to be a party, Tim. If I’d known that…”
“I didn’t know myself, and what would you have worn different if you had known?” Rourke’s amused glance took in her neat tailored suit of blue silk with a fresh organdy blouse which she had changed into after leaving the office.
“But this isn’t a party dress.”
Shayne stopped and switched off the motor and said gruffly, “You look good enough to eat, angel. Next time I bring you to meet a wolf like Henderson remind me to make you wear that gunnysack that makes you look like Old Mother Hubbard.”
“You don’t even know the man, Michael. Yet you keep on making veiled remarks about him,” Lucy protested as they got out and circled the parked cars toward the front door.
“That’s right,” Tim Rourke averred with a curious glance at him over Lucy’s head. “What does give between you and Henderson, Mike? You asked me to set up this meeting…”
Shayne said, “Just don’t let him get you into a bedroom alone with him, Lucy.” He squeezed her arm and grinned to make the warning lighter than it sounded, but she stopped on the steps to glare at him and said furiously:
“You sound as though I make a practice of going into bedrooms with strange men.”
Shayne pulled her on up to the front door and said grimly, “Just don’t.” He put his finger on the button and the door was opened almost instantly by a maid in a neat white uniform.
There was a small entry hall behind her, and from an archway on the right flowed a loud babble of voices and laughter and the welcoming click of ice in glasses.
The maid smilingly took the men’s hats and they passed her to enter a large square room that held twelve or fifteen people in three groups, all with glasses in their hands and seemingly all talking at once.
Saul Henderson detached himself from the group nearest the entrance as they hesitated there. Shayne recognized him at once from his newspaper picture, and immediately disliked him more in the flesh than he had in his thoughts. He was of medium height with thinning dark hair, and he carried his forty-odd years with a youthful bounce that somehow managed to be irritating to the redhead. He had an ingratiating, smile that was almost effusive as he advanced with outstretched hand and exclaimed, “Mr. Rourke. How delightful that you could come. And in such charming company.”
He pumped Rourke’s hand and beamed at Lucy as the reporter introduced her, and then took Shayne’s hand firmly and squeezed it a little harder than was necessary and looked him steadily in the eye in a man-to-man way and made his voice very serious as he declared, “I’m one of your great admirers, Mr. Shayne. I’ve read everything Mr. Rourke has written about you in the papers, and I want to say quite frankly that I feel Miami is a better city for having you as a citizen.”
Shayne took his hand away from his effusive host and thrust it into his pocket for safekeeping. He said dryly, “One of your prominent law enforcement officers here on the beach wouldn’t go along with that.”
“You mean Detective Chief Painter?” Henderson threw back his head and chuckled delightedly, showing a double row of even, white teeth. “How right you are. But I mustn’t monopolize you. Come and get a drink, all three of you, and then meet my guests, who are all anxious to shake your hand.”
He took Lucy’s arm and led them to a small bar set up at the rear of the room that was presided over by a colored man in a white jacket and said hopefully,
“A sidecar, Miss Hamilton? Or don’t you go along with your employer’s choice of cocktails?”
She said, “Oh, but I do. Michael would fire me if I dared order anything else,” and Shayne stood by sardonically while the waiter efficiently mixed a shaker of excellent sidecars and filled two tall-stemmed glasses.
While Rourke lagged behind to get a bourbon and water, Henderson took them around to the various groups in the room, introducing them in the prideful manner of a man who has snagged a celebrity and insists upon everyone recognizing the fact.
Faces and names were a meaningless blur to the detective. “Jane Smith” was not among those present. Nor did he recognize anyone else whom he met. They all seemed to recognize him by reputation and he tolerantly fenced with gushing females while Lucy clung to his arm and glowed happily.
After he had dutifully made the rounds, including another foursome who arrived after them, Shayne left Lucy in the company of three young men who surrounded her admiringly, and looked around for Timothy Rourke.
The reporter, he discovered without a lot of surprise, had expertly corralled the prettiest female at the party (if you excluded Lucy) and had her blocked off in a corner of the room where he was leering at her happily and working on his third highball while he heartily agreed with her that newspaper reporters were, indeed, a daredevil and fascinating lot.
Bored by it all, and again wondering why Henderson had so obviously wanted to meet him, Shayne wandered back to the bar and secured another sidecar, then found a comfortable chair in a deserted corner of the room and sank into it gratefully, lighting a cigarette and half-closing his eyes, making his mind as blank as possible so that the waves of sound from the throats of the score or more of people in the room flowed over and through him without making direct contact.
He had been sitting like that for a few minutes when he straightened in his chair with a tingle in his spine as he saw a lone late-comer being ushered through the archway by the maid.
It was Hilda Gleason. She was dressed exactly as he had seen her before, wearing the tinted Harlequin glasses that made her look younger and less sophisticated than she was without them.
Shayne took a deep, disbelieving drag on his cigarette and held his hand up to hide the lower portion of his face while she stood just inside the archway and her gaze moved around from one group to another in the room. It moved over him without recognition, he thought, though it was difficult to tell with those glasses on, and then she smiled and moved forward gracefully as Saul Henderson went hurriedly to greet her with outstretched hand.
From his position across the room, Shayne could hear nothing they said as they stood together for a moment chatting like old friends. Then Henderson took her arm and led her toward the bar and Shayne wondered if she would ask for a stinger.
What was Hilda Gleason doing here at Henderson’s party? It made absolutely no sense if you believed the story she had told him a few evenings ago. True, there was the inexplicable connection between Muriel Graham and her missing husband. Could she possibly have managed to identify Jane Smith as Henderson’s stepdaughter, and thus come here to try and find out something about her husband?
Shayne didn’t see how she could have managed that. The girl had checked out of the hotel before Hilda came to him, and left for New York the next morning.
He kept his hand up in front of his face, broodingly sucking on his cigarette while he watched Henderson get her a cocktail at the bar (a stinger, no less, if the liqueur in the squat bottle was creme de menthe as Shayne suspected) and lead her to a group nearby and start introducing her to other guests.
At this point, Shayne found himself heartily inclined to disbelieve every word that had been said to him by both Jane Smith and Hilda Gleason. Since meeting Henderson in person he had been having more and more difficulty casting him in the role of a black-hearted seducer of his virginal stepdaughter while the mother lay dying in the adjoining bedroom. It wasn’t that he liked the man. He didn’t. He was irritated by his effusiveness and his surface charm, but he didn’t feel the really deep-rooted loathing for the man that he wanted to feel for one who had done what Jane Smith so feelingly and graphically described.
And now Hilda walked in on the party calmly, and acted perfectly at home with her host whom she certainly had not mentioned to Shayne while imploring him to locate her husband, supposedly in Miami on some secret and dangerous errand of his own.
He stayed in his chair removed from the others, watching Henderson take Hilda from group to group, getting the distinct impression that she was a stranger to the others and meeting all of them for the first time.
When they finally turned toward his corner of the room, Shayne mashed his cigarette out and got to his feet, grimly studying Hilda’s face as she was led nearer by Henderson, striving to guess whether she was as surprised by his presence as he was by hers.
Those damned glasses made it difficult. He had never before realized just how important a woman’s eyes were in helping a man judge her inner feelings. Certainly she dissembled well if she was surprised and disconcerted to see him.
There was an interested smile on her full lips and the bluish blankness of her glasses to conceal what she
