into it.
He snatched his keys from the ignition and leaped out, trotted across the street, disregarding the angry voice of the driver whose rightful place he had preempted.
When he reached the opposite sidewalk, he thought for a moment that he was too late, that Jean had turned in one of the many store entrances along the street where he might never find her again, but as he plowed forward through the stream of pedestrians, he saw her half a block ahead and he breathed more easily.
She was sauntering along looking in the shop windows, and Shayne came up behind her fast. He slowed into step beside her and looked down at the spreading brim of straw that hid her face, and then without speaking he took her bare upper arm in a firm grip and stopped her on the sidewalk.
A gasp of astonishment came from beneath the hat brim and she turned to look up at him indignantly.
He had never seen this girl before in his life.
15
She was about twenty-five, with a plump, over-rouged face. Her mouth was small and petulant, but the indignation in her blue eyes slowly faded away as she looked the rangy red-head up and down.
Damn it, he couldn’t be mistaken about the dress. There couldn’t be two exactly alike in a town like Brockton. It was obviously hand-embroidered even to Shayne’s untutored eye, not at all the sort of thing that came off a New York assembly line.
She said, “Well…?” and looked down at his big hand still tightly holding her bare arm.
He didn’t let go. He said with a slow grin, “At the risk of sounding trite… I did actually mistake you for someone else.”
From her expression, he gathered that she didn’t know the meaning of the word trite. But she was also apparently willing to be lenient about his mistake. She tossed her head coquettishly and said, “Whyn’t you run along then and look for her some more?”
Shayne said, “Why bother? Now that I’ve found you? How about letting me buy you a drink to make up for my rudeness?”
“Why, I wouldn’t mind, I guess. “Not,” she added sedately, “that I drink with strange men as a rule. But seeing you did make a mistake like you say…”
Shayne looked up the street and saw a sign, COCKTAIL LOUNGE, a few doors up. His fingers tightened on her arm to turn her toward it and he fell into step beside her. “This place be all right? I’m a stranger in Brockton,” he added.
“Sure. The Elite’s real nice. I figured you must be new here, on account I never saw you around before.” She rolled her blue eyes up at him from under the drooping brim of her hat. “And you don’t look like Brockton,” she added, “if you know what I mean.”
He said gallantly, “And you don’t either, if you know what I mean.” He guided her through the door into the dim interior of a cocktail lounge that had red leather benches all around the walls with rows of small tables set close together in front of them.
“I’m not really,” she said with a toss of her head as they sat down in a corner by themselves. “Kind of nice little one-horse town, though. Quiet and easy-like if you’re tired of cities like I was. I been around plenty. West Coast and all over.” She gestured vaguely, leaning both elbows on the table and pushing her pouting mouth forward to let him insert the end of a cigarette between her lips.
A waitress came up to their table and Shayne looked at her with ragged red eyebrows lifted enquiringly as he put a lighted match to the other end of her cigarette. She drew in smoke and let it curl languidly from her nostrils and asked, “Could I have a rum Old-Fashioned, Miss? You know, you make it with rum instead of…”
“One rum Old-Fashioned,” said the waitress.
“And a double brandy,” said Shayne. “Imported if you have it. Ice water on the side.”
He looked at the girl with all the approval he could muster and told her, “I knew right away you didn’t belong in Brockton. Just by that dress you’re wearing for one thing. You didn’t buy that in any store here.”
“N-n-o.” She looked down at the dress with distinct pleasure. “I’m glad you like it. It’s one of my… uh…it sure has got real class, hasn’t it?” she ended complacently.
“Looks like a million dollars. Mexican, isn’t it?”
“Uh… oh sure. That’s right it is. What’d you say your name was?”
“Mike Shayne.” He watched her round face but observed no reaction. “What do I call you?”
“Flo.” She giggled. “That is, you can if we’re going to get real well acquainted. And I bet most of the girls call you Red.”
The waitress brought their drinks. When she deposited them and went away, Shayne lifted the brandy glass to his nose and sniffed deeply. It was cognac. Hennessey, he thought, but still cognac.
“Whereabouts in Mexico?” he pursued. “You ever live there?”
“Tia Juana, I think it was. I was there to the races once with this actor fellow from Hollywood. Gee, he was a card. Five and ten dollar bets on every race.” Her voice was awed. “But not stuckup a bit. A real good Joe.” She drank half her drink and set the squatty glass down. “What’s your line… Red?”
He said, “I’m a detective.”
“You wouldn’t kid me, I bet.” She giggled. “Like the nannygoat said to the Billy.”
Shayne said flatly, “I wouldn’t kid you, Flo. That’s why the dress you’re wearing interests me so much. You see, it wasn’t you I recognized on the street. It was that dress. I’m working on a case involving the theft of a whole shipment of expensive Mexican hand-embroidered dresses just like that one. You didn’t buy that in Tia Juana.”
Her expression was first frightened and then outraged. “Who says I didn’t?”
“I do.”
“You can’t prove it.” Her voice was shrill. She looked down and gulped the rest of her drink. “Aw, you’re just kidding,” she appealed to him. “You’re no more a detective than I’m the Duchess of Windsor. I don’t like cops and I can spot one a mile off,” she added candidly. “You can bet your bottom dollar I wouldn’t be sitting here letting you buy me a drink if you was one. I just don’t like cops.”
Shayne said, “I’m private. Maybe that makes a difference, Flo.”
Her blue eyes rounded into more perfect circles. “You mean one of them private eyes that goes around slapping dames and tearing their clothes off? Like that Mike Hammer in the movies?”
Shayne said, “Not exactly like Mike Hammer, Flo. But I still want to know where you got the dress you’re wearing.”
“I already told you.”
“A lie.” Shayne held up one finger to the waitress and nodded to the girl on the leather bench beside him. “I don’t accuse you of stealing it, Flo, but there’s a big reward offered if I catch the gang that snatched them. Maybe some boy-friend gave it to you. Tell me the truth and no one will ever know you’re the one that gave me the tip.”
She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue and stared down at the table as another drink was placed before her.
“How big a reward is it?”
“Big enough,” Shayne told her promptly, “that I can spend a piece of cash for information.” He got out his wallet and extracted a twenty. Flo’s eyes glinted as he folded it twice length-wise and held it carelessly on the table between the first two fingers of his left hand.
“I’m not any stool-pigeon,” she gulped. “I wouldn’t want to get anybody in any trouble.”
“Likely as not the person you got it from is just as innocent as you are,” Shayne encouraged her. “But it may be the lead I need to get onto the trail of the real crooks. You’d even be doing her a favor, most likely,” he went on persuasively. “Give her a chance to pick up one of these for her information.” He wagged the bill on the table and her eyes settled on it greedily.
“How do you know it was a her?” she objected. “You said awhile ago maybe my boy-friend gave it to me.”
“But I didn’t really believe it. You don’t look like the sort of girl to run around with crooks. It was a girl, wasn’t
