The Homicidal Virgin ms-38 Page 8

  Faces and names were a meaningless blur to the detective. “Jane Smith” was not among those present. Nor did he recognize anyone else whom he met. They all seemed to recognize him by reputation and he tolerantly fenced with gushing females while Lucy clung to his arm and glowed happily.

  After he had dutifully made the rounds, including another foursome who arrived after them, Shayne left Lucy in the company of three young men who surrounded her admiringly, and looked around for Timothy Rourke.

  The reporter, he discovered without a lot of surprise, had expertly corralled the prettiest female at the party (if you excluded Lucy) and had her blocked off in a corner of the room where he was leering at her happily and working on his third highball while he heartily agreed with her that newspaper reporters were, indeed, a daredevil and fascinating lot.

  Bored by it all, and again wondering why Henderson had so obviously wanted to meet him, Shayne wandered back to the bar and secured another sidecar, then found a comfortable chair in a deserted corner of the room and sank into it gratefully, lighting a cigarette and half-closing his eyes, making his mind as blank as possible so that the waves of sound from the throats of the score or more of people in the room flowed over and through him without making direct contact.

  He had been sitting like that for a few minutes when he straightened in his chair with a tingle in his spine as he saw a lone late-comer being ushered through the archway by the maid.

  It was Hilda Gleason. She was dressed exactly as he had seen her before, wearing the tinted Harlequin glasses that made her look younger and less sophisticated than she was without them.

  Shayne took a deep, disbelieving drag on his cigarette and held his hand up to hide the lower portion of his face while she stood just inside the archway and her gaze moved around from one group to another in the room. It moved over him without recognition, he thought, though it was difficult to tell with those glasses on, and then she smiled and moved forward gracefully as Saul Henderson went hurriedly to greet her with outstretched hand.

  From his position across the room, Shayne could hear nothing they said as they stood together for a moment chatting like old friends. Then Henderson took her arm and led her toward the bar and Shayne wondered if she would ask for a stinger.

  What was Hilda Gleason doing here at Henderson’s party? It made absolutely no sense if you believed the story she had told him a few evenings ago. True, there was the inexplicable connection between Muriel Graham and her missing husband. Could she possibly have managed to identify Jane Smith as Henderson’s stepdaughter, and thus come here to try and find out something about her husband?

  Shayne didn’t see how she could have managed that. The girl had checked out of the hotel before Hilda came to him, and left for New York the next morning.

  He kept his hand up in front of his face, broodingly sucking on his cigarette while he watched Henderson get her a cocktail at the bar (a stinger, no less, if the liqueur in the squat bottle was creme de menthe as Shayne suspected) and lead her to a group nearby and start introducing her to other guests.

  At this point, Shayne found himself heartily inclined to disbelieve every word that had been said to him by both Jane Smith and Hilda Gleason. Since meeting Henderson in person he had been having more and more difficulty casting him in the role of a black-hearted seducer of his virginal stepdaughter while the mother lay dying in the adjoining bedroom. It wasn’t that he liked the man. He didn’t. He was irritated by his effusiveness and his surface charm, but he didn’t feel the really deep-rooted loathing for the man that he wanted to feel for one who had done what Jane Smith so feelingly and graphically described.

  And now Hilda walked in on the party calmly, and acted perfectly at home with her host whom she certainly had not mentioned to Shayne while imploring him to locate her husband, supposedly in Miami on some secret and dangerous errand of his own.

  He stayed in his chair removed from the others, watching Henderson take Hilda from group to group, getting the distinct impression that she was a stranger to the others and meeting all of them for the first time.

  When they finally turned toward his corner of the room, Shayne mashed his cigarette out and got to his feet, grimly studying Hilda’s face as she was led nearer by Henderson, striving to guess whether she was as surprised by his presence as he was by hers.

  Those damned glasses made it difficult. He had never before realized just how important a woman’s eyes were in helping a man judge her inner feelings. Certainly she dissembled well if she was surprised and disconcerted to see him.

  There was an interested smile on her full lips and the bluish blankness of her glasses to conceal what she really felt when Henderson said, “Mrs. Moran. It’s an honor to present Mr. Shayne. Michael Shayne. One of the most famous private detectives in the country, if you don’t already know.”

  “But, of course, I have heard of Michael Shayne.” She extended her hand and gripped his firmly, held it for an extra squeeze which he interpreted as a signal for him to pretend not to recognize her.

  Shayne said very formally, “I’m delighted to meet you. I was just sitting here waiting for you to show up.”

  “So?” She wrinkled her forehead charmingly. “How could that be?”

  “Very simple. You are an extremely beautiful woman without an escort, and my date has deserted me. Do you mind being the perfect host, Henderson, and leaving us alone to get better acquainted?”

  He reached for the arm that Henderson was clutching, and deliberately pulled her away and stepped aside so she could sit in the chair he had been occupying.

  Henderson was unable to conceal a flicker of irritation that crossed his face, and Shayne wondered if it went deeper than mere irritation, but his voice was bland as he bowed slightly and said, “I don’t blame you for one minute, Shayne, but I warn you that you’ll have to work fast. About five minutes is all I’m going to allow you. Then I have an important matter I want to discuss.”

  Shayne stood with his back to the room, facing the chair and Hilda as Henderson went away. She leaned back with her head against the cushion, looking up at him with parted lips and heaving breasts that showed inner tension.

  In a low, harsh voice, Shayne said, “Take your glasses off, Hilda.”

  The tip of her tongue came out to wet her lips. She reached up obediently and removed her Harlequin glasses. There was animal fright in her luminous brown eyes. “Why are you here, Michael Shayne?”

  “I was invited. Why are you here?”

  “I, too, was invited.” She lifted one hand appealingly toward him as he stood over her, blocking her off from the rest of the room. “Later, I will explain everything. Come to my room, yes? We cannot talk here.”

  “Why not?” He kept his voice low and harsh. “After the run-around you gave me the other night I think I deserve an explanation.”

  “It was no run-around as you call it, Michael. Please believe me it was not.”

  “Do you want me to believe it’s sheer coincidence that you turned up here today using another name?”

  “Perhaps as much coincidence as you being here,” she answered composedly. “Am I to believe that is true?”

  “I had my own reasons for coming.”

  “I, too, had my reasons. Have you… found any trace of Harry in the city?”

  “No. Have you?”

  Pain clouded her eyes as she moved her head slowly from side to side. “Nothing. But I am a stranger here and I do not know how to proceed.”

  “You don’t appear to be a complete stranger to Henderson.”

  “I have said I will explain that later.” She looked past him and sat up straight in her chair, taking a sip from her cocktail. In a fuller-bodied voice, she declared, “I think that would be most pleasant, Mr. Shayne. After the party is over, then?”

  Henderson’s voice intruded just behind Shayne. “Just the sort of thing I’ve always heard about you private eyes. Leave you alone for one minute with a beautiful woman and you end up with an
assignation.”

  Shayne said, “Do you mind?”

  “Of course I mind. But I don’t see what I can do about it. Now that you’ve got that settled, Shayne, would you mind stepping inside my office with me? I’ve a matter of extreme importance to discuss with you.”

  “You will excuse me?” Hilda was on her feet and moving away from them before Shayne could reply.

  Then he said flatly, “My office hours are nine to five. Make an appointment with Miss Hamilton.”

  “This is off the record, Shayne. I need professional advice.”

  “Do you invite your doctor to a party to get a free prescription from him?” Shayne’s face remained expressionless, but his voice was intentionally insolent.

  “See here, Shayne.” Henderson stopped and controlled himself with obvious effort. He smiled thinly and his voice became placating. “I understand, of course, and I’ll be happy to pay your fee for any professional advice you give me. What is your regular charge for a consultation?”

  Shayne drained his glass and said, “I think another sidecar will cover it.” He stood up and Henderson stepped aside, followed close behind him to the bar where the waiter smilingly emptied the contents of the shaker into Shayne’s outheld glass.

  Saul Henderson murmured, “This way, if you don’t mind,” and went to a closed door beyond the bar which he opened and held for the detective to walk past him.

  Beyond the door was a small den, efficiently equipped with a desk, portable typewriter on a wheeled stand, and filing cabinets.

  Shayne went in and set his cocktail glass on the desk. He got out a cigarette and lit it while his host closed the door and sat down in front of the desk with a deep sigh. Shayne looked down at him quizzically, then pulled up a straight chair and also sat down.

  “Let me say first, Mr. Shayne, that it’s like providence, having you here to talk to. I had a curious feeling that fate was taking a hand when your reporter friend called me out of the blue this morning. It came to me like a flash that you were exactly the man for me to confide in.”

  Shayne took a deep drag on his cigarette and waited.

  “I have to talk to someone. I don’t know why I didn’t think of you earlier. I did consider going to a private detective, but I hesitated because… well, the feeling one has about private detectives.”

  “What sort of feeling does one have about private detectives?”

  “I’m saying it badly. You’re not in that general category at all, of course. Now that I’ve met you socially I have no hesitancy to… to coin a phrase…” He laughed deprecatingly. “… to bare my soul to you. Everything about you bears out the impression I’ve got from reading newspaper accounts of your exploits.”

  Shayne said placidly, “I’m glad I passed inspection.” He drank half his sidecar and set the glass down. “Shall we skip the pleasantries and get down to business?”

  “It’s just that I… it’s so difficult to know where to begin.”

  “Try the beginning.”

  “Yes… well… I’m frightened, Mr. Shayne. In deathly fear for my life. Two attempts have been made to murder me in the last few days.” His voice quavered. “I need… protection.”

  “Go to the police. That’s their job.”

  “Naturally, I have been to the police. I reported each attempt on my life immediately. They made a cursory investigation of course, and then came up with the bright idea that they could have both been accidents. Wholly coincidental, of course, that the two attempts occurred within three days of each other.”

  “Could they have been accidents?”

  “Either one of them could, yes.”

  Shayne emptied his glass and twirled it about reflectively by its long stem. “Tell me about them.”

  “The first was last Monday. At dusk when I was driving home for dinner. I was just turning in my driveway when I heard the crack of a shot and a bullet embedded itself in the seat upholstery not more than an inch from my right shoulder.”

  “You didn’t see anyone?”

  “Naturally not. It was beginning dusk and I simply stepped on the gas and roared up the drive. I hurried inside and called the police to report it. A couple of stupid detectives came around eventually. They dug the bullet out and made some wild guesses about distance and muzzle velocity and so forth, and then said probably it was just some juvenile delinquent firing a rifle wildly into the air.”

  “And the second one?”

  “Yesterday afternoon. I had a Chriscraft twenty-footer in my boathouse which I often took out alone for a spin on a calm day. I thoroughly enjoy heading directly out to sea and being alone with the salt sea spray and the sun and the roar of a powerful motor in my ears. Yesterday afternoon I was at least four miles out when the motor exploded. There was a terrific roar and a blinding flash of flame and everything went up in pieces. The entire hull was torn apart and it sank in a matter of minutes. Luckily I escaped injury and was able to leap overboard into the water. I’m a very poor swimmer and could not possibly have remained afloat more than a few minutes, so whoever planned it had the expectation that if the explosion did not kill me I would almost surely drown.”

  “But you didn’t.”

  “But I didn’t. By an absolute miracle there was a fishing boat not more than five hundred yards away. The only craft within miles of me. They rescued me and brought me in safely.”

  “And the police think that was an accident too?”

  “They insist that it could have been easily enough. A spark from the engine igniting the gasoline tank. I explained it wasn’t that sort of explosion. That it was definitely a bomb of some sort. But I haven’t any proof. Just my own positive impression of what happened. And there’s no chance of recovering the boat to ever find out what caused it.”

  “But coupled with the bullet on Monday you’re convinced that someone is out to get you?”

  “Aren’t you?”

  Shayne shrugged his wide shoulders. “Not convinced. I certainly agree that the law of probabilities is being stretched pretty thin if we accept them both as coincidences. What does Petey Painter think?” he ended blandly.

  “Painter!” Saul Henderson spat out the word as though he had bitten into a worm. “I talked to him all right. Insisted that he see me when they tried to put me off with an inspector or something. Well, you know Peter Painter better than I do. Strutting little nincompoop. He sat in his office and smirked and gloated. He knows, of course, that he’s one of the first men on the Beach slated to go when the Reform Administration takes over after the next election. His department is riddled with graft, and people are sick and tired of the highhanded way he runs things. You know yourself that Miami Beach has become a haven for well-known crooks. They’re infiltrating our businesses, crowding decent citizens off the streets. Oh, Painter sees the handwriting on the wall all right. It was perfectly evident from my interview with him.”

  “And he knows you’re to be candidate for mayor on the ticket opposing the present administration?”

  “It isn’t definite yet. I haven’t been offered the nomination.”

  “But it’s generally known that you will be,” Shayne pressed him.

  “It’s fairly common knowledge, yes.” Henderson compressed his thin lips and frowned across the desk at the redhead. “I hesitate to accuse him of lack of diligence in investigating the attempts on my life for political reasons,” he said sonorously. “But I can’t help feeling that Peter Painter wouldn’t have been at all unhappy if either of them had succeeded. Nor do I believe he intends to stir himself one bit to prevent further attempts.

  “I demanded round-the-clock police protection,” he went on bitterly, “and he blandly refused. Had the audacity to sit there in his office and inform me that his men had more important duties to perform than the prevention of murder. I laughed in his face, Mr. Shayne, and asked him to please name those more important duties. Were they too busy collecting graft, I asked him. Or seeing to it that the gambling dens and whorehouses operate
d smoothly from dark to dawn without interference. We had quite a session,” he ended feelingly, “and that’s why I feel I need your help.”

  “I can see why you might,” Shayne agreed dryly. He leaned forward to mash out his cigarette butt, lifted his empty glass hopefully. “I seem to have run out of my consultation fee.”

  Henderson took the glass and got up with a wintry smile. “I’ll have to do something about that.”

  Shayne leaned back and watched him go out the door with bleak eyes. For the first time in his life, the redhead had a warmly fraternal feeling for Peter Painter. Even without benefit of Shayne’s private knowledge of Henderson’s real character, the cocky little detective chief was right on the ball this time. And this was one time Shayne had no intention of getting into the act on the opposite side from Painter. Help Henderson stay alive so he could be elected mayor of Miami Beach? God forbid!

  Nothing of this showed on Shayne’s face when his host re-entered with a brimming glass for him. Shayne accepted it with a grunt that might be construed as thanks, and took a careful sip while Henderson settled himself back into his chair.

  Then he asked abruptly, “Who’s gunning for you, Henderson?”

  He drew in a deep breath and held it for a long time. Then he expelled it unhappily and said, “So far as I know I haven’t an enemy in the world. That’s what makes all this so utterly fantastic. Throughout my entire life I’ve tried to be guided by the Golden Rule, and until day before yesterday I felt that I had succeeded. I’ve searched the innermost recesses of my soul and I just can’t come up with anything or anybody who might have a motive for harming me.”

  Shayne refrained from asking him how he thought Muriel Graham felt about his treatment of her. Instead, he said, “What about a profit motive? You’re a fairly wealthy man, I believe.”

  “I am, yes. But there’s nothing there. I have no relatives to inherit my own money, and my stepdaughter received half of her mother’s fortune which I hold in trust for her until she comes of age in a couple of years. No one would benefit financially by my death.”