The Homicidal Virgin

I?”

“Not quite. If you hadn’t underlined ‘anything’ that second time…”

“But it seemed to me that if I didn’t, there wasn’t much point in the whole thing,” she pointed out defensively. “And I did so hope the right sort of man would see it and be intrigued.”

“Someone like me?”

“I… think so. That’s what we’re here to find out, isn’t it? When your reply did come, I just felt as though God had planned it that way. Instead of having to sift through dozens of answers, there was only yours. And it sounded, well… mature and serious.”

There was a knock on her door. She uncurled her legs and got up to admit a bellboy with a tray. He set the tray on a coffee table in front of the sofa and offered her a check and a pencil to sign it with.

Shayne got up lazily from his chair while she signed Jane Smith in round, schoolgirlish script, got a dollar from his wallet and dropped it on top of the signed slip when she put it down.

The boy thanked them both and went out, and she told Shayne defensively, “You didn’t have to pay the tip. I fully intended…”

Shayne grinned and waved a big hand. “That’s cheap for a double cognac.”

He dipped ice cubes into a water glass and turned to the two closed doors. “Which is the bathroom?”

“On your left.”

He went through a door into a bathroom as antiseptically neat and uncluttered as the living room, ran water on top of the ice and returned. She was curled up on the sofa again with a tall glass of yellowish liquid and ice cubes out of which she was sucking from two straws.

Shayne got his double cognac from the tray and carried it with the glass of ice water to his chair. He sank back and took a meditative sip, and then asked bluntly, “What’s all the cloak and dagger stuff about, Jane? Supposing the price is right… exactly what do you want from me?”

She said firmly, “I think I should know a great deal more about you before I go into that.” She hesitated, then asked timidly, “Are you a professional gunsel?”

Shayne grinned. “You’ve been reading imitators of Dashiell Hammett. They completely misinterpreted that word.”

“Well then, a hood? A… a trigger-man? Because you don’t act or sound like one,” she went on with painful honesty. “Or at least the way I always thought one would be.”

Shayne took a sip of his drink. “Disappointed?”

“No. I’m delighted that you’re so personable and… well, literate. It makes it a lot easier to talk to you. But… what do you do for a living?”

“Anything to pick up a fast buck. I’ve killed a few men, Jane, if that’s what you’re getting at. Rubbed them out, in the vernacular. I exist on the edge of the law,” he went on, choosing his words carefully, “and haven’t a great respect for the way justice is administered in this country.”

“The clerk at your hotel intimated that you are a gambler.”

“Not a professional. But I do like to eat… and drink good cognac.” He lifted his glass in a salute and drank from it.

“Tell me about your girl at the newspaper office. Are you in love with her?”

“We’ve got a thing about each other. How does she come into this?”

“She doesn’t, of course. Except to help me understand what motivates you. If you are in love with a nice girl you’re most likely to understand my problem and sympathize with me. And if you need a lot of money in a hurry to enable you to get married and change your way of life, that would be an important incentive, I should think.”

By her speech, her choice of words, Shayne thought, she exhibited the damnedest mixture of naivete and sophistication he had ever encountered. Her language had a quaintly bookish tinge, as though she had acquired her knowledge of words from reading rather than from the actual give-and-take of conversation with other human beings. All-in-all, Jane Smith intrigued hell out of him at this point, and he was comfortably pleased that she had turned out to be this one instead of either of the other two possibilities he had considered in the Crystal Room.

He said, “I came here to listen to a proposition, Jane. I’ve got a gun and it’s for hire… if the job appeals to me and the price is right.”

She said impulsively, “You’re absolutely wonderful, Mike Wayne. I don’t suppose that’s your real name, is it?”

“No.”

“I didn’t suppose it was… any more than Jane Smith is mine. If you knew how worried I’ve been… the sort of uncouth hoodlum I thought might answer my advertisement. But when I read your reply I thought you couldn’t be so terribly horrible. And you’re not at all. I’m not even embarrassed sitting here talking to you this way,” she ended wonderingly.

Keeping his face impassive, Shayne said, “I’m delighted that you find me couth enough for your purpose. But I still don’t know what that purpose is.”

“Are you enjoying your drink? Shall I order you another?”

“I’m enjoying it very much and I’m not trying to push you too fast, Jane. I can stay here all night if necessary.” He stretched out his long legs and lit another cigarette.

She laughed nervously. “That won’t be necessary. What would you tell your girl-friend?”

“A good, convincing lie.” Leaning back relaxed in his chair, Shayne’s gaze brooded on her face. “How old are you, Jane?”

“Nineteen.”

“At least, that’s past the age of consent in Florida.”

She blushed and averted her face from his, gave her entire attention to sucking lemonade from her glass.

“And I don’t believe this sort of hotel would ask any prying questions,” Shayne went on as though he were considering the matter seriously. “Haven’t you often found it’s easier to talk to a man in the dark while he’s lying in bed beside you than any other time?”

“Please don’t talk that way.” Anger burst from her lips. “Not even jokingly. You’re not a lecherous old man. Are you?”

“All men are lecherous to a certain extent. I suppose I even seem old to nineteen.”

“But you don’t! You’re just nice to talk to. Please don’t spoil it.”

“I won’t.” He made his voice very gentle. “Relax, child. I was just trying to find out something about you in my own inimitable way.”

“Did you?” she asked in a small voice.

“I think so.” Shayne took another sip of cognac and made his voice briskly businesslike again. “Take your own time about getting it off your chest.”

“Would you like to make fifty thousand dollars?”

“Sure. Who wouldn’t?”

“But… is that enough to… to induce you to kill a man?”

“Who do you want killed, Jane?”

“My stepfather.”