Michael Shayne's Long Chance (10 page)

“No. She wanted to write, but she didn’t actually do any writing. She was always going to start, but never did. She must have had real talent, though,” she went on thoughtfully, “enough that some editor recognized it and was willing to spend money to develop it. That’s how she came to be here, you know.”

Shayne lied, “I didn’t know.”

“Oh, yes, this editor was paying her expenses to live here,” Lucile said, a note of pride in her voice. “She didn’t talk about it much, but when she first came here she seemed to be suffering from a sort of mental shock. She had a terrible complex about being defeated by life. From things she told me, I think she had tried to commit suicide as a result of her failure to write successfully. Some editor pulled her back from the brink and gave her new courage, showing his faith in her ability by advancing her money to come here and recuperate. He took quite a paternal interest in her, I guess.”

They sat quietly for a while, then Shayne got up and sat on the couch beside her. He said, “I realize that you don’t care to discuss the shortcomings of your friend, but tell me, how did Evalyn fit into the picture—with you and Margo, I mean?”

Lucile narrowed her eyes at him, looking through a film of smoke. “Evalyn works at the office with me. She and Margo were never really close, and when Henri showed an interest in Margo they stopped seeing each other altogether for a long time.”

“Until Margo invited her to dinner?”

“Yes. I’m positive Margo had a reason. She wanted Evalyn to hear for herself that she was through with Henri.”

“What kind of man is Henri Desmond?”

“He’s a louse. He’s slimy.” She made a grimace of extreme distaste. “I never understood how Margo could stand him, except that she seemed determined to experiment. She believed that an author needed to experience everything. She used to say that it was important to find out what made men like Henri tick.”

“Sexual experimentation?” Shayne asked.

“I guess that was part of her plan, but I don’t believe she would have included Henri
that
way.” She lowered her eyes, raised them to see a crooked smile on Shayne’s face, then went on with simplicity and defiance. “I have an idea, though, that she planned some such experiment after she’d met you. That’s why she was so excited and happy. She told Evalyn and me that a flame leaped in her heart when you first looked at her.” Lucile laughed and said coquettishly, “There is something about you that gives a girl a warm feeling of wanting to know you better, Michael Shayne.”

Shayne grinned. “It’s my handsome face.” He gently touched the bump on his face. The swelling had gone down, leaving only a small knot directly beneath the broken skin.

“No, it isn’t that,” she said emphatically. “That was a terrible thing for me to say—with Margo dead—
murdered.”

Shayne said, “Do you mind going into details about Henri Desmond? I’m trying to get a complete picture of Margo and her life here. All the little things add up to piecing together a composite picture of the causes which led to her murder, and to tracking down her murderer. In picking up a cold trail, the only logical starting point is the character of the victim.”

Lucile looked levelly into his eyes when she said, “I suppose you’re right. As I said, Henri was not in love with Margo. I think he knew she was a virgin, and that made the chase exciting. He wanted her not so much for
her
but as a sort of trophy. Do I sound terribly crude?” she asked anxiously.

“You sound quite matter-of-fact,” Shayne reassured her. “It makes it a lot easier if we don’t have to deal with evasions and half-truths.”

“Well, Henri’s about twenty-five. I’m quite sure he takes drugs in moderate amounts. He scorns any man who is fool enough to work for a living. The only work he ever does is to take people to a dive here in the Quarter. I’m sure he gets a commission for each person he takes there, though he denied it one time when I asked him.”

“What kind of dive?”

“It’s called the Daphne Club. It’s one of the worst cesspools in the Quarter. I went there once—Margo wanted to go. She considered it part of her education in connection with her writing. So Henri took us, Evalyn and Margo and me. Evalyn had been there before.”

Shayne asked, “Do you want to tell me about it?”

Lucile lowered her eyes and studied her slender hands. She did not look at Shayne when she said, “I’m not particularly fastidious, and I’m not a prude. I learned most of the facts of life long ago. I know that some women are prostitutes and that a lot of men must like that sort of thing or else the women couldn’t make a living at it. And I know that some people are sexually perverted, but I had never heard of such filth as was paraded openly that night at the Daphne Club.”

“A circus?” Shayne asked.

She nodded, but did not lift her eyes. “I had heard the term used before, but never really knew what it stood for. At worst, I thought the show would be—well, exciting—you know.” She looked up at him suddenly and her brown eyes appealed to him for understanding. Her cheeks were highly flushed.

Shayne said grimly, “I know what you walked into. Never mind any details. What about Margo?” he asked sharply. “How did she react to the visit?”

“That was something I couldn’t quite understand—unless she was determined not to let it get the best of her. She was shocked, but not horrified. She said it was part of the
living
she had to do in order to be a successful writer. She laughed at me when I became nauseated and had to excuse myself. But maybe her stomach was stronger than mine.”

Shayne’s shaggy red brows were drawn down in a frown. He said softly, “Thanks, Lucile. And now I think I’d like to tackle Henri. Do you want to call Evalyn and see if he’s there? Or find out where we can find him?”

Lucile stretched her legs from the cramped position in which she had been sitting, got up, and went into the tiny dining-alcove and called a number.

Shayne relaxed and lit a cigarette, the frown deepening between his eyes.

Lucile waited for a time, then hung up and came back to the couch. “Evalyn doesn’t answer,” she told him, a trace of anxiety in her tone.

Before Shayne could say anything they were both startled by the shrill ringing of the telephone. She sprang up and looked at Shayne for guidance, murmuring, “Shall—I answer it?”

“Of course, but don’t mention my name, whoever it is.” She hurried to the instrument and lifted the receiver, said, “Hello. Miss Hamilton speaking.”

Shayne moved softly to stand behind her. He saw her give a start of surprise, and she glanced up at him swiftly. She said, “Oh, it’s you, Henri.” She listened a moment, then asked slowly, “What do you mean, Henri? Why should the police have been here?”

She looked again at Shayne, holding her hand over the mouthpiece. He nodded and whispered, “Keep him talking. Play dumb, but try to find out where he is.”

“No—I haven’t seen Evalyn,” Lucile said to Henri. “Not since we were at Margo’s. Why, Henri? Is something wrong?” She listened, little frowns coming and going in her smooth forehead, then said, “Why should I meet you there? What on earth could be so important at three o’clock in the morning?”

Covering the mouthpiece, she whispered excitedly, “He wants me to meet him at the Daphne. He won’t say why,” and motioned for Shayne to say something.

“Tell him you’ll come if you can bring a friend. Tell him you have a guest and—”

“I guess I
can
come, Henri, but I’ll have to bring someone with me. What? N-o-o. It’s a man. You don’t know him, but he’s here and I won’t just go off and leave him.” She waited for a moment, said, “All right. As soon as we can get a taxi and get there,” hung up and whirled on Shayne, her brown eyes bright with excited conjecture.

“Henri sounds frightened,” she told Shayne. “He wanted to know if the police had been here and if I’d seen Evalyn. He wouldn’t tell me why, and he practically ordered me to meet him at the Daphne. Said I’d regret it if I didn’t, and that he’d explain everything when I got there. And he naturally thought the worst when I told him you were here,” she went on, her words choked with laughter. “He said for us to get dressed as fast as we could and get over there.”

“You can tell him I’m your uncle from Waukegan,” Shayne suggested. He gave her a little shove toward the living-room. “I’ll call a taxi while you’re getting ready.”

WHEN LUCILE CALLED, “I’m almost ready,” he went into the living-room. She was in the bathroom rouging her lips before the lavatory mirror after changing to a green sports dress with suède shoes to match. “That is,” she admitted, “all except putting on my mask and buttoning up.”

Shayne scowled at her. “So you want me to play lady’s maid?”

“They’re simply hellish to button,” she told him, coming through the bathroom doorway and backing up to him. “There are only a few. Darn little old things—and the buttonholes aren’t big enough.”

Shayne’s big fingers fumbled with the small cloth-covered buttons. He ran out of fresh curse words as the last of the short strip of buttons at the back of the neck was fastened.

Lucile whirled to face him. Her eyes were full of laughter and she said, “If you hadn’t made me laugh so hard you’d have finished buttoning me sooner.”

Shayne took a step backward and looked at her. “You look like a kid—not like a hussy on her way to the Daphne Club.” His face suddenly became grim. “I’m afraid this isn’t going to be a lark. You’d better be prepared for anything Henri might spring on you tonight.”

The laughter went out of her eyes. “I—hadn’t thought of that,” she confessed. “Are you married, Michael?”

Shayne said, “No,” harshly. “I’m a widower, so watch your step.”

Lucile’s gay mood was gone when she went to the closet and brought out a tiny green hat. She perched it on her head without the aid of a mirror. She said, solemnly, “I keep forgetting about Margo.”

“I wish I could forget about her,” said Shayne through tight lips.

Lucile studied the bleak contours of his face for a moment. “Do you think Henri could have done it?”

“I’ll do my thinking after I meet him. Ready?”

A horn honked insistently outside. Lucile said, “You go down. I forgot about the card. Henri gave me one—that night. You’re supposed to have one to get in.” She ran to the closet and scrambled through the top drawer of a hidden highboy. Shayne was waiting when she came out. “Here it is,” she said, and handed it to him.

Shayne read
Club Daphne
in large letters. Supporting each end of the two words was a young, nude girl with arms outstretched and high, pointed breasts. In small letters below,
For Intimate Relaxation
was printed, and scrawled across the bottom of the card, in ink, was the name
Henri Desmond.

Shayne pocketed the card. “Admission by card only, eh?”

“To the inner sanctum. The public room is a regular night club with a hot band and a racy floor show. It all looks perfectly harmless to any tourist who drops in, but I still have nightmares over my one experience with the ‘Intimate Relaxation.’” She essayed a flippant laugh, but it didn’t quite come off. “I guess I’m just a bourgeois at heart,” she ended with a sigh as they went down the stairs.

The cab was waiting. Shayne asked, “Know where the Club Daphne is?”

The driver grinned. “Sure thing.”

Lucile moved close to Shayne when the taxi started. Her hand found his and caught his fingers. She said, shakily, “I should be frightened, I guess.”

“Aren’t you?”

Her fingers tightened on his. “Not with you.”

“Remember, I’m the new boy friend,” Shayne cautioned. “I’m jealous as hell and refuse to let you out of my sight in that joint. He’ll want to talk to you privately, but make him stay where I can see you. And you don’t know anything about Margo’s death. You simply went home and kept a date with me after leaving Evalyn at Margo’s.”

“I understand,” she whispered tensely. “What do you think Henri wants?”

“I imagine he wants to make sure you don’t tell the police about that scene with Margo tonight. Whether he did it or not, he knows that makes him a suspect. Play him along, promise him anything and try to find out how he learned about the murder.”

“I’ll do my best.” She relaxed with her shoulder against Shayne’s, her fingers still clinging to his.

The cab slowed and turned off North Rampart onto Esplanade Avenue with its stately palm trees and live-oaks and magnolias, and with aged, shuttered homes that had once been palatial residences of the socially prominent in the French city.

Now the street was deserted and silent. The cab glided along slowly for more than two blocks, then turned under a grilled iron archway bearing a discreet neon sign,
Club Daphne.
A gravel drive circled between double rows of palms to the rear courtyard of one of the stately old residences which had been converted into a parking lot. More than a dozen cars were parked in the lot, though no light shone from the shuttered windows of the ancient house and no sound came through the thick walls of stone.

A single ruby light glowed at the end of a vine-covered latticework approach to the rear entrance. The driver stopped and opened the rear door. He said, “The last floor show will just about be starting,” as Shayne and Lucile got out.

Shayne gave him a dollar, took Lucile’s arm, and led her up a flagged walk under the latticework to a heavy oak door reinforced with thick strips of pounded copper.

The door swung open silently as they neared it and a young Negro boy greeted them with a white-toothed smile. “Yas
suh,”
he intoned, “yo’ jes in time fo’ de las’ flo’ show.”

The rhythmic beat of a boogie-woogie pulsed through a long, dark-paneled hallway leading in from the rear door. Shayne traded his hat for a check from the boy and they went along a strip of heavy carpeting to an arched doorway at the end of the hall.

A bald-headed man in a dinner jacket met them in the doorway. He lifted his brows and said, “Two?” and guided them into a large, dark room.

A raised platform in the center had an orange spotlight beating down upon two Negro girls performing mad gyrations to the beat of a concealed orchestra. The dancers were very young with sinuous yellow bodies which were nude except for loin cloths and a single red rosette for each breast.