“Tell me about Margo’s life here. She didn’t work?”
“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.