The Homicidal Virgin

12

The bedside telephone awakened Shayne from deep and dreamless sleep. He reached out and fumbled for it in the darkness, got it to his ear, and said, “Hello,” into the mouthpiece.

Timothy Rourke’s voice said, “There’s been a killing at Henderson’s house, Mike.”

Shayne muttered, “So they got the bastard. Why bother me about it?”

“Not Henderson. He did the shooting.”

Shayne came fully awake and sat up in bed. “Shot who?”

“I don’t know any details. But I’m headed over there and thought you might like in on it.”

Shayne said, “I’ll see you there.” He tossed back the covers and turned on a light. It was 2:18 in the morning. He threw on clothes swiftly, and was out of the apartment in three minutes.

Twenty minutes later he slowed to make the turn into Henderson’s driveway. There were police cars in front of the house, and an ambulance with a spotlight bathing the front of the house in brilliant white light.

Shayne parked directly behind Rourke’s battered coupe and went up to a cluster of men about the body of a man crumpled on the porch just in front of the door. He lay on his back with sightless eyes staring up into the light. His low jaw was smashed by the bullet that had killed him. He was clean-shaven, with a hawklike face and a very high forehead. He wore a blue and white checkered sport shirt, buttoned at the throat with no tie, an almost new green suede jacket, and dark trousers that needed pressing. His black shoes were scuffed and had been resoled.

Timothy Rourke stood just inside the doorway, making notes on a wad of copy-paper with his ear cocked to overhear conversation inside the house while he gazed down at the dead man.

One of the Beach detectives officiously started to shove Shayne back, and Rourke looked up and said loudly, “You’re being paged inside, Shayne. Henderson was going to phone you until I told him you were already on your way.”

Shayne nodded and pushed past the detective, who gave way reluctantly. He stepped over the dead man onto the threshold and glanced past Rourke into the hallway where a patrolman stood outside the archway, and asked in a low voice, “What gives?”

“Painter is inside with Henderson. The press is excluded and they won’t talk loud enough for me to catch more than half what they’re saying. Get in there and pitch, Mike.”

The detective grinned briefly and went toward the uniformed man who moved to bar his entrance to the room. Shayne stopped in front of him where he could see Saul Henderson and Peter Painter standing face to face in the center of the room where the party had been held that evening. He didn’t look at the cop, but called out, “Did you want me, Henderson?”

He wore a maroon silk dressing gown and bedroom slippers, and his hair was disheveled. He jerked his head around and said gladly, “Indeed I do want you, Shayne. Come right in.”

The cop stepped out of his way and Shayne went through the archway, grinning at the Miami Beach Detective Chief who glared venomously back at him.

He said, “Congratulations, Chief. This is one time you got on the scene ahead of me.”

“And I don’t need you messing into this case, Shayne. You can have a talk with your client after I’ve finished questioning him about this homicide.”

Shayne started to say that Henderson wasn’t his client, but decided to let it ride. He lounged forward and said, “I’ll stick around until you’re through if you don’t mind.”

“Suppose I do mind?” Painter demanded aggressively. He was a small man with glistening black hair and a very thin, very black mustache, impeccably dressed and groomed even at this hour of the morning.

Shayne said, “I’ll stick around.” He sank into a deep chair and got out a cigarette. “Go right ahead and interrogate the suspect. That is, if Henderson is the suspect.”

“Suspect isn’t the word,” snapped Painter. “He admits shooting the man down on his doorstep.”

“In self-defense,” said Henderson quickly. “I told you that he snatched a gun from his pocket as soon as I opened the door.”

“I know you told me. Prove it.”

“The pistol was lying right there beside his hand. I don’t know how competent your fingerprint men are, but they must have found his prints on it.”

Painter didn’t admit or deny the fact. He said, “You admit you came to the door prepared to kill whoever was there.”

“I admit nothing of the sort,” said Henderson hotly. “A man has a right to defend his own home and person.”

“You went to that door with a loaded and cocked pistol in your hand,” said Painter waspishly. “You claim you had no idea who was ringing your doorbell at that time of night, yet you armed yourself before going to the door. That looks like premeditation to me.”

“I didn’t know who it was. I still don’t know. I never saw the man before in my life.”

“Most people don’t carry a cocked and loaded pistol with them to answer their own doorbell.”

“Most people haven’t had two attempts made on their lives in the past few days,” retorted Henderson.

“Oh, yes,” murmured Painter, delicately smoothing his mustache with a thumbnail. “We come back to that, of course. But I’m not at all convinced those were actual attempts on your life, you know. In fact, you could easily have engineered both of them yourself. There’s no proof you didn’t.”

“I think that dead man on my doorstep is sufficient proof. Isn’t it perfectly obvious even to an imbecile like you that he came here to make the third attempt after his first two had misfired?”

Peter Painter’s mobile features tightened with rage. “To an imbecile like me, Mr. Henderson, the nasty thought occurs that those two previous incidents could have been stage-managed just to set up this kill as it happened tonight.”

“My God,” groaned Henderson. “How devious can you get?”

“I’ve known some pretty devious murderers in the past. Isn’t that so, Shayne? Doesn’t this setup look phony to you?”

Shayne waved his cigarette lazily. “Sure. I’ll buy it. All you have to do is turn up a strong enough motive for Henderson wanting the man dead.”

“We’ll probably get that as soon as we identify him.”

“For God’s sake, Shayne,” protested Henderson wonderingly. “You can’t be serious about accepting Painter’s fantastic theory. The reason I wanted you to come here was to testify that you had pertinent information indicating that someone is definitely out to kill me.”

“You mean the letter you showed me this afternoon?”

“Exactly.”

“What’s that about a letter?” snapped Painter.

“An anonymous letter threatening my life,” said Henderson hastily with a warning look and a shake of his head at Shayne. “Mr. Shayne can testify that he read it this afternoon.”

“And you withheld it from the police? It’s a felony to withhold evidence in a homicide.”

“But it wasn’t a homicide this afternoon,” protested Henderson weakly. “It was just proof that those were real attempts on my life.”

“It’s homicide now,” said Painter stiffly. “Let’s have the letter. If the dead man wrote it, it may clear you of suspicion.”

“I… I destroyed it after showing it to Mr. Shayne.”

“You destroyed it, eh?” Painter rocked forward happily on his toes. “Why, may I ask?”

“Because… well, I just didn’t think it was important any more. Mr. Shayne did read it and he can swear to its existence.”

“Can you, Shayne?”

“I can. I’m not at all sure that I will.”

“What do you mean by that crack?”

“Just what I said.”

“I don’t like your attitude.” Painter strutted forward with his chin thrust out aggressively, both hands planted on his hips. “If you can throw any light on this affair, it’s your duty to do so.”

Shayne said pleasantly, “You know something, Petey?”

“I know a lot of things and don’t call me Petey.”

“The something I’m wondering about is this,” said Shayne equably. “How much is your attitude toward Henderson influenced by the fact that you know you’ll be out of a job if he’s elected mayor of Miami Beach next election?”

“In the first place I don’t know that’s so. In the second place I didn’t even know he was a candidate. In the third place I don’t give one good goddamn who or what anybody is when I’m investigating a homicide. Does that answer your question?”

“Then why are you badgering the guy? Stop me if I’m wrong, but the way I get it is this. Some character comes ringing his doorbell at two o’clock in the morning, and because he’s nervous and frightened, he arms himself before going to the door. Whereupon the man pulls a gun, and he’s lucky enough to shoot first. Is that the picture, Henderson?”

“That’s it exactly. I never saw the man before… haven’t the faintest idea who he is.”

“So why don’t you quit barking up that tree, Painter, and start finding out who wants Henderson dead… and why? If the dead man is just a hired hand, the chances are this won’t be the end of it.”

“Hired gunmen,” said Painter stiffly, “don’t generally go out on jobs with a twenty-two automatic.”

“That what he was carrying?”

Painter nodded. “Henderson, on the other hand, was equipped with a forty-five. Made it sort of unequal. Have you got a permit for that cannon?” he added abruptly, turning away from Shayne.

“Certainly. Issued by your own police department. Does the dead man have a permit for his gun?” he probed acidly.

Painter said, “We’re checking the serial number.” He rocked forward on his toes and then teetered back on his heels. “Right now, Henderson, I want to question the other members of the household.”

“There is no one else.”

“You telling me you don’t have any servants with a layout like this?” Painter looked about the room appraisingly.

“There’s a regular housekeeper and a maid, of course,” Henderson told him stiffly. “But neither of them sleep in.”

“So there’s no one except you who can say what went on here tonight?”

“I don’t concede that my word needs verification.”

“I know you’re a widower,” Shayne put in. “But isn’t there a grown daughter, Henderson?”

Henderson looked at him angrily for bringing the subject up, but said, “A stepdaughter. She’s out of town at present.”

“Where?” Shayne pressed him.

“In New York.”

“I think you should get her back here.”

“I don’t see why. She’s been gone for days and can’t possibly have any knowledge of this affair.”

Shayne shook his head sternly. “I’d be careful about the impression you give Painter. If he gets the idea you don’t want your stepdaughter brought back to testify, he’s likely to get official about it and insist that she return. And even though you do think Chief Painter is an imbecile, I wouldn’t underrate him if I were you. Once he gets an idea, he’s hell on wheels about carrying it through.”

Painter said, “I don’t need any testimonials from you, Shayne. What about your stepdaughter, Henderson? Why don’t you want her to come back?”

“I didn’t say I didn’t. I just don’t see any reason for it at this time.”

“Isn’t the fact that you’re under suspicion of murder reason enough to want your family around you?”

Henderson wet his lips and protested weakly. “You can’t be serious about that, Chief.”

“Suppose you let me decide whether I’m serious or not. You’ve been making a nuisance of yourself demanding police protection from some nebulous danger, though you’ve insisted all the time that you haven’t an enemy in the world.”

“Now wait a minute,” protested Henderson.

“You wait a minute and listen to me.” Painter was warming up now, and he strutted forward two paces, thrusting his pointed chin aggressively in Henderson’s face. “You’re building your whole defense for this killing tonight on the assumption that the dead man came here planning to murder you, yet you want us to believe that no one has a motive for wanting you dead. You can’t have it both ways, Henderson. The police may be stupid, but, by God, we’re not that stupid.”

“I didn’t mean to imply…”

“You may as well understand right now that I’m the one who’ll decide who’s to be questioned and who isn’t. Perhaps I won’t be chief of detectives after next election, but, by God, I am now, and I don’t let anybody tell me how to run my department. Now, this stepdaughter of yours who’s supposed to be in New York. Did you ship her out of the city just to avoid having her questioned?”

“What a preposterous ideal She’s been planning the trip for months.”

“I think I want to talk to her,” grated Painter. “Where can she be reached by telephone?”

“I have no idea.”

“Nonsense. You must have.”

“But I don’t. She’s visiting various friends and I don’t know where she is tonight.”

“Can’t you call some of the friends and find out?” put in Shayne, taking a sadistic pleasure in watching the householder squirm.

“Just what I was going to suggest. Either arrange to contact her at once or I’ll put a call through to New York to have her located and brought back here immediately.”

“On what grounds? I simply don’t understand…”

“There are a lot of things you don’t understand about police work, Henderson,” Painter told him witheringly. “On the grounds that she is an important witness in a homicide and is suspected of fleeing to avoid questioning.”

“But how can she be a witness to something that happened in Miami Beach tonight?”

“A killing that must have roots in your own life. You can’t expect me to believe that a complete stranger just wandered up here to your front door by the purest chance… armed with an automatic pistol which he drew the moment you opened the door. If this was the third attempt on your life, it’s self-evident that you do have an enemy who wants you dead. If you can’t throw any light on that, we’ll have to go to the people closest to you. Your stepdaughter is certainly the most logical person to question on that point.”

“Yes… I begin to see your logic,” Henderson admitted unhappily, not able to refrain from a baleful look at Shayne’s impassive face. “I’ll contact Muriel’s friends in New York, and ask her to return at once.”

“Do that. And if you don’t, I’ll show you that we’re not so stupid and insular here as you think. I want to talk to that girl.”

A detective came hesitantly through the archway and said, “If you got a minute, Chief…”

“I’m through here.” Painter faced Henderson again and told him, “I’m not arresting you… yet. But don’t try to leave town, and get your stepdaughter back here in the morning.” He turned and went away stiffly on hard heels, and Henderson turned to Shayne, mopping perspiration from his face.

“Why did you bring Muriel into this? It was entirely your doing. If you hadn’t mentioned her name, Painter would never have thought of questioning her.”

Shayne said, “Because I’d like to ask her some questions myself, and Painter has the facilities for locating her which I don’t. I didn’t one goddamn bit appreciate the way you tried to use me to pull your chestnuts out of the fire tonight,” he went on harshly.

“You’re not my client and I had no moral obligation to conceal the fact that the letter you showed me this afternoon positively named your stepdaughter as the instigator of the attempts against you. If that dead man on your doorstep was hired by her, she’s the one who’s really responsible for his death. Goddamn it, Henderson,” he went on angrily, “don’t you realize that every bit of dirty linen in a man’s life comes out in a homicide investigation? This thing may look cut and dried to you, but Painter is a stubborn cuss when he gets started and he won’t stop digging until he finds a motive. If your stepdaughter has a secret motive for hating you, you’d better spill it to me right now. I might be able to do something for her if I know the truth before Painter has a chance to dig it out.”

“But I swear as God is my judge that there’s nothing, Shayne. It’s not that I’m afraid to have her questioned, it’s just that the publicity will ruin me politically and socially if such rumors ever get out.”

Shayne said, “This is your last chance to come clean with me before I walk out of here and start doing some digging of my own.”

“But I have nothing more to tell you. I swear that as…”

“I know,” Shayne interrupted with a disgusted snort. “So you’ll have nothing to complain about when God does start judging you.” He turned and stalked out.