Murder & the Married Virgin (3 page)

“Yeh.” Shayne’s eyes were morose. “A missing necklace worth a hundred and fifty grand—and a dead girl.” He flung his cigarette to the floor and ground it out with the toe of a big shoe.

“And here’s something else for you to chew on, Shayne,” Quinlan told him, a sardonic smile twitching his mouth. “Katrin Moe had a plain gold wedding ring in her handbag and it had been worn. It fitted the third finger of her left hand.”

Shayne shot a startled look of surprise at the inspector. He started to say something, but instead he came to his feet and went toward the door. Turning his head he asked, “Has Doc Mattson got her?”

“Over at the lab. You want a note or something?”

“Thanks. I don’t need it with Doc. If you get anything else let me know.”

“I won’t forget you. I’m glad you’re working on it, Shayne. Looks like another one that may call for your special brand of rabbits out of a hat.”

Shayne’s jaw was set, deepening the hollows in his cheeks, as he stalked into the police laboratory.

Doctor Mattson chuckled. “Look who’s come howling.” A stout little man with a round head as bare as a billiard ball, he wore a Vandyke and thick-lensed glasses through which he peered at the world with a sort of puckish glee. He was attired in a white surgeon’s gown and smelled of formaldehyde.

“Quinlan said you were doing a P.M. on the suicide case,” Shayne told him as he advanced toward a straight chair filled with old magazines.

“She’s a lovely girl,” Doctor Mattson said, waving his soft, well-kept hands enthusiastically. “Why can’t I ever meet one like that while she’s still warm? They all come to me in the end—the port of dead desire. Sit down, Michael. Got a drink on you?”

Shayne tilted the chair and let the magazines fall to the floor, toed it around to face the police surgeon and sat down. He grinned broadly but there was no mirth in the grin. He said, “You stay sober till you finish with Katrin Moe. Then I’ll fix you up. Still lean toward bourbon?”

“Anything with an alcoholic content, Michael.” He shook his head. His eyes, which were like two black peas behind the thick lenses, were sad. “It was different when I used to have live patients and tried to save them.”

“What about her?” Shayne said impatiently.

“Katrin Moe,” he murmured, rolling the name over his fat, pouched lips. “She died with a smile on her young mouth, Michael. Put this down—a slim, unsullied body, clean-limbed and full-breasted. Like a young sapling in the spring when the sap begins to run.” He smacked his lips and sat down on a corner of the scarred oak desk.

“Wait a minute,” Shayne said hastily. “This is a medical report, not a flight into poetic fancy. Is unsullied a figure of speech? Or a fact?”

“A fact, Michael. She has never been touched by man.”

“How much farther have you gone?”

“Not much.”

“I wish you’d hurry up with the rest of it.”

“What’s the need of a post-mortem?” Doctor Matt-son demanded. “It’s a desecration to carve up that body. The girl committed suicide, didn’t she?”

“That’s what I want you to tell me.”

The doctor squinted at him for a long moment, then said:

“What are you looking for?”

“Positive evidence that she died as a direct result of breathing gas. If that evidence isn’t present, some slow-acting poison, I’d say.”

“That won’t take long,” Mattson told him cheerfully. “But you can put it down without a post-mortem that she didn’t mind dying. She welcomed death. She greeted it with outflung arms and a smile. A girl like that!” He waggled his bald head again, and his eyes were sad.

“Today was to have been her wedding day,” Shayne told him gravely.

“All I can give you is the direct cause of death. I can dissect a brain but I can’t read the thoughts that precede death.”

“I’ll work on that end,” said Shayne, “after you’ve assured me it was suicide. That’s the one thing I’ve got to have.”

“There’s a simple test to determine whether or not death was caused by the inhalation of gas fumes. Whether it was self-administered is beyond my province.”

“Sure,” Shayne said impatiently. “The physical setup takes care of that. She was inside a locked room all night with the gas grate turned on. If she wasn’t drugged and was in full possession of all her faculties, she wouldn’t have turned on the gas and gone to bed with any expectation of getting up on her wedding day. And I don’t think she would have welcomed death with a smile and outflung arms,” he ended harshly. He got up and paced the length of the small office, stopped to ask, “How long, Doc?”

“Couple of hours.”

Shayne tugged his hat brim lower on his forehead, said, “I’ll call you or drop in—and there’s a bottle of Ancient Age waiting for you,” and went out.

A HEAVY DRIZZLE OF RAIN swirled with a chilling wind as Shayne turned in the driveway of the Lomax residence on Mirabeau Avenue and drove between double rows of clipped hibiscus hedge to the front of the imposing three-storied house with dormer windows set in the gabled roof. A more recent construction than the plantation dwellings in the suburban section, the house had been designed to conform with the traditional style of the nineteenth century, with embrasured French windows and round wooden columns rising majestically to support the wide, second-floor gallery with its ornamental iron railing of intricate design.

Shayne parked near the stone steps leading up to the veranda and got out. There was an ancient iron knocker on the heavy double doors, but an electric button had been installed in the framework on the right. He pressed the button and waited, hugging his coat close against the wet chill of New Orleans in December.

The left-hand door opened about a foot and a rosy-cheeked, round-eyed maid peered out at him. She said, “Yes, sir?”

“Is Mr. Nathan Lomax in?”

The maid was hesitant and an expression of mingled terror and awe was in her dark eyes as she held the door firmly and regarded the towering figure before her.

“I’m from the insurance company—about the necklace,” Shayne said gently.

“Yes—sir. I guess he’s in,” she stammered. “I’ll go ask him.”

She started to close the door. Shayne grinned and gave it a shove and followed her into a wide hallway covered from wall to wall with lush mauve carpeting and running the length of the house to other double doors at the rear. A wide stairway of polished mahogany curved upward to a landing and doubled back to the second floor.

“If you’ll wait here, I’ll tell Mr. Lomax,” the girl said.

Shayne waited until she was a few steps away, then followed her. He stopped to hang his coat and hat on the hall rack and continued toward the sliding double doors through which the girl disappeared. He met her as she re-entered the hall, and she said, “It’s all right, sir. Mr. Lomax said you was to come in.”

He entered a spacious library, the high ceilings paneled with wide boards riven from the hearts of cypress logs. The inner wall was lined with bookshelves, and deep chairs with accommodating end tables were informally arranged around a long table in the center.

A thin man of average height arose from one of two fireside chairs near a cheery gas log set in an ornate fireplace at the farther end of the room. He had the appearance of a man who had died in his late forties and had, by some miracle, been reanimated without the restoration of organic function. A fringe of white hair decorated his bony scalp from ear to ear. His sharp jaw and long nose gave him a dish-mouthed look, and his lips were bloodless. His eyes were a mild, murky blue beneath bristling white brows, and he wore a velvet jacket over a vest and white shirt.

Nathan Lomax’s step was agile as he advanced to meet Shayne. He said in a deep, resonant voice, “So you’re from the insurance company.”

“Shayne,” the detective said. “I’ve been retained to recover the emerald necklace.” He grasped his host’s extended hand. The flesh was soft and lifeless, but his grip was firm and strong.

“I see,” said Lomax, and urged Shayne toward the fireplace. “Warm yourself, Mr. Shayne, and if you’d like a drink—”

“Too near lunch. Thanks.” Shayne’s nostrils flared in an unconscious sniff for the smell of gas. He turned his back to the fire and spread out his hands to its warmth. There was no odor of gas in the room, only a pleasant warmth and fresh, washed air which was apparently forced through the units of a modern air-conditioning plant.

Mr. Lomax stood directly in front of him and said without preamble, “I’ve been expecting someone from your office. I realize that my wife’s negligence puts me in an odd position to press a claim. I wish you’d tell me frankly how your company feels about the matter.”

Shayne’s rugged features gave no hint of his surprise. This was the first time he had ever had a client bring up that touchy subject. He fished a cigarette from his breast pocket and lit it before saying, “I don’t believe there’s going to be any trouble on that score. It’s up to our legal department, of course, but Mutual Indemnity has a reputation for paying off the face of a policy promptly in a case like this.”

Mr. Lomax looked relieved. He said, “I hope there won’t be any difficulty. It’s really my wife’s claim, as you probably know. And you know how women are about business matters.” He gestured with a white and purple-veined hand toward one of the fireside chairs.

Shayne sat down.

Lomax seated himself in the other chair. “Mrs. Lomax,” he continued, “can’t perceive that her negligence enters into the matter at all.” His murky blue eyes were harassed as he looked levelly at Shayne.

“We’ll cross that bridge if we come to it,” Shayne assured him. “Frankly, we’re not worried about the claim. We intend to recover the necklace.”

“Indeed? That’s splendid. You have a clue, I presume.”

“Lots of them.” Shayne grinned wryly. “At the moment I’m following up the suicide of your maid this morning.”

“You think that she—that Katrin could have taken it? Oh, no, Mr. Shayne. I’m certain that Katrin is—was wholly innocent.”

“Why did she commit suicide?”

There was a long silence. Mr. Lomax sighed deeply into the silence.

Presently he said, “I’m afraid we’ll never know. I presume you are acquainted with the—ah—tragic facts surrounding her death.”

“Her engagement to the young lieutenant?” Shayne asked sharply.

“Yes. A very sad case. I don’t understand it. I don’t understand it at all, Mr. Shayne.” He interlaced his fingers and the veins throbbed like long purple worms in the milky whiteness of his hands.

“That’s just it,” Shayne said. “It doesn’t make sense. I want to look over the death room, and I want to talk to everyone who knew her.”

“Certainly.” His host arose with stiff dignity and preceded Shayne briskly through the door leading into the hallway and up the curving stairway to a hall architecturally similar on the second floor. Here the feminine touch was evidenced in carpeting of dull rose blending with pastel walls and mirror panels that reflected Shayne’s long body and grim, angular face as his host led the way to a less pretentious stairway to the gabled third story.

The hall was small, and the door straight ahead was closed as was the one to the left. The right-hand door sagged open and the upper pine panel had been shattered. Mr. Lomax turned to it, explaining, “Neal, our chauffeur, smashed the panel when no one could get an answer from Katrin this morning. I reached through the opening myself and turned the key in the lock to open the door.”

Shayne stood on the threshold studying every detail of the small, clean bedroom. There was one gabled window overgrown with ivy. A single iron bedstead painted white stood in one corner, and near the foot of the bed was a hot air inlet. The floor was spotless around a square rug bright with color, and crisp curtains were looped back from the window. A highboy stood against one wall, its empty drawers carelessly pulled out. A small, doorless closet was empty, the cretonne curtain drawn aside and flung over the extension rod on which it hung. A hatbox and two new suitcases lay open on the floor, and feminine garments lay in little heaps around them. On Shayne’s left, set in a small recess of the wall, was a gas grate. An out-of-date dressing-table with triple mirrors held a few toilet articles which had evidently been left unpacked for use on Katrin’s wedding morning. A straight chair covered with chintz of a delicate pattern had a ruffled skirt that touched the floor all around, reminding Shayne of a demure little old lady, and completed the furnishings in the room.

Shayne drew in deep breaths of air faintly tinged with the odor of gas. The sweet, cloying odor of death. He said, “It’s odd—I didn’t catch any smell of gas coming up the stairs. I should think it would have filled the house when you opened the door.”

“A certain amount did escape into the rest of the house,” Mr. Lomax said, “but it was carried off by the air-conditioner. The plant is very efficient, carrying the stale air out of the house entirely and bringing in fresh air that is washed by the humidifier before it goes into the furnace.”

“I see,” said Shayne absently, “but it didn’t clear the room of the gas from the grate fast enough.”

“The police think she must have turned it on immediately after retiring, though they believe that her death did not occur until early this morning.” Mr. Lomax wandered idly around the room as he spoke.

From his position on the threshold, Shayne said, “If you have a furnace and the house is air-conditioned, why do you have these gas grates?”

“They were installed when the house was built—before the new plant was installed. They are still used on chilly spring and early fall mornings and evenings.”

Shayne moved into the room and looked around with a baffled expression. “I suppose the police searched thoroughly for a death message.”

“They went over everything—and found nothing.” Mr. Lomax sighed and compressed his white lips. “I believe they were searching for the necklace also, though I assured them that a girl like Katrin could not possibly have stolen it.”

“Is there any chance that a note could have been picked up before the police got here?”

“None at all,” his host said firmly. “Neal and I entered the room together, as I’ve told you. As soon as we opened the door and smelled the gas and saw Katrin lying there, we knew what had happened. Neal ran in and turned off the grate. We stood out in the hall for a while until the fumes were less stifling. I had the housekeeper phone the doctor and the police. Neal and I were on guard until they arrived, and I was right here when they searched the room. There was no written message of any kind. Quite naturally, that was the first thing we all looked for.”

Shayne crossed over and made a cursory examination of the ivy-thatched window. It was solid in the casement, and not a leaf of the vine had been disturbed. He looked up at the ceiling of plywood nailed snugly against the rafters.

He asked abruptly, “Did she have everything packed—except the toilet articles on the dresser?”

“Everything—except one outfit. I tell you, I can’t understand it, Mr. Shayne. There is every evidence that she planned to carry out her wedding plans today. Something that probably none of us can ever guess must have happened.”

“Perhaps,” Shayne said harshly. He was staring at the bed trying to picture a young girl lying there in her nightgown with a smile on her lips and her arms outflung to welcome the insidious death flowing soundlessly from a gas grate which must have been opened by her own hands.

He shook his head emphatically, stalked over to the grate and turned on the gas. There was a hissing sound. He tried turning it low, but the slightest turn gave out the same hissing sound. He snapped the jet off and asked, “Was Miss Moe deaf?”

“Not in the slightest degree. She was very alert,” Mr. Lomax told him.

Shayne’s eyes were bleak. “And you didn’t notice anything peculiar about her last night,” Shayne persisted. “None of you had any intimation that she planned to take her own life?”

“None of us, Mr. Shayne. While Katrin was very reserved, she was quite happy in her own quiet way. It was all arranged that she would come back to us after their honeymoon until we could get someone to replace her. She retired earlier than usual last night. Said she wanted to get a good night’s sleep so she could meet her fiancé at the station.”

“One thing more, “ Shayne said. “When was the theft of the necklace actually discovered? Before or after Katrin’s body was found?”

“At about the same time, I believe. My wife and I were having coffee in our upstairs sitting-room when Mrs. Brown, the housekeeper, came in to say that she was worried about Katrin. It was past time for her to get up, and Mrs. Brown could get no response by knocking on her locked door.”

“Wait a minute,” Shayne said hastily, “did Miss Moe always lock her door at night?”

“Always, I believe.” Mr. Lomax smiled. “I’ve heard Rose—that’s the other maid—teasing her about it.”

Shayne nodded. “Go on. Mrs. Brown was worried—”

“I asked her to call Neal, and I came up to Katrin’s room.”

“Were you worried?” Shayne asked sharply.

“No—I don’t believe so. At first I thought she had risen early and slipped out to meet her lieutenant. But her locked door argued against that. According to Mrs. Brown, Katrin never locked her door except when she was inside.”

“And you knocked?”

“I knocked and I called to her. Then I realized that there was a smell of gas close to her door. Neal came hurrying up just then and I asked him to see if he could break the door down. It took him only a moment to break through the panel. I’ve told you the rest.”

“And the necklace?” Shayne prompted him.

“There was a lot of excitement,” Lomax said. “When I came out of the room I heard my wife screaming that her necklace was gone. I thought she meant from the safe, of course, never dreaming she’d left it out so carelessly. I believe,” he added grimly, “that she had forgotten it until that moment when I hurried up to Katrin’s room to see if the girl was there. It was almost as though my wife was immediately struck with the absurd idea that Katrin had stolen her necklace and disappeared, and she went to look for her jewel case when I came upstairs.”

“Did Mrs. Lomax distrust Katrin?”

“Not at all,” Nathan Lomax said hastily, then qualified his statement immediately. “Not that I know of. There was a reason for my wife connecting the two incidents, however. Several times she has given the necklace to Katrin to bring to me—to be locked in the safe.”

Shayne listened attentively, punishing his ear lobe between thumb and forefinger. He said, “I see,” and sauntered over to the trash basket beside the dresser. “I suppose the cops looked through this for discarded death notes—some she might have torn up after writings”

“I’m positive they did,” said Lomax.

Shayne got down on his knees, turned the basket over and dumped the contents on the floor. There wasn’t much; the crumpled wrapper of a candy bar and a wadded piece of brown wrapping paper. He pawed over them, picked out a short strip of grayish paper and studied it. The slip was about four inches long and less than an inch wide, about the width of the outer margin of a newspaper and of the same quality.