Murder and the Married Virgin

CHAPTER SEVEN

Lucy had on her cellophane raincoat and looked like a slim, lovely wraith with the hood covering her brown curls when Shayne rushed into the reception room of his suite. She took a step backward when she saw the hard-set lines of his jaws and the bleak look in his eyes. “What on earth has happened, Michael?” she cried.

“I hate a hypocrite,” he growled. “God in heaven how I hate a mealy-mouthed hypocrite.”

She ran to him and reached up to grasp his broad shoulders. “Who-what are you talking about?”

He looked over the pointed cellophane peak of her hood, his big hands hanging loosely against his body. “And more than that, I hate to be a sucker. But I am.” He laughed mirthlessly. “Just pile on the old hokum thick enough and I’ll fall for it. And all because I thought I knew what the real thing was.”

Lucy shook him with all the strength of her hands. “Don’t look like that,” she pleaded. “You-frighten me when you’re like this.”

Shayne looked down at her upturned face as though he realized for the first time that she was digging her fingers into his shoulders. He put one arm around her and patted her back. Some of the harshness went away from his face and he said quietly, “Don’t ever let me down, Lucy. You’re a good kid.”

She took her hands from his shoulders and stepped back. “Why, of course I won’t,” she said. “Now tell me what’s wrong.”

“You won’t like it,” he warned her. “I’m a heel, Lucy. I come in here and prey on your sympathy.” He got out a cigarette and lit it, dragged smoke deep into his lungs and let two thin streams roil through his nostrils.

Lucy said, “I don’t think you’re a heel.” She slid out of her gossamer raincoat, turning her back as she laid it on the railing.

“Are you busy tonight?” Shayne asked.

She turned, putting her hands behind her to grip the railing. “No,” she said, looking up at him expectantly.

Shayne’s preoccupied gaze swept over her neat gray suit of clinging wool and the white collar of her blouse frilling around her throat. “How do you manage to look as fresh when you’re leaving as you do in the mornings?” he asked.

Lucy chuckled. “Why, Detective Shayne-didn’t you know? I use Ivorlux for my complexion-and things.” Her tone was light and there was laughter in her eyes, but it went away before the brooding intensity of his face.

“That’s swell,” he said. “You could go right to dinner, couldn’t you-without changing?”

“If it isn’t too formal,” she said eagerly. “Where are we going?”

“Take a cab to the Dragoon Hotel,” he instructed, “and call Lieutenant Drinkley in four-twelve. Express my regrets-tell him something came up suddenly that’ll keep me busy on the case. Explain that we planned to make it a threesome, but I can’t make it.”

“What are you talking about,” she exclaimed. “He wouldn’t want to take me to dinner. He’d consider it a sacrilege-”

“Take him to some quiet place like Madame Martin’s where the drinks are good and the lights aren’t too bright,” Shayne went on, his voice tense and a scowl between his eyes. “Turn on your charm and see what happens. Lead him on a little, if you get what I mean.” He paused to look at her as if he saw her for the first time since he started talking. “This,” he ended harshly, “is a business assignment.”

“But-Michael,” she breathed, “you don’t think he was just pretending this morning! He seemed so heartbroken. He was heartbroken,” she amended defiantly. “I could tell. I’ll bet he won’t go to dinner with me.”

Shayne said grimly, “Don’t worry. He’ll jump at the chance.”

“I don’t believe it,” she said passionately. “I don’t know what’s happened, but you’re wrong-if you really want a woman’s viewpoint. You see, he told me about Katrin when he was waiting for you this morning.”

Shayne nodded gloomily. “I know. He put on a good act.”

“It wasn’t an act. You can’t make me believe it. You’re so darned cynical sometimes I’d like to-to kick you.” She was still clutching the low railing behind her and her chin jutted defiantly.

Shayne said, “I deserve to be kicked for swallowing every cock-and-bull story that’s handed me. Go along and see for yourself. But don’t get too damned maudlin with pity,” he added as he turned toward his inner office. “I want an objective report on what happens.”

“That’s just what you’ll get,” she retorted as he disappeared and slammed the door behind him.

Shayne poured a drink, set it on the desk and called the Orange Cab Company. He explained what he wanted, gave the number of the cab that had taken the girl from the Dragoon Hotel, and was told, “We’ll have the driver call you as soon as he calls in, Mr. Shayne.”

He hung up and took a drink of cognac, relaxed in his chair and stared somberly at the wall. He wasn’t getting anywhere. A whole day shot and he wasn’t any closer to collecting a fee than he’d been that morning. He had stopped feeling sorry for Lieutenant Drinkley, but that was about all he had accomplished. He frowned and tried to switch his thoughts away from the young officer.

There was a loud knock on the outer door of the office. Shayne waited for Lucy to answer it. The knock came again, louder and more insistent. He suddenly realized that Lucy had gone to keep her engagement with Lieutenant Drinkley, and yelled, “Come in.”

The door opened. Shayne called out, “Come on in here,” and listened while hesitant footsteps came nearer.

The door opened and a husky young man came in holding a cabbie’s cap in his hand. He said, “Mr. Shayne?”

“Who are you?”

“Bud Stanley from the Orange Taxi Company. I had a call from the office sayin’ you wanted to see me.”

“Yeh. About a fare you picked up about a half an hour ago at the Dragoon. Remember?”

“Sure thing. A dame-and plenty classy.”

“Where’d you take her?”

“Armentiers Apartments on Chartres-just beyond Bienville.” The driver twisted his cap around his finger, then asked awkwardly, “What’s this for, boss? Police?”

“Hell, no. Private stuff. Your office told you I was all right, didn’t they?”

“Sure. I’ve heard about you, Mr. Shayne, but look-I don’t wanta get mixed up in nothin’. You know what I mean.”

Shayne said impatiently, “You’ll just help me cut a corner if you’ve got anything. Know anything else about the girl? Her name-which apartment?”

“It ain’t much, but I’ve seen that dame before.”

Shayne reached in his pocket and brought out a handful of coins and selected three half-dollars. He stacked them on the desk and asked. “Where?”

“She hangs out at the Laurel Club,” Stanley told him. “Makes a pick-up once in a while, maybe.”

“A hustler?” Shayne asked with interest.

“N-o-o. Not that way, I don’t think. But I drove her once when she was pretty tight. Quite a while ago,” he amended.

Shayne pulled the silver pieces back. Putting them in his pocket he said, “That’s worth a five-spot,” and took out his wallet.

“Thanks.” Bud reached out a grimy hand for the bill.

“Was she alone when you drove her-when she was tight?” Shayne held the bill in his hand.

“No, sir. She had a soldier with her.”

Shayne tossed the bill across the table. The cabbie took it and went out.

Shayne finished his drink, tugging absently at his ear lobe. A pattern was beginning to emerge-if he could only see it clearly. The Laurel Club figured in it somehow. There were too many signposts.

He called headquarters and asked for Chief McCracken and was informed that the chief had gone home. He called the chief’s house and got him there.

“What do you know about the Laurel Club, Mac?” he asked.

“Off the record?” McCracken chuckled.

“Sure.”

“It’s on Chartres between St. Louis and Toulouse. Dan Trueman runs it and there’s never any trouble. He keeps his shows clean enough to avoid the vice squad, and if there’s any gambling in the back room we’ve never had a squawk to base a raid on.”

Shayne said, “Fair enough,” and added reflectively, “Dan Trueman?”

“He’s after your time,” McCracken told him. “No record, and he’s built the club up from a shoestring to a nice take. That’s all I can give you, Mike. Still hunting for emeralds?”

Shayne grunted. “And no luck. Thanks, Mac.” He hung up and ran his hand over a bristly growth of red whiskers. He got up and turned off the lights in both offices at a switch in the reception room.

It was a short drive down to St. Charles and up to Carondelet where he had a three-room walk-up apartment in an old two-story residence that had been remodeled and modernized. He parked his car at the curb and went up the path and wooden steps to the veranda. Stairs led directly up from the double entrance doors, and the pleasant smell of highly seasoned food pervaded the house as he climbed them at a brisk pace.

He entered a high-ceilinged corner room with freshly papered walls and a new rug on the floor. An antique chandelier gave light from a dozen small bulbs when he flipped the switch.

It was unpleasantly warm in the apartment and he opened a double window before going into the bedroom where he took off his coat and tie.

He picked up the evening paper which had been pushed under his door and settled himself comfortably, glanced over the headlines, then carefully read the newspaper account of the death of Katrin Moe and the theft of the Lomax necklace.

There was nothing new in the newspaper account. Katrin’s death was treated as suicide, though the motive was an admitted mystery. A sob writer had got hold of the wedding-day angle and played it up heavily, with pictures of Lieutenant Drinkley and his bride-to-be. Nowhere in the story was there any suggestion that there might be a connection between the girl’s death and the loss of the necklace; and Mrs. Lomax’s negligence in leaving the necklace out of the safe was glossed over.

Shayne studied the newspaper picture of Katrin Moe, wondering whether it had been taken recently. Her face was round and full-cheeked with a firm, pointed chin. Her eyes were big and solemn, and there was no hint of a smile in her expression. Her hair was plaited in two braids and coiled around her head. Soft curls of short-cut hair or new growth made a halo around her face.

He folded the newspaper and sailed it across the room, went into the bedroom, stripping off his shirt as he went. He shaved and took a tepid shower, then dressed swiftly and carefully. He selected a pin-striped suit of dark blue that made him look younger, and a solid blue shirt with a lighter blue tie slashed across with bars of white. A gray topcoat and a snap-brim felt of a lighter shade finished the transformation from the man who’d ridden down in the elevator at the Dragoon Hotel that afternoon into a person whom he hoped Lieutenant Drinkley’s visitor wouldn’t recognize.

When he went outside a high wind was rapidly dispersing the clouds. He hesitated for a moment beside his car, then swung off briskly to Canal and down to Chartres and the French Quarter. He stopped under a canopied entrance where three steps led down from the sidewalk and a neon sign above read, The Laurel Club.

Inside a small foyer there was a red neon arrow pointing left and blue light above it flowed through the words Cocktail Lounge.

He checked his hat and topcoat and went into a large room softly lighted by concealed fluorescent tubes around the low ceiling. A bar ran the length of the room at one end, accommodated by leather-upholstered stools and a rail. Horseshoe seats hugged the tables set against the other three walls. Strolling past the booths, he glanced into the few that were occupied. He went on to the bar and studied the faces reflected in the mirror. None of the faces were familiar.

Shayne cut across to a center booth from which he could see both the main entrance and a door at the rear of the cocktail lounge. A waiter was coming toward him when he saw her come in. She had changed to a silvery green evening gown that clung to her slender figure and left bare her firm-fleshed shoulders and arms.

The girl who had visited Lieutenant Drinkley’s hotel room stopped and looked around at the booths, then went slowly to the bar.

When the waiter approached Shayne to take his order, Shayne asked, “Can I get quicker service at the bar?”

“Yes, sir. It’s a little early for the booths to be filled and all the waiters haven’t come on yet.”

Shayne said, “Okay,” and went to the bar. He sat down beside the girl with the tawny hair and ordered cognac.

Shayne was watching the girl’s reflection while he spoke. She gave him a swift, low-lidded glance, fumbled in a glittering evening bag and brought out a cigarette case. She snapped the case open. It was empty. Shayne took out his pack and shook one out.

The girl said, “Thanks,” and dug into her bag for a match.

Shayne took a cigarette for himself, struck a match to both, and said, “Those little bags aren’t good for much, are they?”

She looked levelly at him as she lit her cigarette. She chuckled and said, “I never seem to have anything but the habit, anyway.”

The bartender set a sidecar before Shayne. He said, “Make it two,” lifting one bushy red brow to query the girl.

She nodded and asked, “How come you’re on the loose?”

“I’m new in town.” He appraised her with a frank, steady gaze and added, “A girl like you shouldn’t be here alone-accepting drinks from a strange man.”

“I work here,” she told him, and turned to pick up the sidecar the waiter set on the bar.

Shayne lifted his glass and touched hers. He said, “So that’s it. Well, here’s to bigger and better percentages.” He shoved a five-dollar bill toward the bartender. “Let me know when that’s used up.”

“You seem to know all the answers,” she said, and there was a fleeting return of the sullenness around her mouth that he had noticed in the elevator.

“I’ve been around,” he told her, then asked abruptly, “What’s your name?”

“Lana Moore.” She turned to him as she spoke and added, “You’ll only give me a phony if I ask yours, so I’ll call you Red.”

“Make it Mike.” He shoved the two empty glasses aside and held up two fingers when he caught the bartender’s eye.

She laughed and said, “Five dollars’ worth of these ought to fix things up between us, Red. You see, I kind of go for red hair. But you’ll be thinking it’s a line,” she ended seriously, as the bartender set two sidecars before them.

“It’s a good one if it is.” He drained his glass, pushed it aside and folded his arms on the bar. “What’s your racket? Tell me about it.”

She sipped reflectively, said, “I get a percentage here and at other places. If I can entice you back to the gambling room I get a rakeoff on your losses.” She laughed deep in her throat.

Except for her first low-lidded glance, the girl gave no indication that she recognized him as the man who had ridden down in the elevator with her at the Dragoon Hotel.

After they had drunk four sidecars Shayne suggested, “Let’s find something to eat.”

“There’s a nice dining-room here,” she told him, “with a fair floor show. But it isn’t the hottest one in the Quarter.”

Lana Moore eased herself from the stool, tucked her arm in his and they went out and through the corridor into the dining-room. The head waiter met them with a deferential bow and seated them at a table for two near the velvet rope separating a small stage from the diners. The large room was less than half filled, but the first floor show was already in progress. The acts were risque without being indecent, and Shayne was beginning to understand why Dan Trueman never had any trouble with the law.

When a waiter brought the menus Shayne laid his aside and said, “You know the joint, Lana. Order for both of us.”

“I’d love to,” she answered with a pleased smile. “We’ll start with a Sazerac cocktail,” she went on, looking up at the waiter, “shrimp salad with Arnaud’s dressing and oysters Rockefeller.”

Shayne made a wry face. “That’s not much food for a hungry man.”

She laughed delightedly. “You evidently haven’t eaten oysters Rockefeller. We’ll have a Petit Brule and coffee later.”

“I’ll trust your judgment,” he said. “Now tell me what the hell are you doing in this racket.”

The waiter was coming with the cocktails. When he went away she took a long drink from her glass, set it down and looked across the table at Shayne. Her tawny eyes were cold and her mouth sullen again. “It’s a good racket,” she said huskily. “I make enough money and I get back at men.”

Shayne tasted the Sazerac and puckered his mouth in distaste. “Somebody has ruined good bourbon and vermouth and absinthe by mixing them,” he complained. “So you’re getting back at men?” He raised one brow quizzically.

Lana’s laugh was mirthless. She was getting drunk and her voice was thick and halting when she said, “Once upon a time I sowed one teeny little oat-on a plain in Montana. It was a tame little oat, Red-not the least bit wild, but it came a cropper. I went through hell-you know, little mid-west town, ashamed to go home to my parents-”

Shayne grunted. “And I’d pick you for a smart one.”

“I was smart,” she blazed. “I’m still smart. I’d had two years at the University before-it happened. I was just nineteen,” she ended, and finished her cocktail.

The waiter brought their dinner, and they sat in moody silence while he arranged it on the table. He asked, “Will there be something else, madam?”

“Petit Brule with our coffee,” Lana ordered, and he went away.

The moody silence continued as they ate. Lana sobered a little, and when the last oyster was gone from her plate she said, “Brain food, Red. I should have eaten before I talked. Maybe I would have lied instead of telling the truth.”

“I usually sift out the truth in the long run,” he told her.

She shrugged her bare shoulders. Her eyes were troubled and she leaned toward him with both elbows on the table, her chin resting on her clasped fingers. “I wouldn’t have lied to you, Red,” she said softly. “You know how it is sometimes. I find a man I can really go for.”

“Meaning me?” Shayne grinned. “Your eyes are green.”

“Meaning you,” she drawled. “They’re yellow-cat eyes, Red. It’s the green-dress influence.” She smiled.

“It’s a nice influence. Let’s get started.” Shayne pushed his chair back.

“Not yet.” She reached across the narrow table and laid her hand on his. “We have to perform the rites over a Petit Brule first.”

A third tray arrived and the waiter set dishes containing cups made from half an orange peeling before them, a small flask of brandy, a decorative container filled with cinnamon and two pots of coffee.

Shayne said, “Just leave the check, and that’ll be all.”

Lana poured brandy into the orange cups, dropped two lumps of sugar in each and sprinkled cinnamon over the brandy. She struck a match to each and a blue flame glowed. “Isn’t it beautiful,” she breathed, her full lips smiling.

“Looks pretty,” Shayne agreed, “but I don’t like my liquor messed up that way.”

She laughed and blew the flames out, waited a moment, then began drinking with relish. Shayne took one sip from his orange cup and set it aside. “Here-you can have mine,” he said, and poured a cup of coffee.

“I’ll have to take you in hand, Red,” Lana said, “and teach you the wonders of the French Quarter.”

“Let’s start with the game room,” he suggested.

Lana finished both the drinks, drank half a cup of coffee, and got up. Shayne paid the bill and she slipped her hand into the crook of his arm, pressed it hard, and led him to the rear of the dining-room and on a circuitous route not easily discovered by the uninitiated, to the gaming room.

A tall man with wide shoulders bulging his dinner coat smiled and said, “Good evening, Miss Moore.”

The room evidenced the same discreet good taste which characterized the rest of the Laurel Club. There was a crap table and a roulette wheel, three green baize card tables and a 4-5-6 game was in progress at the table nearest the door. All the games were getting a fair play from a quiet and well-mannered group of men and a few women.

Lana stopped Shayne by squeezing his arm and holding him back just inside the door. “You don’t have to play heavy,” she said in a low, husky voice. “Just enough to keep me in right.”

Shayne grinned at her upturned face.

“If I’ve got money to throw away, why not throw it at you instead of the wolves? Is that it, Lana?”

She shrugged and smiled. “Figure it out any way you want to.”

He said, “By God, Lana, you’re a wonder,” and meant it. “Let’s try our luck at four-five-six.”

He drew her to the table and changed a fifty-dollar bill into chips, divided them into two piles and pushed one toward her. Lana pressed close to him and moved the chips back into one pile. “I never gamble that way, darling,” she whispered.

A fat man had the bank. A couple of hundred dollars in chips were stacked in front of him and he was perspiring freely. Shayne took ten of it and watched while the rest of the chips were covered. The fat man threw a pair of fives and a trey, then passed the three dice to the first player on his left who had faded part of the money.

Shayne was next in line. His first throw was a natural: a 4-5-6 which brought the dice and the bank to him after the play was ended. He added another hundred to the sixty and said to Lana, “I have been hot in this game a couple of times.”

When the dice came to him he rattled them in the cup while the houseman called the size of the bank and checked the bets against him. When he was completely faded, Shayne rolled the dice against the backboard and crapped out with a pair and an ace,

Shayne grimaced at Lana and got two more hundreds from his wallet. He rattled the dice gently while the other players covered his money, then bounced them out again. He got a five for his point, and passed the dice on.

By the time the dice returned to him, his bank had increased to three hundred and twenty dollars. He waited impassively until it was all faded, then rolled a six with a pair of deuces-a natural.

As he watched the chips come in he heard a smooth and softly modulated voice say to Lana “Good evening, Miss Moore. Is everything all right?”

The voice was so distinctive that Shayne instantly recognized it as the one that had offered to sell him the emerald necklace over the telephone. He turned his head enough to see the speaker as Lana replied, “Everything is fine, Mr. Trueman.”

The proprietor of the Laurel Club was a tall, spare man with sharp features and elongated eyes that drooped slightly at the outer corners. Shayne judged him to be in his early forties, and he looked more like a successful lawyer than a gambler. He nodded pleasantly to Lana and passed on to another table.

With six hundred and forty dollars in front of him, Shayne got only a little more than four hundred of it faded. He watched Dan Trueman’s spare frame going out of the room through a side door as he rolled the dice. They stopped on a straight 4-5-6.

He waited until his winnings were gathered in, then calmly handed the dice to the player on his left, announcing, “The bank passes.” He paid no attention to the low murmurs of protest around the table, turned his back and waited while the houseman cashed in his chips for bills. There was slightly more than eleven hundred dollars in the roll he received.

He grinned down into Lana’s flushed face and said, “This isn’t going to make you very popular with your boss.”

She laughed with more animation than she had shown all evening. “I won’t worry about that. You’re wonderful, Red. First man I ever saw quit a winner.”

Shayne glanced around the room and muttered, “Wait for me in the cocktail lounge-and order a couple of drinks. We’ve got some celebrating to do.”

She squeezed his arm and said, “I’ll like that.”

“Which way-?”

“Right through that side door. Men to the left,” she anticipated him with an amused smile, and they separated.