“By running around with chiselers like Harry Grange?”
She folded her hands meekly in her lap and looked at him wide-eyed.
“Not particularly with Harry. You’d be proud of me if I made out a complete list of the men who have volunteered to teach me about life with a capital L. Elliot Thomas-among others.”
Shayne’s right arm stopped rigidly with his glass halfway to his mouth.
“Elliot Thomas!”
Phyllis nodded complacently.
“He is considered quite a catch-but he’s stupid. He thinks every girl likes to be pawed after she’s had a glass of champagne.”
Shayne’s glass went on to his lips and he inhaled a deep breath of the bouquet, then drank two long swallows. He said, gently, “I’m particularly interested in Elliot Thomas. Have you been seeing him lately?”
Phyllis shook her lustrous, close-cropped head of black hair.
“Not for a couple of weeks.”
“Do you happen to be acquainted with Marsha Marco?”
Phyllis repeated the name, shaking her head again.
“I don’t think so.”
“You girls should meet,” Shayne grunted. “You’ve got a lot in common.” He finished off his drink and set the glass down, got up and went into the kitchen, asking over his shoulder, “Cream and sugar?”
“Cream-if you have it. No sugar.”
He got a half-pint bottle of cream from the refrigerator and took the coffeepot from the hot electric coil and carried them into the living-room. Making a second trip, he brought two cups and saucers and set them out in front of Phyllis.
“You can pour.”
She filled the cups with steaming black coffee and handed one to Shayne.
“Who is Marsha Marco-and what have we in common?”
He stared across the room somberly.
“Tell me exactly what happened after I saw you last night.”
“I was mad as-as hops at you,” she told him. “Mostly because you had showed Harry up when I thought he was just what he pretended to be-”
Shayne nodded impatiently.
“I knew you were mad. Did you catch Grange?”
“Yes-that is-I did and I didn’t.”
When Shayne didn’t say anything, she hurried on to explain, “He had gotten in his car and was just driving away when I came out. I called to him and thought he heard me because he slowed down and stopped. I started walking to his car, but another girl got in ahead of me-and they drove away.”
“Was she wearing a red dress?”
“I-don’t know. There was just the moonlight and I didn’t see her very plainly.”
She paused as if some secret thought perplexed her.
“Well?” Shayne hunched forward, sipping his coffee.
“Well, I stood there for a moment practicing some of my best swear words on Harry, then a car drove up and stopped and it was Elliot Thomas. He was partially sober, and I asked him to drive me home.”
“That all?”
“That’s all. About midnight I heard the radio report that Harry had been murdered and you had been arrested. I remembered that you had threatened to break his neck when we were in the office of that gambling joint. I called the Miami Beach police and they wouldn’t tell me anything. Then I went out and bought a newspaper and-well, I got panicky and came over here and-and waited for you.”
“Then you didn’t see Grange after he left Marco’s office?”
“Marco?”
“John Marco. The gambler.”
“You mentioned a girl-”
“Marsha Marco. His daughter.” Shayne’s gray eyes gathered suspicion as he looked at her. “Say-are you stalling-trying to get away from the main subject?”
“No.” Her eyes were wide and candid. Her head moved almost imperceptibly from side to side. “I didn’t see Harry again. That is, to speak to him.”
Shayne got up abruptly and went into his bedroom where he fished around in his soggy coat pocket and found the handkerchief he had picked up at the murder scene. He carried it back into the living-room and handed it to Phyllis.
“Is that yours?”
She picked it up by one corner and held it up for inspection. “No,” she said with decision. “Why?”
“Maybe nothing. Maybe a hell of a lot.” Shayne sat down and shoved his empty cup over for a refill with the request, “Not too full this time. Leave room for the royal.”
“What’s that?”
“Coffee royal,” he explained. He took the cup from her and, carefully floating brandy on top, went deeper into the subject. “Coffee royal is what used to make kings kingly-before dictators started dictating.”
He leaned back, sipping the pungent mixture thoughtfully, shaking his head while a scowl of irritation spread over his angular face.
“What do you mean about the handkerchief? Is it important? A clue or something?” Phyllis asked.
“I’ll be damned if I know, Angel.” He smiled briefly. “I’m glad it isn’t yours. Preposterous as it sounds, it would appear that three men have died during the last twelve hours because of that little square of cloth.”
“Not-not actually?”
Her eyes were round with awe. She wanted to know why and how and when and where, but he shook his head at her questions, insisted that he didn’t know himself.
When they finished their coffee, he told her she had better go back home.
“And don’t do anything foolish,” he admonished her gently. “I’d just as leave have you keep on living.”
She faced him near the doorway with very bright eyes. “You’re keeping something from me,” she accused. “What makes you think I might be in any danger?”
“Just a hunch,” he insisted. “What I mean is-stay out of dark alleys and don’t go riding with strange men.” He paused, then added irrationally, “You haven’t met a mug named Chuck Evans in your meanderings, I suppose.”
“No-not that I recall.”
He muttered, “I didn’t suppose you would have. It’s too much to ask for something to make sense.” He slid his arm around her shoulders and moved her toward the door. “Strange as it seems,” he said lightly, “I have to work for a living.”
“Are you working on a case?”
“Not yet. Not until I see the glint of a stray dime that may be in it for a guy named Mike Shayne.”
He grinned and squeezed her shoulders, released her and went to the door to look down the hall. He turned back and tilted her face and kissed her lips.
“Run along now. Nice to have seen you again, sister. Do come back some time when you have more news of mom and pop and all the girls.”
He looked into the hall again, saw that it was empty, and gave her a little shove through the door. She turned to make a grimace at him, but the door was already closed.
Chapter Eight: THE EMPTY ROOM
SHAYNE SAT DOWN in a straight chair at the table and pushed coffeepot and cups back to clear a space in front of him. He opened a drawer and got out a sheet of blank paper and a pencil, lit a cigarette and started writing:
1. Who telephoned last night? Could it have been Grange disguising his voice?
