The Homicidal Virgin ms-38 Read online

  “And a little before midnight I went to the bar where Harry worked and looked in the window. She was there on a stool. I did not know her, but I knew she was the one. I waited in the street shadow until midnight when the bar closed, and Harry came out with her. They got in a parked car and she drove away. Harry did not come home for two hours.”

  Hilda emptied her glass and pursed her lips, looking down at it and continuing her recital in a monotone:

  “There were no more calls and I did not see her after that. But Harry got worse. His irritation and his threatening of what he would do. I knew it was that girl. I knew she preyed on his mind and he was planning something bad, but I didn’t know what it was.”

  “How long ago was this?”

  “Four or five weeks ago.”

  “Did Harry say anything about her to you?”

  “Never a word. And I didn’t ask. I always believed a man had a right to his own secrets.”

  “And he left home without telling you what he planned to do in Miami?”

  “That’s right. With just a note for me when I got home from work.”

  “How did you locate Jane Smith here?”

  “That was purely fate. It was this afternoon on the street. I saw her getting on a Miami Beach bus and I knew her at once. So I suspected Harry had come here to meet her, and I got on the same bus and got off when she did and followed her to that expensive hotel. I stayed around the lobby a long time thinking maybe I’d see Harry, and went back this evening to wait some more. And when you came in the bar I recognized you right away and decided I’d ask you to help me. Then she came in and walked over and took you away from me. Who is she and what has she got to do with Harry?”

  Shayne said, “I don’t know,” with real perplexity. “I met her for the first time tonight. In fact when you came over and sat at my table I thought you were Jane Smith.”

  “Is it a detective case you’re working on?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Make her tell you where Harry is, Mr. Shayne. All I want is to see him and talk to him before he does something dreadful. I know I can persuade him to come back home with me. I don’t care what he’s done with her. I love him and I want him back.”

  “I don’t even know that I’ll see Jane Smith again,” he told her cautiously.

  “How else will I ever find him?”

  Shayne shook his head slowly, tugging at his earlobe. What on earth had a girl from Miami Beach been doing out in a small town in Illinois a month ago meeting a married bartender after working hours? Had she already been started on her quest for a man to murder her stepfather? Had a certain Harry Gleason of Algonquin, Illinois, been suggested to her by someone as a likely prospect for the job? If she had made such an offer and he accepted, why had she sent that ad to the newspaper?

  He said slowly, “One thing I think I can reassure you about, Mrs. Gleason. From things the girl told me this evening, I don’t believe your husband is having an affair with her.”

  “Do you think I care about that?” she cried out scornfully. “He can have all the other women he wants if he just comes home to me afterward.”

  “He’s a lucky man to be married to you. Describe him to me.”

  “He’s tall and has blue eyes. Going a little bald in front, but not bad for a man of forty-six. Thin-faced, I think you would say. He’s been a good husband to me for ten years and I would do anything to get things back the way they were before.”

  “Did you ask at the Palms Terrace Hotel if he is registered there?”

  “At a high-class place like that?” she asked incredulously. “He wouldn’t be. He didn’t have more than a hundred dollars in cash when he left home. Even if he took a bus as I did he would not have money to afford a hotel like that.”

  Shayne said, “It never pays to take anything for granted. Maybe he’s got hold of some extra money.” He reached for the telephone and gave Pete the number of the Beach hotel which he had called previously. He asked the girl if they had a Mr. Gleason registered, and shook his head at Hilda when he hung up. “Not there.” He sat back and drummed his fingertips on the table; “I wish you’d think back very carefully and try to remember any hints Harry dropped that might indicate how he hoped to get a lot of money in Miami. By a holdup, perhaps? Blackmail?”

  “I don’t know, Mr. Shayne. I’ve thought and thought, and there was never anything I could put my finger on. I just know it was something crooked and dangerous. Else why wouldn’t he tell me? You must help me find him.”

  Shayne said, “I’ll try, Mrs. Gleason. There’s another stinger, but I’m afraid it’ll be pretty weak.”

  “No, I thank you. I don’t really drink very much. Bartenders and their wives don’t, you know. And it is terribly late to be here like this.”

  “Where can I reach you?”

  She gave him a street address in the downtown Northeast section of the city. “It’s room number five, up one flight. It isn’t fancy, but I don’t want to waste my money. And that reminds me, Mr. Shayne. What about paying you a retainer to look for Harry?”

  Shayne said, “Let that go until I find him.” He stood up as she did, and again was pleased with her long free stride as they went out of the door and down the corridor together.

  He took both her hands in his and faced her as they waited for the car to come up. “Keep on hoping, and I’ll do my level best to find your husband for you.”

  She squeezed his fingers and told him, “I feel better right this minute than I have for a long time.” She hadn’t put her glasses back on and she looked up into his eyes with a look of honest gratitude that told him he could kiss her good night if he wished.

  He decided he didn’t. He smiled down at her and continued to hold her hands until the elevator door opened behind her. Then he said gently, “Good night, Hilda,” and stepped back while the door shut. He frowned wryly as he walked back to his sitting room. This had certainly been an evening to try a man’s credulity. First, Jane Smith with her harrowing tale of sexual depravity, and then Mrs. Gleason with her even more difficult-to-believe story of a missing husband.

  Right at the moment Shayne didn’t know which woman he had the more faith in. Connected as they both were with utter improbabilities, it was almost impossible to believe that both of them had been speaking the whole truth and nothing but the truth all the way through.

  8

  When Shayne entered his office the next morning, the anteroom was empty and Lucy Hamilton was not at her desk beyond the railing. But the door to the redhead’s inner office stood open, and through it he heard the lilting sound of Lucy’s laughter.

  He tossed his hat on a hook near the door and crossed toward the sound, halting on the threshold and lifting red eyebrows at the couple in his office.

  Neither of them noticed him for a long moment. Lucy was perched on one corner of the big desk in the center of the room, with one knee drawn up, leaning forward and hugging it with both forearms. She looked awfully young and vibrantly interested, Shayne thought, as she laughed delightedly again and said, “I don’t believe a single word of it.”

  “I swear it’s just the way it happened.” The man who was slouched back comfortably in one of the client’s chairs beside the desk had a pleasantly deep-timbered voice with more than a trace of a southern drawl in it. He was smooth-faced, with strong features, and had a well-padded figure that was artfully concealed by an extremely well-tailored suit of light gray. He looked very much at home in the detective’s office as he smiled up at Lucy, gesturing with a straight-stemmed pipe that gave off an aromatic fragrance.

  “I’ll tell you another thing, too, Miss Lucy.” He leaned closer, and as he did so he caught a glimpse out of the corner of his eye of Shayne standing in the doorway. He straightened back slowly in the chair, turning full toward the detective, and Lucy turned her own head, following his gaze.

  Unaccountably, she blushed. She dropped her knee and slid off the corner of the desk and said in some confusion, “Here’s
Mr. Shayne now. I didn’t hear you come in, Michael.”

  He said, “In the future I’ll knock before entering.”

  “Don’t be silly.” Lucy smoothed down her dress self-consciously. “This is Mr. Waring of Southern Mutual. Remember, I told you last night…?”

  Shayne said, “I remember.” He moved forward and the insurance executive stood up and held out a well-fleshed hand that gripped Shayne’s firmly. “Glad to meet you, Shayne. Though I must say your charming secretary makes waiting a pleasure.”

  Shayne said, “I’m glad to hear that,” though he didn’t sound glad at all and was faintly irritated because he realized he didn’t.

  Lucy hesitated demurely as he moved around to the swivel chair behind his desk, and said, “When you talk to Mr. Waring, Michael, remember what I told you the other day. If you don’t get something for me to do around here…”

  She let her voice trail off warningly, and then turned and marched out of the office with her head held high. Waring turned in his chair and his admiring gaze followed her supple, slender figure out.

  “A real jewel you’ve got there, Shayne. If she ever does decide to look for another job, I’ve told her where to come.”

  Shayne said, “That’s real big of you,” and knew that he sounded stiff and sarcastic.

  But Waring settled back and threw him a cheery smile and said briskly, “All a lot of nonsense of course. The way she went on about you last night I’m sure she’s absolutely devoted to her work.”

  Shayne got out a cigarette. He asked, “Did you come here to discuss my secretary or a business proposition?” He struck a match and drew in a deep breath of smoke, exhaled it slowly and avoided looking at the other man.

  Waring picked up his mood instantly and said, “My company would like to have you represent us throughout the south, Mr. Shayne. In a consultant capacity on a retainer basis. Miss Hamilton gave me to understand last night that you have sufficient free time that it shouldn’t interfere with your private practice.”

  Shayne drummed blunt fingertips on his desk and made no further effort to conceal his irritation. “Since you and Miss Hamilton are agreed that it’s a good idea, I suggest you settle the details directly with her.”

  He settled back in his chair and glared down at the burning cigarette between the first two fingers of his right hand.

  There followed a dozen seconds of awkward silence, and then Waring said genially, “That’s fine. Just fine. My company will be proud to have you associated with us, Mr. Shayne.”

  Shayne kept his brooding gaze lowered and didn’t say anything. He knew he was acting like an adolescent, and somehow was obscurely pleased by the knowledge. He was aware that Waring was getting up, and he forced himself to rise also and offer his hand a second time.

  Waring hesitated and then nodded briefly, turned and walked purposefully out without speaking further. Shayne stood very still behind his desk and watched the door close firmly behind him. Then he sat down and angrily mashed out the cigarette butt in a clean ash tray. His anger evaporated as swiftly as it had come, and he grinned ruefully across the room. Why shouldn’t Lucy use her wiles to drum up business for him? He had no doubt that she would extract a higher retainer from the insurance company than he would have asked. What he should do, he told himself, was to give Lucy a percentage of the take. Hell! if she was going to prostitute herself to entice clients into his office, she deserved a fair cut. Like any streetwalker bringing her earnings back to her pimp.

  He shook his red head suddenly and hated himself for his thoughts. Just because the girl had accepted a perfectly innocuous dinner invitation last night and had proved an enjoyable companion was no reason for him to get into a tizzy about it.

  He knew, of course, that his anger wasn’t really directed at Lucy. He was striking out at her because he hated himself this morning. Lucy was just a symbol. It was Jane Smith who was really in his thoughts. Lucy could take care of herself. Jane Smith couldn’t. If ever a man had been offered an opportunity to help a fellow human being, he had been given that chance last night. And he had muffed it completely. How goddamned self-righteous he must have sounded to the frightened girl when he spouted off to her. How utterly alone she must have felt when he walked out of the room leaving her with her problem!

  A frightened kid who wasn’t yet twenty and had never faced the realities of life before. She had bared her heart and her soul to him, and what had he given her in return? A lecture, by God!

  He shoved back his chair and stood up, strode to the window overlooking Flagler Street. He’d been a fool to hope she would take the fatuous advice of Mike Wayne and turn to a private detective for help. Instead, he had done exactly what Timothy Rourke accused him of doing. He had driven her on in the quest for some other killer to do the job he had refused to do.

  What would be his position, he asked himself now angrily, if Saul Henderson did turn up murdered in the near future? He, Mike Shayne, would be the only one to know the truth. Would he remain silent, or would he speak out against Henderson’s already pitiably ruined stepdaughter?

  He could warn Henderson in advance of course. But every decent instinct inside him rose up and shouted that he couldn’t do that. God knew the man deserved no warning, no mercy.

  If he could only get hold of the girl-talk to her again before it was too late. Before she put murderous forces in motion that could not be halted. But he didn’t even know Jane Smith’s real name. True, he could find out easily enough. The stepdaughter of a prominent man like Saul Henderson shouldn’t be difficult to trace.

  Shayne turned decisively away from the window, strode to the door and pulled it open. David Waring had pulled a straight chair across the anteroom and was seated in it close to the low railing and was in an animated huddle with Lucy Hamilton, who sat at her desk with paper in her typewriter taking direct dictation from him with her fingers flying over the keys. Both his voice and her typing stopped abruptly when Shayne opened the door. Her brown eyes looking past Waring implored him to be sensible as she said, “We’re working out the rough draft of an agreement, Michael. Have you time to check a couple of points?”

  Shayne went on toward the outer door, reaching for his hat. “I told Waring you had full authority to set it up any way you want. I’ll sign whatever you have typed when I get back.” He went out and pulled the door shut with unnecessary violence behind him.

  Downstairs, he went to the Herald morgue for the information he wanted, instead of the News. He might run into Rourke at the latter newspaper office, and he wasn’t ready to explain to Tim the reason for his sudden interest in Henderson. Knowing Shayne as well as he did, the reporter had a disconcerting habit of reading the redhead’s mind before Shayne himself knew what was in it. Like last night. His casual, parting reference to Henderson’s stepdaughter as “utterly charming” and a “nice” girl-quoting Shayne’s own descriptive words for Jane Smith right back at him-were indication enough that the reporter suspected the truth.

  In the back files of the Herald, Shayne found everything he needed. The folder on Saul Henderson was thin, but it went back three years when Mr. and Mrs. Saul Henderson of New York purchased a $60,000 home on Miami Beach and announced their intention of settling in as year-round residents. There wasn’t much background on the couple, just that Mr. Henderson was “well-known in New York financial circles” and Mrs. Henderson was identified as the former socialite wife of Ralph Graham. A daughter of her first marriage was mentioned. Muriel Graham, who will attend the exclusive finishing school on Miami Beach conducted by Miss Overholzer.

  Next, a few months later, was the announcement that Saul Henderson had purchased a partnership in the local brokerage firm of Wallach amp; Dutton, and a few brief items following which indicated that Mr. Henderson was establishing himself solidly as a progressive and civic-minded citizen of Miami Beach, first as a member of various committees and local charity drives, and then as chairman of other, more important committees.

  There w
as quite a long obituary for Mrs. Henderson when she died in her home several months before. She was described as an invalid and as having succumbed to a lingering illness, though cancer was not specifically mentioned. Her daughter by a former marriage, Muriel Graham, was listed as the only survivor along with her husband.

  That was the last item in the newspaper file on the Hendersons before the final news story dated some weeks previously. This was a front-page feature story covering a banquet at one of the most exclusive and expensive hotels on the Beach which had been televised on a national network because one of the country’s top television personalities had been honored as the “Beach Booster of the Year” and presented with a key to the city by Mr. Saul Henderson, President of the Miami Beach 100-Club and prominently mentioned in local political circles as the Reform Candidate for mayor of Miami Beach in the forthcoming election.

  There was a picture of Saul Henderson beamingly presenting the key to the television comedian while three cameras recorded the event for the edification of viewers throughout the country, and Shayne studied the photograph carefully and with increasing aversion as he recalled the story the man’s stepdaughter had told him the preceding evening.

  Without that knowledge of the man’s true character, Shayne was honest enough to admit to himself that in the picture Henderson looked very much like a right guy. In his mid-forties, with lean features that appeared almost ascetic, yet with a certain air of boyish bravado, Shayne could see how the man might easily capture the imagination of enough voters to become the next mayor of the beach city.

  Yet, with what he knew about the man, Shayne was able to see that the piercing black eyes were a little too close together so that there was something predatory about them, the lips were too thin and too tightly compressed, the chin was pointed rather than prominent, the little tight curls of hair on each side of his high forehead resembled horns rather than carrying out the slightly boyish effect they gave at first glance.