The Homicidal Virgin

by Brett Halliday

  “I think… I will have to tell you the truth, Mr. Shayne.”

  “I think you had better.”

  “Would you tell me first why you think it is important? What you were doing at Henderson’s yourself?”

  He said, “Don’t you know that Jane Smith is Henderson’s stepdaughter?”

  “Jane Smith?” Somehow he couldn’t believe that her complete surprise could possibly be faked. She stared at him in utter astonishment. “You mean the one in the bar that night? The one I saw with Harry at home before he came here?”

  Shayne nodded. “That same girl. Who called herself Jane Smith to me. You didn’t know?”

  “That she was Mr. Henderson’s stepdaughter? But no. How could I guess that? Even though I did see her driving from that house…” She caught in her breath and her lower lip, and managed to look like a small and contritely guilty child. “I have lied to you, Mr. Shayne. I did not see her by accident on the street. I was in a taxicab going slowly past the Henderson house when she drove out from it. I had my taxi follow her to that hotel, and the rest is as I told you.”

  “Why did you lie about that part of it?”

  “Because I did not want… I did not think I should tell you I had been watching the Henderson house.”

  Shayne said, “Start back at the beginning and tell me the truth this time.”

  “Yes. I think I must do that now. It was only a little untruth I told. I thought perhaps… to protect Harry.”

  “From what?”

  “If… something should happen to Mr. Henderson. Nothing has happened to him, has it?”

  Shayne said, “Nothing has happened to Henderson… yet. I’m waiting for the truth, Hilda.”

  “Yes. It was when it first began with Harry. Two months ago. We were watching the television that evening on Harry’s night off. There was a program from Miami. Comedians and stars, and a lot of important people in Miami. And there was this one famous comedian who was getting the key to Miami Beach presented to him. I was not paying much attention when Harry sat up straight and said out loud, ‘That dirty son-of-a-bitch.’ Like that. And on the screen was Mr. Henderson making a speech. And I said to Harry, ‘Who? What do you mean?’ and he said, ‘I mean that bastard standing up in front of the camera shooting off his big mouth, that’s what. Henderson, hell!’ Harry went on, and I never saw him so angry. ‘His name isn’t Henderson any more than mine is. My God, what I know about that dirty skunk! Did you hear them say something about him getting elected mayor of Miami Beach, Hilda?’ he asked me. ‘My God, if that’s not something. Mayor, no less.’

  “And I didn’t know what he was talking about, you understand, Mr. Shayne? And, by that time, there was a singer and an orchestra on the program and I asked him what he meant by it all, but he wouldn’t tell me. He just said it was better I didn’t know and he didn’t want to talk about it any more. But that was the beginning. Harry was changed after that night. He never mentioned Mr. Henderson’s name again and flew into a rage when I begged him to tell me. But he began brooding and talking about injustice and how life wasn’t fair to some people, and how terrible that we should be poor when others that deserved to be shot were living off the fat of the land.”

  “And you knew he was referring to Henderson when he talked that way.”

  “I knew it in my own mind, yes. But he would not say so. And then the girl came one night like I told you, and everything else was just as I said.”

  “Except that you didn’t admit to me that you knew his trip to Miami had some connection with Henderson?”

  “That is right. That is all I told wrong. And how I saw the girl you say is Mr. Henderson’s stepdaughter.”

  “And you decided to go to Henderson yourself day before yesterday? Using an assumed name.”

  “I was afraid to say I was Mrs. Gleason. I thought I might learn something about Harry. It was all I could do.”

  Shayne mashed out his cigarette and sat back, tugging at his ear lobe. He believed Hilda was telling the truth now. But what did it mean? Somehow he was now positive that the dead man he had seen on Henderson’s doorstep was her husband. He hated like hell to tell her so, but he knew it had to be done. But before doing so and while she was still calm and composed, he tried to pry further information from her.

  “Going back to that first evening while you and your husband were watching TV. You’re sure he said, ‘His name is no more Henderson than mine is?’ Those were his exact words?”

  “He said that, yes.”

  “And he mentioned knowing something bad about him?”

  “Very bad, I think. From the way he spoke.”

  “When and where do you think he had known Henderson under a different name?”

  “I do not know. It was before I met Harry, I am sure of that.”

  “When did you first meet your husband?”

  “Ten years ago. In Algonquin, where I was born. He came and went to work as a bartender.”

  “What do you know about his past life?”

  “Very little.” She sighed and fingered the edge of the coverlet at her waist nervously. “He did not like to talk about before he met me. He would mention sometimes places in the West he had been… tending bar, I think. He was a wandering man until we were married.”

  “Did you ever have the impression he had a reason not to talk about his past? That he had something to hide?”

  “Mr. Shayne, I have thought that, yes.” Tears brimmed in her eyes. “I did not care. I did not press to know. We were in love and our marriage was good. I did not wish to know the past. The present was all I thought or cared about.”

  Shayne straightened in his chair restively and shook out a cigarette. “Did your husband own a pistol, Hilda?”

  “Never. He was not a man who believed in violence.”

  The last match in his book refused to light and he dropped it and the empty book into the ash tray with an exclamation of disgust.

  Hilda reached to the bedside table beside her and lifted a book of matches questioningly. Shayne stretched out a long arm to take it, opened it and broke off a match, closed the book before striking it.

  His gaze brooded on the lettering on the front of the book as he held the flame to the tip of the cigarette. He blew the match out and read the advertising legend aloud in a matter-of-fact tone: “The Lucky Tiger Bar.” He expelled his first puff of smoke and studied her face thoughtfully, “That’s on First Street here in Miami, isn’t it, Hilda?”

  She said, “I do not know.”

  Shayne said, “I want all of the truth now, Hilda. You lied to me about not finding your husband in Miami. You did find him. You were with him in this Lucky Tiger Bar. When?” He spat out the words like bullets and she flinched at their impact.

  “That was when I first came,” she faltered. “On Monday afternoon. He had written in his note the name of that bar where he had met an old friend, but I swear he would not tell me where he was staying here. And I did not see him again after ten o’clock that night when he walked out the door very angry because I had begged him to return with me and give up whatever crazy plan he had.”

  “What time did you reach Miami Monday?”

  “The bus arrived at four o’clock. I had only the name of the bar to find him and I went straight there. Harry was drinking beer and he was angry to see me… thinking me still at home. We sat in a booth until ten o’clock that night and he drank beer and was drunker than I have ever seen him.

  “He would not tell me anything, Mr. Shayne, except that I must leave him alone and we would be rich. It was going just as he planned, he told me, and I must not interfere. I begged him and I cried, but it only made him angrier, and he stalked out cursing me.” There were tears streaming down her cheeks when she finished, and she put her hands over her face to hide them.

  “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

  “What good was it to tell? I was so ashamed, and I still did not know how to find him in this city. I went to the bar again next
day and afterward, but he did not come.”

  “What was your husband wearing the last time you saw him? When he walked out of the Lucky Tiger Bar?”

  “Just his everyday clothes. Harry is not a fancy dresser, but neat.”

  “Did he have a green suede jacket?”

  “He wore that, yes. It was new this fall.” Her eyes were unwaveringly fixed on his. “You have found Harry, Mr. Shayne?”

  “I’m afraid I have, Hilda. I think he’s… dead.”

  She didn’t cry out. She didn’t blink her eyes, and tears began silently rolling down her cheeks. She said, “I think I knew it would be. Inside me. I knew. Tell me, Mr. Shayne.”

  Shayne told her as gently as he could. “I’m not positive, of course. You’ll have to make the identification.”

  “But why, Mr. Shayne? At Mr. Henderson’s house with a pistol in the night?”

  Shayne said, “First, he must be identified.” He stood up. “You’d better get dressed.” He looked about the room and saw there was no telephone. “Is there a pay phone?”

  “In the hallway outside.” Still outwardly composed, Hilda threw the covers off her legs and stood up.

  Shayne said, “I’ll use it while you dress. Open the door when you’re ready.”

  He went out into the dimly lit hall and found a wall telephone. He dialed Miami Beach Police Headquarters, and after a little difficulty got Painter himself on the wire.

  “Mike Shayne calling. Have you identified Henderson’s corpse yet?”

  “How could we with nothing at all to work on? Nothing whatsoever.” Painter sounded personally aggrieved. “He’s one of those cheap bastards who even did his own washing… and dry-cleaning too, I guess. All we’ve got is his prints and the serial number on his pistol.”

  “His prints on it?”

  “His and no others. If you’re holding out any information, Shayne…”

  “On the contrary. I think I’ve got him identified for you.”

  He heard a swift intake of breath over the telephone. “So you did know something, Shayne. By God, I…”

  “I followed up a hunch and I think it’s going to pay off for you,” Shayne told him smoothly. “A Mrs. Harry Gleason is coming over in a taxicab to the morgue to look at him. I think he’s her husband.”

  “Gleason? What’s the full story, Shayne?”

  “Mrs. Gleason will give it to you… if it is her Harry. Better meet her at the morgue in twenty minutes.”

  Shayne hung up before Painter could say anything more. The door of Hilda’s room opened as he turned away from the phone, and she stood in the doorway wearing a dark two-piece suit with a white silk blouse, and she was settling her Harlequin glasses over her eyes.

  She stepped aside as Shayne re-entered the room, and he told her, “We’ll go down and I’ll put you in a cab to go across to the morgue on the Beach. Chief Peter Painter will meet you there, and will want a statement from you, if you identify your husband. I don’t want to be there while you make it.” He took both her hands in his and looked down at the blue-tinted glasses. “Do you trust me, Hilda? Will you do exactly as I say?”

  “I trust you.”

  “Then tell Painter the truth as you told it to me just now. But leave out the girl, Hilda. Just don’t mention her being in Algonquin, or seeing her here. Tell Painter that you came to me for help in locating your husband, and all the rest of it. But leave Muriel Graham and Jane Smith out of it for the time being.”

  “Why should I do that? I know that she is behind it all.”

  “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.

  14

  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.”