Murder and the Wanton Bride

by Brett Halliday

  “The hotel dining room is best. It’s a little late for lunch in Denham, but I’m sure they can accommodate you. The Traveller’s Rest. Up the street one block on your right.”

  Shayne nodded and strode out of the bank. He got in his car and drove a block west, found the Traveller’s Rest was a three-story frame structure badly in need of paint, its wide veranda holding a dozen unoccupied rocking chairs. He parked and got a suitcase out of the back seat which he had hastily packed after leaving the office, carried it up creaking steps and into a musty lobby that had an old man with a seamed and leathery face and palpably false teeth behind the desk.

  He watched Shayne’s approach with bright-eyed interest and clicked his teeth and said, “What can we do for you, Mister?” when the detective set his suitcase down in front of the desk.

  “I’d like a room and I was told I could get lunch here.”

  “We got lots of rooms, that’s for sure. And I reckon we can still scrape up some vittles. Ain’t had my own yet, ’s matter of fact. Fried pork chops a special today, with stewed tomatoes and home-fried potatoes. Mebbe some apple pie left.” The old man smacked his lips and Shayne winced as he swung a register around and handed him a pen.

  He said, “Just a couple of hamburgers will be fine,” and signed, “Michael Shayne, Miami, Florida.”

  The old man turned the register back and squinted at it. “From Miami, hey. Here on business?”

  “Sort of.” Shayne got out a cigarette and lit it, wondering how long it would be before everyone in town knew exactly what his business was.

  “Be here long?” The old man wrote 110 behind Shayne’s name and reached behind him for a plain house-key attached to a numbered metal disk. “Michael Shayne, huh? Seems like that name’s mighty familiar.”

  “Just over night. Possibly not even that.” Shayne bent to pick up his bag and the old man pointed and said, “Right up them stairs and to your left, less’n you want I should carry your bag up. We ain’t fancy-like but we aim to make our guests comfortable. You just holler case you want anything and I’ll have cook fix you up something.”

  Shayne went up the stairs and to his left, past a door marked GENTS BATH and to Number 110. It was a small, humid room, with an iron bedstead and a rust-streaked lavatory in one corner. He opened his bag and lifted out a bottle of brandy, got the single glass from above the lavatory and poured it half-full. He took a sip of the warm liquor and recalled that he was supposed to holler in case he wanted anything, turned and went out of the room, locking it behind him, and went down stairs carrying the glass in his right hand.

  The leathery-faced old man came from behind the desk as he reached the bottom, moved toward an archway on the right, saying, “In here’s the dining room. Everyone else has et, but cook’ll fix you something real tasty.” He looked at the glass half-full of amber liquid in Shayne’s hand, and asked disapprovingly, “Some sorta medicine you got there? You look like a healthy young feller, too.”

  Shayne grinned and said, “This is how I stay healthy. Thought I might get some ice water to wash it down.”

  “We got that, for sure,” cackled the old man. He ushered Shayne to a small table near the kitchen entrance, and the detective said, “Why not sit with me if you haven’t already eaten?”

  “I take that right neighborly. Yessir, I’ll do that very thing. Ice water, Mary,” he called toward the kitchen door, and gathered a table-setting from a nearby table and placed it opposite Shayne’s place.

  A neat colored girl brought ice water for both of them, and placidly agreed to serve Shayne a rare hamburger steak instead of the fried pork chops, and to substitute a bowl of grits for home-fried potatoes.

  Shayne settled back and alternately sipped from his water-glass of brandy and the tumbler of ice water, and parried pointed questions about his reason for being in Denham while he learned that his luncheon companion owned the hotel and was named Ira Stone, and that Denham was a right nice little town though the hotel business was terrible, quite a modern little town some-ways, with a real good super-market down the street that’d just been opened last year, but not much tourist business and none of them nightclubs like Mr. Shayne was most likely used to in Miami.

  Yessir, the bank was real nice. So, Shayne had noticed it down the street. Real up-to-date and all since Mr. Carson had took over and put in city ways. But still a real hometown bank. Accommodating as all get-out and a farmer could get a loan on his crop there without a lot of red tape, if Mr. Carson said so.

  A real nice feller, Mr. Carson. At first the folks hadn’t cottoned to him too much, but he had a real good community spirit and then when he first began taking an interest in Miss Louella and it looked like sure enough she’d made a real catch at last, folks got friendly. Miss Louella was quality and it sure looked like the makings of a wedding until Mr. Carson made the mistake of advertising in the city papers for a stenographer and getting Belle Brand to work in the bank.

  Well, not a mistake, maybe. Not from Mr. Carson’s way of looking at it, Ira Stone was forced to agree. But there was a lot of talk in town when the new president of the bank dropped off with Miss Louella all of a sudden and began squiring his new secretary around to all the town affairs.

  Not that any of the men-folks blamed him, you could bet your life. The way she swished around and looked at a man and was ready to take a drink with any of them—straight corn likker or whatever.

  Yessir, that Belle was something in Denham all right, and no one was much surprised when they slipped off to the County Seat at Logan and got hitched.

  So she quit her job in the bank and Harvey Barstow went back to helping Carson like he had before Belle came, and Mr. Carson bought the old Olmstead house out in the country and had it all fixed up with new furniture and all.

  Soon after that folks got to feeling sorry for Carson instead of resenting the way he’d played fast and loose with Miss Louella’s affections. Well, maybe some of them figured he got just about what was coming to him, but others hated to see a nice feller like him get the wool pulled over his eyes by his own wife.

  Getting high and dancing with younger fellers while her husband sat on the sidelines and didn’t seem to notice. Rubbing up against them in public, too, until several wives was fit to be tied. There’d been plenty of talk, all right, but that had all sort of simmered down now.

  Mostly it was agreed around town that Mr. Carson had finally put his foot down, and mostly his wife stayed at home now, drinking a lot alone and in the daytime from what you heard from the two house servants, and if she did do any stepping out these days it was at night when Mr. Carson was working at the bank or maybe away like he had to be sometimes on business.

  Shayne had finished his chopped steak and his grits by the time the garrulous old man across from him had supplied that much information, and he accepted a large wedge of apple pie and a cup of murky coffee and let the discussion trail off naturally to the state of the weather and the prospects for a good crop and the sad state of local moonshining since old Jake Wirt and his two boys had been caught by the Feds and sent up for a long stretch.

  And Ira Stone tried again to probe into Shayne’s identity and the nature of his business in Denham, and the detective parried his questions good-naturedly, complimented the waitress and hotel owner on the food they served, and left the table with a full belly and a lot of things to think about.

  He knew what his next stop would have to be, though he hesitated about asking Stone for directions, so when he left the lobby and went out into the hot afternoon, he paused and looked up and down the street and then strode west a few doors to a sign that said John Hutchins, Real Estate.

  A bony-faced female greeted him in the dim reception room of the real estate office and Shayne said, “Perhaps you can tell me if the old Olmstead property is still on the market. I remember a few years ago.…”

  “Oh, no, sir. It’s been sold. In fact, we handled the transaction for Mr. Carson, the local banker. Are you interested in.…
”

  Shayne shook his head and looked disappointed. “I recall it as a beautiful place. Do you suppose the present owner would consider an offer now?”

  Her hesitation was hardly more than momentary. “I hardly think so. He’s spent a great deal of money fixing it up. But we have several other listings.…”

  Shayne said, “I may ask you to show me some of them later. But I would like to see what’s been done to that place. Let me see now … I guess I’m a little turned around. Was it out this road …?”

  “Three blocks west and then you turn to the right off Main about a quarter of a mile. You can’t miss it.”

  “Of course,” Shayne murmured. “I’ll just drive by to get a general idea again. Thank you very much and I may be back to look at some other places.”

  He turned away firmly before she could go into a sales talk about their other listings, went back to his car in front of the hotel and drove west three blocks, turned off on a shady street with old homes and nice lawns on either side.

  At the end of a quarter of a mile he was practically in the country again, and a winding driveway led up to a white-pillared early colonial mansion on top of a small knoll guarded by magnificent oak trees.

  The driveway led past the house and Shayne followed it around to the rear where he parked in a wide gravelled area in front of a three-car garage with all the doors closed.

  He got out and followed a flagged walk back to the front and up wooden steps to the wide veranda where he pressed a button in the casing beside wide double doors.

  A cool breeze swept through the oak trees in front of the house and the country silence was somnolent as he waited to interview the widow of the village banker who probably didn’t yet know she was a widow. He sincerely hoped she didn’t know, although he realized it was likely that Steve Frazel had notified Painter by this time, and it was quite possible that the Miami Beach detective chief had been in touch with Mrs. Carson by telephone.

  In that case she might well be warned against Shayne, though if Frazel had handled the matter the way he had promised, Painter had no reason to believe that Shayne would be in Denham ahead of him.

  One of the wide doors opened as he stood there, and an aged Negro looked out at him and bowed slightly and said, “Yes, suh?”

  “I’d like to see Mr. Carson.”

  “Mista Carson, suh, am not in.”

  “I understand that he planned to return from Miami today?”

  “Yes, suh. But he didn’t come yet.”

  A throaty voice floated out to them from the interior, “Who’s at the door, Abe?”

  “Genmun to see Mistah Carson, Ma’am.”

  “I’ll see him, Abe.” The voice was closer and the Negro stepped aside and a moment later the banker’s widow confronted Shayne in the doorway.

  8

  Belle Carson was a lot of woman. Long-legged, full-breasted, slim-waisted, she was a symphony in green and black as she stood facing Shayne in the hallway, sultry lips parted and sharp upper teeth showing, and there was the clean, acrid smell of gin in the air between them.

  She wore a black silk jacket with gold buttons in front that were strained to confine the lushness of her bosom, and a green skirt swirled down over full hips to a point just below her knees. She had smooth black hair drawn back tightly from a high forehead, caught with a green ribbon in a ponytail at the back, and long black lashes lifted slowly from greenish eyes as she lifted her gaze to travel up the length of him and stop as their eyes interlocked.

  She said, “Well?” in the same throaty voice he had heard before, but now he realized the huskiness was at least partially due to the gin she had drunk.

  He said, “I wanted to see Mr. Carson.”

  She asked, “What for?” and there was a hint of scorn in her voice.

  Shayne said, “Business. I just drove in from Miami. I understood he was driving back this morning.”

  She said, “Did you?” and a hot glow lurked in the greenish depths of her eyes. She lowered her black lashes over them and drew in a deep breath. “What sort of business?”

  Shayne said, “It’s sort of private. Is he here?”

  She said, “No, but don’t let that stop you.” She turned away from him down the wide hallway and her hips swayed with practiced ease.

  Shayne followed her without further invitation, realizing she must be nearer forty than the thirty she first looked, a woman of lithe and well-preserved maturity.

  Halfway down the long hall a magnificent staircase curved up to the second floor, and Belle Carson hesitated beside it for a moment until Shayne came abreast of her, then abruptly put her hand on his arm and led him into a long room on the left off the hallway, bright with early afternoon sun streaming through French doors.

  There was a long sofa in front of the sunlit doors, and a low glass coffee table in front of it. A martini pitcher beaded with frost stood on the table, and beside it was a single, long-stemmed cocktail glass. She moved away from him toward the table with indolent, feline grace, stooped over to pour liquid from the pitcher into the glass. Straightening, she turned and looked mockingly at him over the rim of the glass. “Will you join me in a sip of lunch?”

  Shayne said, “Thanks. I ate mine at your local hotel.”

  She sipped from the glass and kept her long lashes low over her eyes and said dispassionately, “I despise men who refuse a drink just because it’s some certain time of day.” She took a deep swallow and set the glass down, then carefully rounded the end of the table to sink onto the sofa. “What sort of private business you got with Walter?”

  “Didn’t he tell you why he was going to Miami?”

  “To see you, huh?” She emptied her glass and patted the sofa beside her. “Whyn’t you sit down? I don’t even know your name?”

  “Don’t you?”

  Shayne moved around to sit beside her. Her shoulder and her thigh touched his and she turned her head to study him obliquely. “I don’t, do I?”

  “I don’t know,” Shayne said honestly. “Depends on how much your husband tells you about his affairs.”

  “Walter?” Her voice was a throaty gurgle. “Pour me another shot and we’ll drink to dear Walter.”

  Shayne reached out and poured liquid from the pitcher into the glass. His fingers curled around the stem of the glass and he lifted it to his lips first, murmuring sardonically, “To dear Walter.” From the taste, he judged the contents of the pitcher was straight gin diluted slightly with melted ice cubes.

  She took the glass avidly from his hand and drank from it. Shayne said, “When do you expect him home?”

  “Who?”

  He said patiently, “Walter.”

  “Does it matter?” she asked indifferently, emptying the glass again and looking straight ahead.

  Shayne increased the pressure of his shoulder and thigh against hers. “Hell, yes, it matters,” he said aggressively. “Certain things I don’t like to have interrupted by jealous husbands.”

  Her breathing quickened, but she did not look at him.

  “Such as what, Red?”

  He said roughly, “I like to know what the rules are when I play games.”

  In a feverishly thick voice, though still looking straight ahead, she asked, “Why don’t you kiss me, Red? You want to, don’t you? Isn’t that what you’ve wanted ever since I came to the door and you looked at me?” A shudder rippled up and down the length of her body that was now openly pressing against him.

  He said, “Sure I’d like to kiss you. Any man would. But I like to know what the price may be.”

  She moved her head so it pressed down on his shoulder and said sleepily, “Nuts.”

  He put his left arm loosely about her shoulders. “Before we get in too deep, I want to know how much Walter told you about his business in Miami last night.”

  “What’s it matter?”

  “It might matter a hell of a lot … in the way I play this with you.”

  “Why?” she demanded urgently.
She twisted on the sofa and her breasts throbbed against him and her open mouth was close to his. He closed his eyes before putting his mouth over hers. Her lips worked against his in a hard, spasmodic response. The sun from the windows behind them was very hot on his shoulders, and the silence inside the big mansion on the knoll was something you felt and could almost hear.

  He pulled away from her and got up abruptly. Belle Carson let her black head loll back against the cushion behind her and she widened her greenish eyes at him. “I bet you’re beginning to wonder about me, Red. Aren’t you?”

  He said bleakly, “You’re not hard to figure out.”

  “Is that so?” Her voice became sharp and anger blazed in her eyes. “Tell me then.”

  “I’ll tell you.” He stood on widespread flat feet a little way in front of her and folded his arms. “You sit around this big house day after day drinking gin and bored to hell-and-gone cooped up here in Denham married to a small-town banker.”

  “There are plenty of other men,” she railed at him.

  He grinned derisively. “Sure. I saw some of them around town this noon. The old hotel-keeper and that fat-faced boy in the bank. No wonder you go all sloppy inside when a real man shows up in town for a change.”

  “Meaning you, Red?”

  “Meaning me.”

  She leaned forward and very carefully poured herself another drink. She looked over the glass at him with eyes that didn’t quite focus. “Why do you think I stay here if I’m that bored?”

  “You’re stuck with it,” he said contemptuously. “It’s what you thought you wanted when you settled down with Carson. Now you know it isn’t, but you don’t know want to do.”

  Her eyes were aflame, but with what emotion he could not be sure. It might have been fear, or anger, or sexual passion. She said, in the most casually conversational tone she had used since meeting him at the door, “You sound as though you know a lot about me.”

  He didn’t reply. He got out a cigarette and lit it, turning slowly to stroll toward the end of the pleasantly-appointed room. There was a fieldstone fireplace at the far end that looked as though there had never been a fire laid in it. On the mantel was a framed picture of the woman who sat on the sofa behind him. It had evidently been taken some years earlier, but was a very good likeness. Shayne thrust his hands deep in his pockets and sucked on his cigarette while studying the photograph. In the lower left corner was a signature, evidently of the photographer, and the printed words, “Atlanta, Ga.”