Murder & the Married Virgin (9 page)

“Yeh. I know what you mean.” His tone was gruff.

They went out and up the three steps to the sidewalk. Shayne waved to a taxi driver who pulled up to the curb between two no-parking signs and they got in. Lana gave her address and they drove away.

In the middle of the first block Lana squirmed around, put her palms on Shayne’s cheeks and placed her moist lips against Shayne’s mouth. Her body went limp against him. He put his arm around her and held her tight.

“You can’t leave me now, Red,” she said in a throaty voice.

When Lana quit kissing him he relaxed and angled his long legs out to a comfortable position. They rode the short distance in silence. Lana cuddled against him, and in the dark tonneau of the car Shayne worried the lobe of his left ear with his thumb and forefinger, his bushy brows bridging a deep scowl between them.

The driver stopped in front of a four-story apartment house.

Lana roused and said, “Well, here we are, Red,” gaily.

Shayne freed his arm from her waist and ducked out the door when the driver opened it. He took Lana’s hand and held it while she gathered her long coat around her and stepped out.

“Look, it’s late—and I—” Shayne began.

“You can’t leave me now,” Lana said again. She pressed his fingers hard.

Shayne’s free hand brought out coins from his pocket. He paid the driver, and at the front door of the apartment building he hesitated.

Lana faced him and said mockingly, “So it’s late and you have to do what?”

“Nothing—nothing at all.” He grinned and they went inside.

“Then, let’s get drunk,” she suggested.

“Suits,” said Shayne, “if you can work it. I don’t get drunk easy.”

They went up in a self-service elevator to the fourth floor and down a green-carpeted hall. Lana fumbled in her evening bag all the way and had the key in her hand as they reached the door.

The living-room of her apartment spread out to the left and right of the door, and straight ahead was an alcove into a hallway. On the left an open door disclosed a bedroom. She took his hat and topcoat and draped them on a chair, then went across to a large combination radio-phonograph. With her back turned to him she said, “I’ll get some soft music,” and turned the dials until the music came.

Shayne watched her back with narrowed eyes. She picked up something from the top of the cabinet and thrust it under her coat.

Lana turned around and started hurriedly into the bedroom, smiling at him over her shoulder. “I’ll just be a minute.”

Shayne got in front of her before she could go through the doorway. “Let me see what you’ve got hidden under your coat.”

She recoiled from him, biting at her full underlip. “What are you talking about?”

“What you just picked up from the top of the cabinet and slipped under your coat.” He held out a big hand and waited grimly.

She said, “All right. If you’re going to be fussy about it,” and laughed shakily. She handed him a small framed photograph of Lieutenant Drinkley in a sergeant’s uniform. An inscription on the right-hand side read:
To my darling Lana.

“I—just didn’t want you to see it and be jealous,” she said quickly. “It doesn’t mean anything now, but some men are funny that way.”

Shayne handed the picture back to her, folded his arms and said, “Let’s quit stalling. You know that I know all about your lieutenant.”

“What makes you think—
what
lieutenant?”

“Don’t be naive,” Shayne snapped, “it doesn’t suit you. Lieutenant Drinkley. Hell,” he went on angrily, “you begged to be picked up there in the Laurel Club when you recognized my voice after hearing it through Drinkley’s bathroom door.”

Her eyes were cold and very yellow. Her shoulders stiffened and her husky voice was calm when she said, “Of course I knew it was you, Mike Shayne.”

“What did Drinkley tell you about me this afternoon?”

“Not much. He said you were a detective. He didn’t want you to find out about—us.”

Shayne scowled and stepped aside to let her go into the bedroom. He said, “Go ahead and mix those drinks. Then we’ll have a cozy chat.”

Lana went into the bedroom and put her coat and bag on the bed. She came back after a short time with heightened color on her cheeks and lips, and went through the hallway to the kitchen.

Shayne went over to look at a tape recorder. There was a stack of tapes, several of which had been used but were not labeled or dated. He was staring somberly at the small framed photograph of Drinkley when Lana returned with a tray of drinks.

She said, “Come on, Red. We were going to get drunk. Remember?” She set the tray on a low glass-topped table between two chairs arranged to face each other.

Shayne sat down and took a drink from one of the glasses. He asked, “How long have you known Lieutenant Drinkley?”

“For about a year. That is, I first met him about a year ago. What’s he
worried
about, Red? Suppose that silly girl did commit suicide? I don’t think he really loved her.”

“Did he love you?”

“He did—a year ago.”

“Before he met Katrin Moe?”

“Yes.” Lana met his gaze levelly. Her eyes were green again, now that she had removed the black coat.

“And you think he still loves you?”

“I think he will again.” Her voice had a vicious sound. “With Katrin out of the way—”

“So you wanted her out of the way,” Shayne said softly. “You’re nuts about him, aren’t you?”

“That’s a hell of a question to ask,” she blazed, “after the way I’ve carried on with you tonight.” She softened her tone and added, “We were going to celebrate, Red—get drunk.”

Shayne made an impatient gesture. “You admitted you were just leading me on—to find out how much I knew about Drinkley.”

“It started out that way.” Lana lowered her eyes and she sounded honest. She took a long drink and continued, “I wondered what was up this afternoon when Ted made me hide in the bathroom and then rushed me out as soon as you left. But you got under my skin.” She emptied her glass and reached for his hand, pushing the table aside with her foot.

Shayne felt a cold draft of air on the back of his neck. He was leaning forward looking intently into Lana’s tawny eyes. He asked gravely, “Did you murder Katrin Moe?”

She gasped, “Murder?” and her fingers tightened convulsively on his. “I thought she killed herself.”

“A lot of people think so. But Lieutenant Drinkley knows it wasn’t suicide. That’s why he’s worried, Lana. This love affair with you provides a motive—”

Shayne sensed rather than heard movement behind him He turned in time to see a man’s arm descending toward his head.

Lana screamed and lurched toward him, burying her head hard against his stomach as the blow struck the side of his head just above the right ear.

He doubled forward over her and then fell sideways on the floor.

A BAR OF SUNLIGHT lay athwart Shayne’s face when he opened his eyes. He was lying on the floor, his lids and lashes crusted with dried blood. He turned his head slightly and was aware of soggy, matted blood on the rug beneath it. He looked at the tape recorder and saw that the stack of tapes was gone.

Pain closed his eyes involuntarily. He wasn’t sure he could get up if he tried, and began slowly flexing his muscles, beginning with his fingers and toes. When he opened his eyes again he managed to move his head out of the matted blood and away from the glaring streak of light coming through the window. The chair in which he had been sitting last night was overturned, as was the table. The entire room was in disorder, and Shayne tried hard to remember whether he had fought the intruder who had slugged him.

Pain throbbed in his head when he jerked himself to a sitting position and forced his eyes to stay open.

Then he saw Lana lying just inside the bedroom door. Her feet and legs were bare and a blue silk nightgown was twisted around her body from the knees up.

From where he sat, she looked dead.

He tried to get up but sank back when his head reeled and the room grew black. He inched himself toward the girl and felt her legs. They were warm. The nightgown partially covered her face and he pulled it away. The smell of stale liquor rose to his nostrils from her regular breathing. He muttered, “Drunk, by God, and passed out.”

Lana gave no sign of consciousness when he spoke. Shayne dragged himself to his feet and caught the foot of the bed, hung on until the dizziness passed. The room was cold. He looked around to see the rear door in the bedroom open. Staggering to the door he discovered a stairway leading down to the alley from the tiny balcony outside.

His assailant must have come in that way.

He came unsteadily back to the bed, took a blanket from it and spread it over Lana. His eyes were bleak and his mouth set in grim lines as he stood looking down at her for a moment, then he went out to find the bathroom.

He found it a few steps down the hallway, on the right. A door on the left, he realized, opened into the bedroom.

Turning on the cold water tap, he let it run a while and examined his head in the mirror. There was a big lump above his right ear. He stripped off his shirt and stuck his head in the basin of cold water, carefully fingering the hair around the lump until the dried blood was gone. He drained the water out and filled the basin again, found a washrag and scrubbed the stains from his face.

The throbbing pain subsided to a steady aching. He combed his hair as best he could, put on his shirt and went to the kitchen. There was a quart bottle of gin overturned on the sink and a fifth of brandy was uncorked. He held it up to the light and saw that it was half full, tilted it to his lips and took a long drink.

Back in the living-room Shayne stood for a moment creasing his brow in deep thought and scowling at the tape recorder.

Abruptly he strode to the bedroom and began quietly opening the drawers of a high chest. He didn’t know what he was looking for, but knew he would recognize it if he found it. In the wide bottom drawer he found several purses. The third one he searched yielded a folded telegram tucked behind a tiny mirror in its container.

The message was from Miami, Florida, dated the preceding Monday. It read:
Letter received. Will see you Wednesday night.
It was signed
Ted.

Stuffing the telegram in his pocket he went out, got his coat and hat, and left the apartment. As the elevator took him down he remembered the guns he had taken from Trueman’s punks the night before, and knew before he felt in his pockets that they were gone.

Outside, the air was cold and bracing. He decided against putting his hat on after trying for a comfortable position. He swung away with long strides, and twenty minutes later he was climbing the stairway to his apartment on Carondelet.

A man was waiting for him at the top of the stairs; a florid man with a good-natured face and sleepy eyes.

Intercepting him, the man asked, “Are you Shayne?”

“That’s right.” Shayne put his key in the lock and opened the door.

“Sorry bud, you’re wanted at headquarters.”

Shayne turned slowly and the man flashed a city detective’s badge.

“Is this a pinch?” Shayne growled.

“Make it easy on yourself. It’ll be one if that’s the way you want it.”

“What’s up?”

“Damned if I know. My name’s Greetin. I’ve been waiting for you to come home since four o’clock. Inspector Quinlan wants you.”

Shayne considered for a moment, then nodded. “I’ll go along. I’ve had a tough night.” He tenderly touched the lump on his head.

Greetin grinned. “It must’ve been. No hard feelings, you understand.”

“Hell, no. You’ve got a job.” Shayne stepped inside and the city detective followed him.

“I’ve heard about you,” Greetin told him. “I been wondering how’s it for a private eye. Big money?”

“Better stay on a regular payroll,” Shayne advised. “How about a cup of coffee before we go?”

Greetin looked uncertain and somewhat uneasy. He said, “Well—don’t mind if I do,” and went with Shayne to the kitchen. He sat down on the only chair and studied the redhead curiously while the coffee brewed.

When it was ready to pour Shayne took down a bottle of brandy and asked, “How about a coffee royal?” He poured his mug a third full of brandy and filled it with hot coffee.

Greetin sniffed the aroma and said, “Don’t care if I do, but make it light.”

They took the mugs to the living-room and sat down. Shayne asked, “You’re sure you don’t know what’s up at headquarters?”

Greetin relaxed after a noisy swig of coffee royal. “Not a damned thing. Say, this coffee is all right. I hear you drink a lot when you’re on a case.”

Shayne grinned. “A snort of brandy puts me in touch with the cosmic forces.”

Greetin looked puzzled. “What you mean by that?” Shayne hid another grin of amusement behind the rim of his mug. “It’s this way. When things get to happening fast you have to give the subconscious time to put things it already knows together—figure them out—so you can tie it all in with what happens next.” Greetin nodded slightly, his eyes still puzzled. “I don’t get it. You’re not going to try to pull a fast one on me? I’ve heard about that, too.”

“Hell, no. We’d better get going. I want to know what’s cooking.”

“Yeh. We’d better.” Greetin finished his coffee. “Quinlan’s liable to send somebody to check on me.”

Shayne swung into his top coat, carefully arranged his hat at a cocky angle to keep pressure from the lump on his head, and they went out to his car.

Inspector Quinlan was alone in his office twiddling a fountain pen and there was impatience in his cold blue eyes. He looked up at Greetin and said, “It took you long enough,” when they walked in.

“This bird just got home,” Greetin told him. “He’ll tell you himself.”

Shayne said, “That’s right, Inspector.”

“Better beat it, then, and get some sleep, Greetin,” the inspector snapped.

Shayne sat down across the desk and lit a cigarette. “How official is this?” he asked.

“Homicide,” Quinlan said curtly. “You can talk it over with me alone, or you can have a transcript made for the record. Or you can refuse to answer questions without the advice of counsel.”