He turned his back on her and strode to the bedroom, unbuttoning his soggy coat and stripping it off, dropping it on the floor behind him.
Chapter Seven: THE GIRL WHO WAS GROWING UP
The tiled bathroom was clouded with steam and Shayne was blissfully relaxed in a tub filled to the overflow outlet with water near the scalding point. The door opened a cautious crack and Phyllis’s voice came timidly through the steam.
“Can I do anything? That is-”
“You can stay out and let a man have some privacy,” Shayne shouted severely.
He snatched the shower curtain the length of the tub and slid farther into the water. As the door started to close, he yelled out, “Wait. If you feel domestic, put on some coffee water to boil.”
“Yes, Mr. Shayne,” Phyllis said meekly through the crack. “Is that all?”
“That’s all, Angel.”
He luxuriated in the hot water a little longer, then dragged his long, sinewy body out and turned on a stinging blast of the coldest water Miami affords. He stepped out and rubbed down briskly with a coarse towel. He then wiped the mist from the mirror and scowled at his marked face.
Passo’s backhanded blows hadn’t added materially to his looks. His upper lip was puffed, and there was an ugly, livid bruise on the left side of his jaw. He quit scowling and grinned ruefully when he thought about the damage the hoodlums might have done if their scheme had worked.
He applied witch-hazel to the bruises and wrapped a dry towel around his belly, then opened the door a few inches and peered into the living-room.
It was empty. He hastily negotiated the few steps to his bedroom door, and closed it behind him. Five minutes later he emerged wearing gray flannels and a white shirt open at the throat. His red hair was plastered to his head. He whistled an off-tune version of “Mother Machree” as he stepped out into the living-room.
There was an unopened bottle of cognac in the wall cabinet. He went to the kitchen carrying it by the neck.
Phyllis smiled at him from her position in front of the electric stove where she bent anxiously over an aluminum pot half full of water that was about to boil. She was wearing a yellow linen suit badly rumpled from her slumber, but the dark eyes that looked into Shayne’s were clear and purposeful.
Shayne stopped behind her and said, “Last time, I made the coffee. Remember?”
She nodded. “After harboring me for the night.”
“It’s getting to be a habit,” Shayne complained, “sleeping in my apartment. One would think you didn’t have a bed of your own to sleep in.”
“A habit?” Phyllis scoffed. “I’ll bet it’s a record.”
The water began to boil. She started to pour it into the top of an earthenware dripolator, but Shayne put out his hand to stop her.
“Let me see how much coffee you’ve got in there,” he growled. “Most women treat coffee as though it was more precious than diamonds.”
He lifted the top with its tiny drip holes and nodded with surprised pleasure at sight of the middle container heaped high with drip-ground coffee.
“It’s unbelievable,” he exclaimed in a tone of high praise. “You’re actually making coffee a man can drink. You’ll make some man a swell wife when you grow up.”
She said, “I’m nineteen,” and grimaced charmingly, poured the water with a steady hand, though a deep flush came into her cheeks.
“Uh-huh. One month older than you were last month-”
“When you pushed me out of the door and told me to grow up.”
She put the empty pot down and faced him, her eyes wide and probing.
“Lord, you’re slow growing up,” he told her in a light, complaining voice, but his eyes were deep, serious.
“Maybe,” she said gravely, “you’d be surprised.”
He touched her cheek, then turned away abruptly to reach for a corkscrew.
“Want a drink?”
She said, “Of course,” behind him, and bent zestfully over the dripolator to see if the water had all passed through.
He paused, with the screw just biting into the cork. “Like that, huh? Before breakfast and everything? And when I first met you, you choked over the smell of the vile stuff.”
“It’s your fault,” she told him serenely. “It’s up to you to save me from a drunkard’s death.”
He twisted the corkscrew carefully, slid the bottle down and gripped it between his thighs and pulled steadily and with infinite patience.
“How did you get into my apartment?”
“The night clerk let me in with a pass-key. I told him I was your sister.”
Shayne chuckled. “Did he believe you?”
The cork was reluctantly letting go. Shayne eased it out cautiously.
“I don’t think so.” Her eyes twinkled. “He mumbled something about you having a hell of a lot of sisters-and all with funny visiting habits.”
“Swearing too, eh?” Shayne swung around, pointing the cork, impaled on the screw, at her accusingly.
She wrinkled up her nose and laughed at him.
“That was just quoting. I’m not very good at it yet. Hell and damn are really as far as I’ve gotten with any degree of sophistication. But I know lots more. Like-”
“Skip it,” Shayne snapped. His eyes had a hungry, yearning glint in them. “I’ll take you like you are, Angel. Don’t go getting your face dirty.”
She took a quick step forward, put her hands on his biceps.
“Why don’t you?”
“Why don’t I what?”
“Take me,” she cried, “like I am.”
Shayne’s tongue licked out to taste the witch-hazel on his lips.
He said, “Darling,” and stopped short. Beads of sweat stood on his forehead. He said roughly, “You’re crazy, and you’re damned sweet. Let’s have that drink.”
He turned from her and went into the living-room. Phyllis sighed and followed with a stubborn frown creasing her smooth brow.
Shayne took down a tiny liqueur glass and set it beside the tall wine glass he had drunk from the preceding evening. He filled them both and dropped into the chair she had been sleeping in when he entered the room. Stretching out a long arm for the large glass, he said gruffly, “Suppose you start telling me what it’s all about. Starting a month back, when I lost track of you in the shuffle.”
She sat down in a straight chair and regarded him levelly over the rim of the tiny glass.
“You didn’t have to-lose track of me. I telephoned and left my new address when I moved into an apartment.”
He made an impatient gesture. “We’re talking in circles. A man was murdered last night.”
“I-know.” Her lips paled. “Did you-the papers said-”
“That I killed Harry Grange,” he supplied cheerfully. “Why did you come here if you read the papers and knew I was supposed to be in jail?”
“Because I knew you wouldn’t stay in jail.”
Shayne grinned wryly and took a long drink.
“You were going to tell me about things, Angel.”
“There isn’t much to tell.” Phyllis lifted her glass and drank the small potion swiftly. “I followed your advice- about growing up.”
