The Homicidal Virgin (12 page)

“Probably. And if she is responsible for your husband’s death I promise you that she’ll pay for it. But you can help by not mentioning her to Painter.”

She said, “I will do what you say.”

Shayne went out and she followed him, turning off the light and locking the door. Downstairs, they got in Shayne’s car and he drove to Flagler where he found an empty cab and put her in it. He pressed her hand tightly and said, “I’ll see you later, Hilda. Right now I’ve got a lot of things to do.”

He stood and watched the cab pull away, and felt sorry as hell for the self-contained woman whose ten years of married happiness had ended so tragically. Then he drove to his hotel, where he had promised to meet Timothy Rourke.

The gangling reporter had had a key to Shayne’s second-floor suite for many years, and Shayne found him there when he arrived, comfortably ensconced in a deep chair with the dregs of a highball in his right hand.

“Any further developments?” Shayne asked as he strode in.

“Nothing new. I filed my story with only a passing mention of the stepdaughter in New York. I’m waiting for the low-down on her.”

Shayne passed him to pour a couple of ounces of cognac into a glass. Without bothering to get a chaser, he returned to his own chair and sank into it with a sigh. “I’ll be glad to spill it, Tim. Maybe talking out loud will clarify things in my own mind. Your Jane Smith of the newspaper ad was Muriel Graham, of course. She told me so that night when she explained why she was offering fifty grand to get him bumped off.”

“And why was she?” Rourke’s deep-set eyes were bright with eager curiosity.

Shayne told him. Starting from the beginning, he repeated the girl’s hysterical story in her own words as well as he could remember them.

He was striding up and down the room, running knobby fingers through his coarse red hair when he finished. “That’s why I refused to tell you the full truth that night, Tim. Damn it, I was sorry as hell for the kid, yet for Christ’s sake, I couldn’t help her with her crazy plan.”

“That brings us to when you shoved me down the stairs. Was your late visitor Jane Smith as you hoped?”

“No. Another woman entirely. Remember me describing the other two women in the Crystal Room who I thought might be Jane? One of them wore Harlequin glasses and had a faintly foreign accent and came to my table just as Jane came in.”

“Harlequin glasses?” Rourke did a fast double-take. “Tinted blue?”

Shayne dropped back into his chair and nodded. “The woman who arrived late at Henderson’s party yesterday afternoon, and whom I cornered briefly. Hilda Gleason is her name. She had a story of her own to tell.”

He briefly repeated the story Hilda had told him that first evening. “So you can see why I wasn’t too surprised to see her pop up at Henderson’s, but didn’t understand how she had got there. There was that past connection between the man’s stepdaughter and her husband.”

“What past connection?” asked Rourke, puzzled.

“I just told you. About the phone call from Denton, Illinois. And Hilda going down to the saloon to watch her husband meet the girl and go off for a conference with her. That girl who met Gleason in Illinois was Muriel Graham… who called herself Jane Smith in the advertisement.”

“Yeh. I got that angle straight now. So, how did this Hilda Gleason manage to pop up at Henderson’s cocktail party?”

“By going to Henderson’s office the preceding day under an assumed name, and representing herself to be a lone widow who needed advice on her investments. She’s attractive enough so it wasn’t difficult for her to wangle an invitation from him. I just left her a few minutes ago,” he went on wearily. “And this time she told me the truth.” He filled the reporter in briefly on Hilda’s amended story. “So I just put her in a cab headed for the Beach morgue to see if the dead man is Harry Gleason.”

Timothy Rourke was sitting upright, scribbling notes furiously, his lean features avidly intent. “Will she be there yet?”

Shayne glanced at his watch. “Better give her another ten minutes.”

Rourke stopped scribbling and settled back with a frown. “This is one hell of a mixed-up mess. How did Muriel Graham and Gleason manage to make contact in Illinois a month ago? Here you’ve got two people who evidently hate the same man for different reasons, but how did they get to know each other?”

“Muriel is the only one who can tell us that now. Do you happen to know whether Henderson succeeded in contacting her?”

“Yeh,” Rourke said absently. “Our man phoned in from the Beach just before I left the office. Muriel Graham is due in on a jet flight at seven-ten this morning.”

“Good. I’ll damned well be at the airport to meet her.”

“Along with Painter and his boys.”

Shayne said, “I’m not so sure of that. Petey is more likely to be catching up on his beauty sleep. After all, he doesn’t know any of this background stuff on her.”

“He will if Mrs. Gleason identifies her husband and tells her story.”

“She promised me she’d keep Muriel out of it until I had a chance to check further.”

“What bothers hell out of me,” muttered Rourke, “is why Muriel was still trying to hire somebody to do the job on Henderson just a few days ago, if she had already hired Gleason a month ago.”

“We don’t know for sure that she did.”

“Then why did he pop up at Henderson’s house early this morning with a gun in his pocket?”

“Maybe he turned down her proposition that night in Algonquin, but kept on brooding about Henderson and finally decided to take a crack at the guy on his own.”

“Wouldn’t he have informed Muriel of his intention so he could collect the pay-off when he succeeded?” objected Rourke.

“She’s the only one who can answer any of these questions.” Shayne looked at his watch again. “You got a leg-man at Beach Headquarters?”

“Yeh, Jimmy Powell. Think he’ll have the identification by this time?”

“Try him.”

Shayne poured himself another very short drink of cognac while Rourke got the
News
reporter on the Beach covering the police beat.

“Jimmy? Tim Rourke. I got a tip the Henderson corpse might be identified.”

“We just got it. A bartender named Harry Gleason from some town in Illinois. His wife positively identified him and Painter is getting a statement from her right now. I’ll phone it in for the first edition.”

Rourke said, “Do that, Jimmy,” and hung up. He nodded to Shayne. “She identified him all right, and she’s giving her story to Painter.”

Shayne muttered, “Let’s hope she’ll keep it the way I told her to.”

“You can’t hold out much longer,” Rourke warned him.

“I know. But damn it, Tim! If there’s any way in the world to do so I want to avoid tossing Muriel to Painter and you boys. A story like that will hang over her head the rest of her life. Even her fiancé who seems a nice enough kid, probably won’t be able to stomach the whole truth.”

“If she is responsible for Gleason’s death, you won’t be able to keep it hidden.”

“I know that as well as you do.” Shayne tossed off his drink savagely. “That’s why I’ve got a lot of things to do before her plane lands at seven.”

“Such as what?”

“Such as: Who
is
Saul Henderson? According to Mrs. Gleason, that isn’t his name. What’s the connection between Gleason and him, going back to the period before she and Gleason were married. Get your paper to work on Henderson’s background, Tim. Contact the News Services in New York and have them start some discreet digging. Get us some ammunition before seven o’clock.”

“I’ll try,” Rourke said doubtfully. “It’s pretty early in the morning to get any real action out of New York.” He yawned and got up. “What will you be doing?”

Shayne said, “I don’t know.”

“Sitting on your dead butt while I dig up information for you?” suggested Rourke good-humoredly.

Shayne said, “It’s your story you’re going after. Hell, I don’t even have a client or a retainer.”

“You meeting the seven-ten plane?” asked Rourke casually as he strolled toward the door.

“Let’s meet at the airport about six-forty-five to see if you’ve got anything. The coffee shop.”

Rourke said, “Fine,” and went out with a farewell wave of his hand.

Shayne paced the floor for a time after the reporter left, considering and discarding various plans for getting background information on Gleason and Henderson in a hurry. As Rourke had pointed out, it was an awkward hour to get anything definite done—and it was even an hour earlier in Illinois than in Miami. However, Shayne didn’t know how busy he would be later in the day, and he decided he might as well get a couple of angles started.

He consulted his old address book from the center drawer of the sitting-room table, and found a Chicago number which he called.

He sat and listened while the phone rang at least a dozen times in the Midwestern city, and he grinned happily when a surly and sleepy voice finally replied.

“That you, Bitsy?”

“Yeh. Who’s that sounding so happy to wake a guy up?”

“Gee, I’m sorry about that,” said Shayne with elaborate concern. “When I knew you, pal, you’d just about be ready for bed at this hour.”

“Then it was a hell of a lot of years ago,” yawned Bitsy Baker in Chicago. “Who is this?”

“Mike Shayne.”

“Mike…
Shayne?
I’ll be damned. You in town, Mike?”

“Nope. Miami.”

“What’s up?” The voice was suddenly wide-awake and businesslike.

“You free to take on a little job?”

“Soon as it gets daylight out here.”

“Write this down, Bitsy. Algonquin, Illinois. Know where it is?”

“Sure. Out in the country a little way.”

“Get out there by the time the farmers start waking up. There’s a Harry Gleason just been killed here tonight. Lived in Algonquin ten years. Bartender in some bar. Get every damned thing you can on Harry Gleason and his wife, Hilda, a native of the town. What I want mostly is background on Gleason. As far back as you can get. He may have had a different name in the past. Check the cops, newspapers and friends… you know.”

“Sure, I know.”

“Also, these last two months, Bitsy. Any strangers been in town to see him. Any talk he’s done around the bar about a trip to Miami or prospects for picking up some quick dough. Get whatever you can and call me collect at my office.” Shayne gave him the number. “Say, ten o’clock this morning, your time. I’ll know by then whether I want you to do any more.”

“Sure, Mike. How’re things otherwise?”

Shayne said, “Dull.”

“Same here. Ten o’clock. By.”

Shayne said, “Good-by, Bitsy,” and hung up. He took another small drink and paced the floor a short time longer, and then called the Henderson number on Miami Beach.

Mr. Henderson’s voice answered promptly, indicating that the financier hadn’t been any more able to sleep than Shayne had.

The detective slurred his voice into a slangy southern drawl: “That there Mister Henderson?”

“This is Henderson, yes. Who’s calling?”

“This here’s a frien’ uh Harry’s, pal.”

There was a long pause and Shayne wondered if the man would hang up. He didn’t. He asked uncertainly, “Harry who?”

“Harry Gleason, thass who.” Shayne chuckled evilly. “You didn’ reckon it was all ended nice an’ clean an’ sweet just from you knockin’ Harry off, did yuh?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you are talking about.” Henderson was breathing hard and the words sounded as though he almost strangled over them.

“I reckon you kin guess. I’ll be seein’ yuh.” Shayne hung up and wiped beads of sweat from his forehead. He fervently hoped that Henderson was sweating too.

He looked at his watch and went into the kitchenette to put water on the stove to boil, and measured coffee into a dripolator. When it boiled, he poured it into the top and went into the bathroom to shave, then stripped off his clothes and took a fast shower.

Twenty minutes after making his call to Henderson, dressed in fresh clothes and with a mug of hot black coffee at his elbow, Shayne called the Beach number again.

Again Henderson’s voice answered as if he had been sitting waiting for the instrument to ring.

“Mike Shayne, Henderson. I suppose you know your victim has been identified.”

“Yes, I… a reporter called me half an hour ago. Some man from the Midwest, I understand. But under the circumstances, Shayne, I hardly think the word ‘victim’ is the correct designation for him.”

“Let’s let it ride until we have a better one,” Shayne suggested blithely. “A man named Harry Gleason, eh?”

“So they say.” Henderson sounded very unhappy about it.

“What do you think of the story his wife told the police?”

“I was given only the gist of it. I have no comment. I never heard of the man before. But, Shayne…” his voice suddenly became imploring, “… now that you’re on the line… I wonder… I need to talk to you,” he ended desperately. “I just had another very peculiar telephone call and I’ve been wondering what to do. I would like to engage your professional services,” he added formally.

Shayne said wolfishly, “I don’t know whether they’re for hire to you or not. But I’m willing to discuss it with you.”

“Right away? Could you come over?” Henderson sounded pathetically eager.

Shayne said, “I can be there in half an hour,” and hung up. He finished his coffee with satisfaction, and went out to drive over to the Beach.

The sun was up over the Atlantic when he arrived at the Henderson house. There were no cars in the driveway, but an unmarked sedan was parked unobtrusively on the street just beyond the entrance, and the man sitting behind the wheel was smoking a cigarette and had the brim of his hat pulled low on his forehead. Shayne grinned at this evidence of Painter’s thoroughness, and turned in the drive to park in front of the door.

Henderson opened it for him as soon as he pressed the button. He was fully dressed and clean-shaven, but his thin features were strained and his eyes were bloodshot.

“Come right in, Mr. Shayne.” He led the way through the archway and dropped disconsolately into a deep chair beside an ash tray piled high with half-smoked cigarette butts. “This has been a most harrowing experience.” He rubbed the back of his right hand wearily across his eyes. “It was good of you to come. This last occurrence has completely unnerved me.”