Free Murder & the Married Virgin by Brett Halliday Page B

a few seconds, glanced up to see that the transom was tightly closed. No sound came from the room. He tried the knob, but the door was locked, and he rapped again.
    The door opened with a rush. Lieutenant Drinkley faced him with a strange expression of anxiety. His khaki shirt was rumpled and his blond hair was tousled as it had been that morning, and the lines of strain had deepened at the corners of his thin mouth.
    He said, “I’m sorry. I was—I couldn’t come to the door at once.” He appeared nervous and confused, like a man wakened suddenly from deep sleep, but he didn’t look sleepy. The bed in the center of the room was neatly made.
    Shayne heeled the door shut and brushed past Drinkley. The room was quite small, with a single window at one end and an upholstered chair turned to face a small, straight chair beside a writing table.
    A bottle half filled with scotch and a bottle of white soda stood on the desk and a glass of the mixture floating with ice cubes made a wet ring on the blotter.
    Shayne looked sharply at Drinkley. His cheeks were highly flushed, but he didn’t act or talk drunk. Shayne crossed over to the armchair and sat down, shook his head negatively when the officer invited him to have a drink.
    “I never drink at this time in the afternoon,” he lied, and fished out a cigarette.
    An open book of matches lay beside a glass ash tray on the desk. He struck one to light his cigarette and noticed that the folder had the picture of a bubbling glass of champagne on the front and the printed words, The Laurel Club.
    The ash tray was full of half-smoked stubs. One of them still smoldered. It had a streak of lipstick on the end, as did two others in the ash tray.
    Shayne slid the match folder into his pocket. He said, “I’m afraid I’m not getting very far on your case, Lieutenant.”
    Drinkley sat on the foot of the bed resting his elbows on his knees. He said gloomily, “I suppose it was foolish to hope you could do anything. You think that Katrin did”—he paused to wet his lips with his tongue and looked up at Shayne doggedly—“commit suicide?”
    “That’s the way it stands now.” Shayne drew in a deep breath, his nostrils flaring when he smelled the faint odor of perfume. He glanced around and noted that a clothes closet stood partially open. Another door, evidently leading to the bathroom, was closed.
    “And I still can’t turn up any motive,” Shayne went on gravely. “Nor any indication that she made any attempt to leave you a message.”
    In a bitter tone, Drinkley asked, “Do you suppose the jewel robbery out there has anything to do with it? I’ve been reading about it in the papers. An emerald necklace. I didn’t know anything about it this morning when I talked to you.”
    Shayne hunched forward and asked, “Does the stolen necklace mean anything to you?” Then added harshly, “Some of the family seem to think Katrin stole it—and gave it to somebody who was working with her—on the outside.”
    Drinkley drew back as though to evade a physical blow. “That’s a lie,” he shouted. “Katrin wouldn’t steal—and she wouldn’t be working with a criminal.” He got up and went to the writing table, took the mixed drink and carried it back to the bed after taking a large swallow. He set the glass on the floor and bowed his head in his hands and moaned, “I’ve been trying to think all day. I don’t know—I simply don’t know.”
    Shayne said casually, “For a man who doesn’t drink, Lieutenant, you seem to be doing pretty well for yourself,”
    “Yeh. I’m beginning to feel sort of numb.” He raised his head and glanced at the closed bathroom door, shifted his gaze to Shayne.
    Shayne was looking at the door and his mouth was set in a grim line.
    Drinkley came to his feet. “I’ve been trying to find out a few things for myself,” he said thickly. He walked up and down the room, hands thrust in his pockets, his head bowed. “I had a fantastic idea