean innocent boy who would just die if he ever found out the truth. That’s one of the reasons I asked you if you loved your friend. I thought you’d understand better.”

  “Just walk away from the whole set-up,” advised Shayne coldly. “Henderson can’t do one damned thing to stop you. Pay no attention to his threats. He doesn’t want publicity any more than you do.”

  “What would I do for money?” wailed Jane. “The boy I’m in love with hasn’t any. He’s working hard on a salary to get established. He can’t afford to marry a poor girl.”

  “Then the bastard isn’t worth marrying at all,” Shayne said angrily. “Look, kid.” He controlled his voice with an effort. “There are young couples all over the country no worse off than you two. You’re nineteen years old, perfectly healthy and reasonably intelligent. You say you’re in love with a boy who has a job and is working hard. So, marry the guy. Walk away from your stepfather and marry him. Get a job of your own if you have to in order to make ends meet.”

  “What kind of job can I get? I haven’t any training…”

  “You can clerk in a ten-cent store, goddamn it. Lots of girls do and survive.”

  “And let that horrible Saul Henderson get away with a quarter million dollars that belongs to me?”

  “In the first place,” Shayne gritted, “I don’t believe he’d ever manage to get away with it. Take my advice and get out from under, and I’ll get you the best legal advice in Miami to work on your case. But don’t come crying to me about being sexually misused when it’s your own damned choice that you are. I can sort of understand your going along with the situation while your mother was alive. But the moment she died, you should have walked out. Or put a knife in him yourself the first time he tried to take you after your mother’s death.”
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br />   “I wish to God I had,” she cried shrilly.

  “But you didn’t,” Shayne pointed out. “You compromised instead… and felt sorry for yourself. And now you’re trying to hire me to commit a murder to get you out of a situation you won’t walk away from. To hell with it.” He drained his glass and set it down with finality.

  “Then you won’t help me?”

  “Certainly not. Get it through your head that you’re the only person who can help yourself at this point.”

  Shayne got to his feet and walked across to stand over her as she huddled defensively away from him on the sofa, and he made his voice more gentle:

  “This is a hell of a story you told me, Jane, and if it’s true, your stepfather deserves to be shot. But that’s neither here nor there. There are laws to take care of people like Saul Henderson. If you’ll come with me tonight, I’ll guarantee you’ll never have to see the son-of-a-bitch again. I can’t guarantee you’ll end up with your inheritance, but I think there’s a good chance you will.”

  “But it would mean testifying against him, wouldn’t it? Standing up in court and admitting what I did… the sort of horrible person I am.”

  “It would mean preferring charges against him,” said Shayne evenly. “I doubt it would come into open court. Judges are human, and there are ways of handling things like this.”

  “But he would just deny everything,” she said tearfully. “I haven’t any proof. It would be my word against his. And everyone would believe him. I’d just be an hysterical teen-ager… because I’m only nineteen.”

  Shayne controlled his exasperation and said, “Jane. I’m putting it to you straight. There’s only one answer… and that’s to never go back into his house again. Come with me tonight. I’ll take you to my girl-friend’s apartment. Give up this crazy idea of hiring someone to murder him. You’ll just end up in the electric chair yourself that way.”

  She lay back on the sofa looking up at him like a wounded animal. She breathed fast and irregularly through widely parted lips and her eyes seared him.

  “Get out,” she spat. “I hope I never see you again. Take your corny advice and stick it. Men are all alike and I should have known better than to think different. Get out.”

  Shayne hesitated a long moment. The girl was clearly on the verge of hysteria, and his first impulse was to call the house detective and a doctor.

  But he fought down that impulse, reminding himself that he hadn’t the right to do anything like that. Sure, she was plenty neurotic, maybe psychotic, but what high-strung girl wouldn’t be after what she had gone through?

  He got out his wallet and took one of his own business cards from it, and scribbled his home telephone number on it before handing it to her.

  He said, “This guy, Michael Shayne, is a close friend of mine. He’s legal, but he knows how to cut corners and I guarantee he can be trusted. He can help you if anybody in the world can. That’s his private number I’ve written down. Settle back and think over everything I’ve said. Forget this murder routine you’re hipped on. If you decide you want help, call Michael Shayne… any time of the night or day. And God help you, Jane Smith,” he ended under his breath as he turned away from her and walked out of the hotel suite.

  6

  Michael Shayne did not return to his newly rented hotel room that night. He took a taxi directly from the Beach to his own apartment hotel on the north bank of the Miami River, and strode into the empty lobby, surprising Pete who was dozing behind the desk.

  The night clerk sat up with a jerk and said, “Gee, Mr. Shayne, it’s been sort of dull around here the last few days without you.”

  Shayne said, “I’ve had it pretty dull myself. Any mail or messages?”

  “I’ll bet you’ve had it dull.” Pete winked at him knowingly. “A few letters. And just about an hour ago Mr. Rourke called and wanted you to call him back. I tried that number you gave me but room eight-oh-six didn’t answer.”

  Shayne nodded, absently riffling half a dozen unimportant letters. “Just cancel out that number for the future. I’ll call Rourke from upstairs.”

  He went up to the familiar suite he had occupied for so many years, shrugged out of his jacket as he entered. He crossed the comfortably shabby living room in long strides, glad to be shucking off Mike Wayne’s identity and becoming himself again.

  In the small kitchen he put ice cubes in a tall glass, ran water over them, and carried it and a four-ounce wine-glass to the center table in the living room. He got a bottle of cognac from a wall cupboard, filled the wine-glass to the brim, and settled back comfortably to try Tim at the newspaper office. The City Desk told him Rourke had checked out for the night, and Shayne called his home number.

  “Mike! I’ve been wondering how the hell you made out with Jane Smith. I haven’t had a single damned word from you since we talked about her. Pete says you haven’t been home nights. You been shacked up with her?” Rourke’s voice was cheerfully expectant.

  “I just made contact tonight. Left her in a hotel on the Beach half an hour ago.”

  “And?”

  “There’s no story, Tim.”

  “Nuts! There must be some story.”

  “It’s not for your youthful ears… nor for your rag to publish.” Shayne paused and took a sip of cognac. “But there’s a chance… a slim chance… that she may be calling in Mike Shayne, in person, to help her out of a spot. If she does that, I might have something for you eventually.”

  “I’m coming around,” Rourke said eagerly. “You at home?”

  “Sitting here with a drink and wondering whether Jane Smith will come to her senses and telephone me.”

  Rourke said, “See you,” and hung up.

  Shayne replaced the receiver slowly and lit a cigarette. Would Jane take his lecture to heart and telephone a private detective for help? He didn’t think so. Not really. He closed his eyes and her face appeared before him as it had been at the last when she spat, “Get out,” at him.

  He hadn’t handled it well, he thought morosely. God in heaven! he had actually sat back and preached at her. What she needed was sympathy and understanding. And he had walked out on her leaving her alone and hysterical and hopeless.

  Impulsively he reached for the telephone, half a mind to call her at the Palms Terrace. As Michael Shayne. Would she recognize his voice over the telephone? Probably not. He could tell her that his old friend, Mike Wayne, had asked him to get in touch with her. Then she wouldn’t feel so lost and alone. She’d realize that Wayne had been touched by her story… that he truly wanted to help her, and perhaps she would accept Shayne’s help.

  But he paused with his hand on the instrument. No, damn it. The call must come from her. It wouldn’t be any good if it wasn’t her decision. She had to learn to stand on her own two feet and to fight her own way free. Certainly, he thought, after girding herself up to go through with meeting a strange man tonight and pleading with him to murder her stepfather… after the way that meeting ended… certainly she would give up her insane plan and begin considering the alternatives he had suggested.

  He relaxed and swallowed an ounce of cognac, chasing it down with ice water. Now, he thought his telephone would ring. He began waiting for the sound hopefully.

  His cognac glass was empty and he was still waiting, less hopefully, when Timothy Rourke entered the room.

  The reporter grinned at him and crossed to the wall cabinet without an invitation and selected a bottle of bourbon that was already open. He carried it into the kitchen where he slugged a generous amount into a glass, added an ice cube and a moderate amount of water. He came back to sprawl his lean frame into a deep chair opposite Shayne and said, “Tell me about our Jane Smith. How’d it go?”

  Shayne shrugged. “Pretty much according to schedule. She cased me as Mike Wayne this evening, and then went through a long rigmarole to make sure I didn’t call in the cops.” He grinned at the memory and added, “Damn well planned, too. Jane is no dumbbell. She fixed it so
she could look me over in person before deciding whether to confide in me or not.”

  While Rourke listened appreciatively, he outlined the events of the evening leading up to the meeting in the Crystal Room. “Then we went up to her suite for a quiet drink and a talk.”

  “What’s she like? A tough old bag?”

  Shayne said broodingly, “She’s nineteen and utterly charming, and in one of the toughest spots any nice girl has ever been in.”

  “And so Mike Shayne turned down her proposition?” jeered Rourke. “Come off it, Mike. What did happen?”

  “Mike Wayne turned down her proposition,” Shayne corrected him. “I told you over the phone that Shayne is standing by to help her out legally if that telephone rings.”

  “Exactly what was her proposition?”

  “She offered me fifty grand to murder a man for her.”

  “Christ! And you say there’s no story in it? What more do you want for a headline?”

  “There’s no headline in this one, Tim. I’ve given you all I’m going to unless she comes to me legitimately.”

  “You can’t do that to me,” cried Rourke. “You’ve got my tongue hanging out a mile. You know it’ll be in strictest confidence if you say so,” he urged his old friend. “When have I ever jumped the gun on you?”

  Shayne shook his red head adamantly. “No soap this time. She’s too nice a kid, and it’s too explosive to take the slightest chance with it. Look, Tim,” he went on wearily. “I know you and how your mind works. With all the best intentions in the world, you couldn’t lay off this if you tried. You’d start digging for background stuff… just on the chance it might break some time in the future so you’d be in a position to capitalize on it. And I can’t risk anything like that.”

  He splashed more cognac in his glass, glaring at the silent telephone sitting close to his right hand.

  “But I gave it to you on a silver platter. I stole it from Peter Painter and handed it to you for free. My paper is even paying your bills on the deal. Don’t I get some explanation?”