The Homicidal Virgin (15 page)

“Harry telephoned me that night,” Roy Combs told Shayne stonily. “He was all fired up to notify the police immediately, but I told him to wait. I drove up and talked to him one afternoon. By that time he had quieted down and was talking about threatening Henderson with exposure and making him pay all his money for our silence. We talked it all over and couldn’t agree on anything. Frankly, I wanted to see him suffer for what he had done to my mother, but I couldn’t help thinking about all that money he had inherited from the woman he’d married… and the way Beth and I live here on my salary as a garage mechanic. Much as I hate to admit it, I am his legal son, and can prove it, and I would inherit everything if he died.

“Oh, we talked it over and over and over,” he went on with a bitter twist to his young mouth. “Harry and I, and Beth and I. Beth, I think, hated him worse than I did. I guess it was a female trait… because of what he did to my mother. Anyhow, in the beginning Beth talked wild and crazy about killing him so I’d inherit his money, but I talked her out of it. And I didn’t want Harry to try to blackmail him either… not because I didn’t think he deserved to be blackmailed, you understand, but because I was afraid he’d be too smart for us and the whole thing would backfire. But I couldn’t make up my mind to denounce him to the law either,” he went on helplessly.

“He certainly deserved no better, but what good would that do us? We’d never get a penny of his money… as long as he was alive and knew he had a son who was alive.”

“So you and your wife decided on this Jane Smith deal?” said Shayne as the young man paused.

“Not exactly. That was entirely her own idea, and she didn’t confide a word of it to Harry or me. What she did do was to offer to take what money we had in the savings account and go down to Miami and nose around and find out everything she could about him. Then she promised to come back and we’d put our heads together and decide what to do next. She went up and saw Harry herself late one night, and got him to promise he wouldn’t do anything until she came back and reported. And now you say he went down anyway and Henderson shot him.”

Roy Combs jumped to his feet and clenched his fist angrily. “Damn it! That’s what I was afraid would happen. I told Harry he’d be too smart for us. Well, he won’t get away with it. I’m not going to hold back any longer. Damn all his money to hell! I’ll see he spends the rest of his life in jail.”

Shayne said dryly, “I don’t think you need to worry too much about that aspect of it. But I’m curious about you, young lady.” He turned his attention to Beth. “Where did you get the idea of masquerading as Henderson’s stepdaughter and telling the weird tale you unfolded to me in that hotel room?”

She sat bolt upright on the sofa with her hands clasped primly in front of her. “It seemed like a perfectly wonderful idea. I went down and read all the newspapers and talked to people and found out everything I could about him and his dead wife and Muriel Graham. And then I just made up that story. I tried to think of some good reason for wanting him dead and for offering to pay so much money to hire it done.”

“I told her it was the craziest thing in the world, Mr. Wayne. As soon as I found out what she had done. You see, she didn’t tell me a word about it until you had answered that advertisement and she had made her plans to meet you. Then she wrote me a letter. I hopped on a plane and went right down there to stop her, and got to Miami that evening while she was meeting you.

“When she saw me afterward and told me what you said… about being a friend of that famous detective, Mike Shayne and all, I was scared to death you would tell him, and that’s why I called you next day and pretended to be Paul Winterbottom… so you’d know she wasn’t going to go on with it and try to get anyone else to do the job.”

“But she did,” Shayne said flatly. “She found someone who planted a bomb on his boat and tried to kill him that way.”

“You didn’t, did you, Beth? You promised me…”

“I swear I didn’t, Roy. I did have the name of one other man in New York that I didn’t tell you about, and I tried to get him to do it when I stopped off there on my way home. B-b-but he was just like Mr. Wayne.” Tears streamed down her face and she wiped them away with the back of her hand defiantly.

“It seemed like it was foolproof when I made it up,” she sobbed. “Saul Henderson doesn’t deserve to keep on living. And it wouldn’t really have hurt the Graham girl any. She could easily deny knowing anything about it and refuse to pay the money I was promising in her name. And I bet she hates him too and would be glad to see him dead,” she added viciously. “Maybe he never did do to her what I dreamed up and told you, Mr. Wayne, but I bet he did plenty of other things just as bad. I’m not sorry I tried at all. I’m just sorry that I failed.”

“Yeh,” said Roy dismally. “And that Harry got impatient and went down and tried to shake him down on his own. If he’d only waited. We could have figured out something better between us. And no matter what you say,” he went on forcibly, “I don’t believe Harry ever went gunning for him. He hated his guts plenty, and figured he was due at least his share of the money Henderson ran off with, but ten years in prison was plenty for Harry and I swear I don’t believe he’d take a chance on ever getting sent back.”

Shayne looked at his watch and got up. He said, “After all this blows over, Roy, I suggest you take this wife of yours out to Hollywood. She’ll make your fortune for you.”

Shayne had time to make one telephone call from the Chicago airport before his jet flight took off. He made that call to Timothy Rourke in Miami, and as a result the reporter was at the airport to meet him when his plane landed at dusk.

“Everything set?” Shayne asked as they went toward the exit together.

Rourke nodded, his thin face serious and unhappy. “I came out in a taxi so we could talk in your car.” He lengthened his stride to match the detective’s as they went toward the car Shayne had parked there at noon. “Lucy has Mrs. Harry Gleason in tow and will meet us at Henderson’s house in half an hour. Will Gentry has persuaded Painter to meet him there, though Will is sore as hell because you jumped off to Chicago without telling him any more about those mysterious fingerprints you turned over to him in connection with the case. And that’s more than you told
me
about them,” Rourke added angrily as he got in the front seat beside his oldest friend.

Shayne started the motor and threaded his way out of the parking lot and into an eastbound stream of traffic. “What did Gentry tell you about the prints?”

“Just that Washington identifies them as belonging to a wanted man. Whose prints are they, Mike?”

“Saul Henderson’s of course. I’m willing to bet none of your newspaper contacts picked up any back trail of Henderson’s from New York. That should have tipped you off.”

“They didn’t,” Rourke admitted uncomfortably. “Is that what your sudden trip to Chicago was all about?”

Shayne said, “Yeh. Henderson is a worthless bastard, Tim. Harry Gleason took a rap for him twenty years ago and came to Miami to collect when he discovered Henderson was in the chips.”

“Instead, he collected a forty-five slug,” muttered Rourke. “With Henderson absolutely in the clear on that kill whether Gleason threatened him or not.”

Shayne said, “He still has to answer to that old charge.”

“No statute of limitations on it?”

“That’s one question I’ve been afraid to ask,” Shayne admitted irritably. “Arson and possible manslaughter. Are they subject to the statute?”

“Damned if I know. Some states, I guess. Hey! There’s something else, Mike, that bothers hell out of me. That girl. Muriel Graham. The one you said Henderson had brought in as a ringer to fool Painter.”

“What about her?”

“I’ll swear she isn’t, Mike. Isn’t a ringer, I mean. I interviewed her today after Painter put her through his personal ringer, and her fiancé was right there with her. A chap named Paul Winterbottom, rather well known locally. She’s the real goods, all right. How could you have made such a mistake?”

Shayne said grimly, “It’s easy for me. How does she feel about her stepfather?”

“Exactly the opposite from the way you expected. Insists he’s a wonderful man, and can’t understand why anyone would have it in for him. The only way I can figure that deal, Mike, is that you had the wool pulled over your eyes by an impostor… Jane Smith.”

Shayne said, “You’re improving, Tim. One of these days I’m going to turn my license over to you.” They were on the Causeway now, leading to Miami Beach, and Shayne sighed deeply, glancing at his watch and then stepping harder on the gas as he realized they were due at Henderson’s in a few minutes.

Chief Will Gentry’s inconspicuously marked car was already parked in the circular driveway when they arrived, with Peter Painter’s official car standing close behind it, uniformed chauffeur lounging at the wheel. A Miami taxi turned into the driveway behind Shayne and stopped behind him when he pulled up under the porte-cochere.

Lucy Hamilton got out of the taxi first, and hurried up to him with both her hands outstretched, a look of uncertainty on her face. “I’ve got Mrs. Gleason, Michael.” She lowered her voice, glancing over her shoulder at the woman getting out of the taxi behind her.

“I couldn’t explain why you wanted her here, Michael… to confront the man who killed her husband. She’s… pretty near the breaking point.”

Shayne squeezed her hands tightly and pushed her toward Rourke. He went past her to Hilda, and linked his arm in hers while he leaned inside the cab and gave the driver two dollars. “I’ll take the ladies home, driver.” He stood for a moment and looked down into Hilda’s taut face and questioning eyes. He said, “I know this is going to be an ordeal, but it will soon be over and you can go home to Algonquin.”

“Accompanied by my husband in his coffin,” she said in a tight voice.

Shayne continued to look down into her upturned face without speaking. Then he turned her about firmly with his arm in hers, and they followed Timothy Rourke and Lucy Hamilton onto the porch where Harry Gleason’s bloodstains from the previous night had been cleanly washed away.

The same maid opened the door for them, and motioned them through the archway into the square room where the cocktail party had been held just twenty-four hours previously.

This time there were only four persons in the room: Henderson and his stepdaughter, and the two police officers from Miami and the Beach.

Muriel Graham sat at Henderson’s right, and gravely acknowledged the introductions made by Will Gentry, who stood in front of the fireplace with a half-smoked cigar in his hand, and as soon as the formalities were over and the others had seated themselves, Peter Painter addressed Shayne aggressively:

“Suppose you come to the point, Shayne; I understand it was your suggestion that we all come here.”

Shayne nodded and ruffled his red hair. He moved over to a position at the other end of the mantel from Gentry where he could look down at all the others. “I made a flying trip to Chicago today. To a little town called Denton, where I talked with a young couple named Mr. and Mrs. Roy Combs.”

Gentry and Henderson were the only two who reacted to the name. The police chief paused with his cigar halfway to his mouth, and turned to look at Shayne quizzically. Henderson sat bolt upright and opened his mouth twice as though to speak, but closed it both times.

“Your son, Henderson,” Shayne told him harshly. “Born twenty-two years ago when your wife died in a hospital as the result of burns she received when you and Harry Gleason burned down an empty warehouse to collect insurance on its non-existent contents.”

“No!” The exclamation was torn from Hilda Gleason’s lips. She wrung her hands together and her face twisted tragically. “Not Harry. I knew there was something, but…”

“Not Harry,” said Shayne, and his voice softened. “In fact, you can go right on being proud of Harry Gleason, Hilda. He was a hero twenty-two years ago even though he did serve a ten-year prison sentence for arson. It was he who went into the burning building and saved his partner’s wife from certain death while her own husband left her there to die with their unborn child still in her womb.”

Henderson dropped his face into his hands and did not speak. Painter jumped to his feet and thumbed his mustache. “I knew there was something like that about you all the time, Henderson. I sensed it from the beginning. That’s why your life was threatened… why Gleason was after you. Why you had to kill him on your own doorstep.”

Henderson lifted his face from his hands, looking old and broken. “I had to fire in self-defense. As soon as I saw him standing outside the door last night with a gun in his hand I knew it was he who had made the two previous attempts and that it was his life or mine. The law can’t touch me for that,” he ended fiercely. “And God knows I’ve paid through all these years for the terrible mistake I made that night so long ago. Don’t you think I’ve paid ten times over in sleepless nights and agony of spirit?”

He got to his feet slowly and faced seven stony faces with his arms outstretched and tears streaming down his cheeks.

“I didn’t know what I was doing that night. I thought they had both died in the fire. Do you understand? I thought I could do nothing to help them. Harry and I had a chartered plane waiting nearby, and I was in New Orleans before morning and aboard a ship bound for South America. It wasn’t until months later that I learned the full truth. By then, my wife was dead and Harry was serving his time. There was nothing I could do to help them by giving myself up. Don’t you see? Don’t you understand?”

No one answered him. Slowly, one by one, their eyes dropped from looking at him. Will Gentry chewed on his cigar for a moment and then said conversationally to Painter: “He’s your pigeon, Pete. I’m glad I don’t have to dirty my hands by taking him into custody.”

Henderson looked around at the ring of impassive faces slowly. He sat down jerkily and regained control of himself. “I don’t know what this fuss is all about,” he told them coldly and with an evil ring of triumph in his voice. “There is a statute of limitations that applies to a case like this. In the state of Colorado it went into effect some years ago… as I was very careful to ascertain on the best legal advice. So now I will have to ask you all to leave my house, reminding you that you are uninvited. Except you, Muriel,” he went on hastily and pleadingly, “I do hope and pray that you will listen to my side of it…”