The Homicidal Virgin Read Online Free PDF Page A

Those damned glasses! He wished she would take them off.
    The waiter deftly served their drinks. She toyed with the slender stem of her glass and said thoughtfully, “Must we use our correct names? My own is so commonplace.”
    “Something like Smith?” hazarded Shayne. “Plain Jane Smith, maybe?”
    A demure smile curved her lips. “Something like that, yes. What could be less alluring? What could be so disappointing as to meet a girl named Jane Smith?”
    The trace of a foreign accent persisted in her voice. Slavic, Shayne guessed. Or possibly Hungarian.
    He sensed movement beside him, and looked up to see the young girl standing very close to his table. She leaned forward from the hips slightly, and her dark, humid eyes were fixed on his face in a sort of desperate appeal. Her voice was light and fluttery and frightened:
    “Pardon me, but aren’t you… I think I recognize you… aren’t you Mike Wayne?”
    “Sure,” he said heartily, pushing back his chair and standing up, extending his hand to take her hot fingers in his. “I thought I recognized you, too, Jane, when you first walked in, but it’s been so long that I wasn’t sure. I was just sitting here waiting…”
    Harlequin stood up with her stinger in her hand and said composedly, “You will pardon me for intruding. Now that you are no longer alone I will go back to my corner. I thank you for the drink.”
    Shayne said, “It was a pleasure,” and she turned away and the girl slid into the chair she had vacated with a little frightened exhalation of relief.
    “I didn’t know what to do when I saw her come over and sit down. I knew it was you and that if I didn’t break it up you’d most likely think she was me. And I didn’t know what you might say to her.”
    She was trembling, and Shayne reassured her gently, “I didn’t give anything away. What will you drink?”
    “Nothing. That is… well, nothing really. I hardly ever drink.” She fluttered incredibly long and incredibly black lashes over violet eyes, and asked in a small voice, “What are you drinking?”
    “Cognac.” Shayne lifted his glass and swallowed half of it.
    “That’s a kind of brandy, isn’t it? Imported from France?”
    Shayne said, “That’s right,” with amusement in his voice.
    “Well, wouldn’t you… wouldn’t it be more private up in my suite? I’m sure I can order a bottle of whatever you want from Room Service.”
    “I think that’s an extremely good idea.” Shayne finished off his drink and took a sip of ice water. He looked around for the waiter and crooked a bony finger at him, got out his wallet and extracted a bill.
    The waiter brought a bar-check face down on a silver dish and Shayne laid the bill on top of it without looking at the amount.
    He left fifty cents when the waiter brought his change, then got up and moved behind the girl to draw her chair back. She stood beside him, the top of her glistening black hair barely coming above his shoulder, and Shayne tucked her arm in his and led her past the end of the bar, nodding politely to the woman with the tinted glasses who had resumed her contemplative posture at the bar with chin supported by the backs of her hands.

 
4
     
    Jane Smith unlocked a door on the fourth floor and stood aside to allow Shayne to enter a pleasant sitting room that showed no sign whatsoever of human occupancy. Two floor lamps were lighted at opposite ends of the room, and two closed doors led off to what Shayne assumed would be bedroom and bath.
    The girl closed the door tightly behind her while Shayne strolled across the room, and asked in a controlled voice, “Cognac, you said? Any particular brand?”
    He stopped at curtained windows and turned with a reassuring smile. “I don’t really need a drink, Jane.”
    “But I want you to have one,” she told him with quiet dignity, crossing to the telephone and putting her hand on it. “Please tell me what to order.”
    “Just ask for a double shot of Monnet