“Did you see that atrocious TeeVee series they had on the air for awhile? On Friday nights.”
“I saw a couple of them,” he admitted uncomfortably. “Don’t watch TeeVee very much.”
“I don’t either as a rule. But when I saw it announced they were making a series based on the Michael Shayne books, I just couldn’t wait. But they were terrible. Not like the books at all. They changed the characters around. Made Tim Rourke, the reporter you know, into a young whippersnapper. And they dreamed up a kid brother for his secretary. And then the actor who played Shayne! No more like him than anything. You know how Mike Shayne is described in the books. Big and tough and redheaded. Sort of like you, really. Well, I don’t mean you look tough,” she amended. “But I don’t think of Mike as looking tough either, not outwardly.”
She was turned toward him now, studying him frankly with sparkling eyes. His left hand was going up subconsciously to tug at his left earlobe in a characteristic gesture which Halliday had often described in his books, and he caught himself just in time to refrain from doing it.
He said, “Yeh. The TeeVee shows were pretty bad, all right. I guess that’s why they went off the air. Do you live in Los Angeles?”
“No. Detroit. But I’ve got a sister in Los Angeles.” She went on to tell him about her sister and her sister’s children, and Shayne was relieved when the stewardess came down the aisle taking orders for complimentary preluncheon drinks. They had no cognac, of course, and Shayne settled for Scotch and water, and after luncheon his seat-mate yawned prettily and slipped her unfinished paperback into her purse and napped the rest of the trip leaving Shayne still wondering what the strange interchange had meant, if anything.
He had no further clue by the time they reached their destination. The stewardess nudged her awake when it was time to fasten her seat belt, and she did not resume the conversation.
Neither did Shayne. He decided the whole thing was preposterous and promptly forgot about her when she disappeared ahead of him in the crowded terminal and he looked for a taxi.
It was a little after two o’clock Los Angeles time when he got in a taxi and asked the driver if he knew the Plaza Terrace Hotel in Beverly Hills. The driver hesitated and then said, “On Sunset, isn’t it?”
Shayne said, “Yeh,” and settled back to enjoy his first taxi ride in Los Angeles traffic for many years. He did enjoy it too. As he always enjoyed riding in a taxi in a strange city. This driver knew his business, by God. He had to know his business to make any sort of time through the honking, tumultuous melee that was Los Angeles.
Thus, it was two-fifty when he deposited the redhead and his briefcase in front of a quiet hotel set well back in a palm-shaded lawn off Sunset Boulevard. Shayne paid an exorbitant taxi bill and went out of the brilliant sunlight into a dimly cool lobby that looked old fashioned and genteel with a sprinkling of elderly ladies ensconced in soft- cushioned chairs.
The clerk behind the desk looked dapper and genteel. He had thin lips, a sharp nose and a beautifully tanned bald head which he shook regretfully from side to side when Shayne inquired for Elsa Cornell.
“I’m sorry, sir,” he said positively. “We have no one named Cornell.”
Shayne put his big hands flat on the counter. “I think it will be a recent registration. Possibly last night or this morning. Please check it carefully.”
The clerk shrugged to indicate that the most careful checking in the world couldn’t possibly turn up a guest named Cornell in
Shayne said, “Possibly she has left a message for me. I’ve just flown in from Miami and was to meet her here between two-thirty and three o’clock. My name is Shayne. Michael Shayne. It’s extremely important,” he added.
The clerk thumbed through some messages in a box behind the desk, and then lifted a house phone and spoke into it. Again, he turned back with a shake of his head. “There is no record of any call or message, Mr. Shayne.”
A muscle jumped in Shayne’s cheek. He pulled the envelope from his pocket, extracted the letter and checked it. “This
“It certainly is that.”
“There’s no other Plaza Terrace Hotel?”
“Not in Beverly Hills, I’m positive. Nor in the entire metropolitan area of Los Angeles to my knowledge.” Shayne drummed his knuckles lightly on the desk and glanced at his watch. He still had Miami time, slightly past six o’clock. He glanced at an electric clock on the wall to reassure himself that there was three hours difference. It said two minutes past three.
A woman came up to stand hesitantly beside him, and the clerk said. “Excuse me, sir.” And brightly, to her, “What can I do for you, Mrs. Somerset?”
The feeling of doubt and unease that had been building up inside Michael Shayne for several hours became stronger and stronger as he waited for the clerk to take care of Mrs. Somerset. When she turned away, he asked abruptly, “Do you have a house detective on duty?”
“Security Office is around the corner. Second door on your right. But I’m afraid I don’t quite see…”
Shayne lifted his briefcase and strode around the corner without waiting to find out what the clerk didn’t quite see. He rapped on the second door on his right, then turned the knob and went in.
A small man sat behind a large desk in the center of the office with a hand of solitaire spread out in front of him. He was in the act of dropping a red ten on a black jack, and he started guiltily when he saw his visitor was a stranger. He straightened up and blinked at the redhead and said aggrievedly, “I didn’t hear you knock.”
Shayne said, “Sorry.” He closed the door and advanced to the desk, dropped his briefcase beside it. “I’ve got a funny thing… wish you’d check for me.”
“You a guest?”
Shayne shook his head. “I just flew in from Miami, Florida. My name is Shayne. I had a very important appointment with a woman client who was supposed to register here under the name of Elsa Cornell and be waiting for me between two-thirty and three. The guy at the desk claims he never heard of her.”
“Claims? Why should he lie about it?”
“I don’t know.” Shayne dragged off his hat and clawed at his hair. He pulled a straight chair closer to the desk and sat down. “It’s a screwy business all around. I’ll tell you, but first how about lighting a fire under the clerk and the switchboard? Make them be damn sure there’s no message for Michael Shayne from anybody… particularly Elsa Cornell.”
“Don’t hold it against me. Light that fire, huh?”
“You bet I will. My name’s Pat Ryan.” He lifted a phone on his desk, pressed a button and spoke into it. He listened and spoke again, then pressed another button and did the same. He hung up, shaking his head. “They swear there’s nothing. I told them to put it through in here if anything came. Well, whaddayou know? Mike Shayne, huh? Just in from Miami?”
“Straight from the airport.” Shayne shrugged and got a cigarette going. “First time I’ve been this far west for God knows how many years.”
“You haven’t missed much. It’s a real rat race out here now. Little early in the day for a drink, I guess,” he said hopefully.
Shayne grinned and reminded him, “Hell, it’s past six in Miami.”
“How right you are,” chuckled Pat Ryan. He pulled a desk drawer open, apologizing, “Sorry we don’t stock cognac in this dump. If I’d known Mike Shayne was dropping in…”
He lifted out a pint bottle of rye and some paper cups. Shayne looked at the label on the bottle in distaste, and reached down to pull his briefcase closer and open it. “Cognac coming up.” He set the full fifth on the desk with a flourish and tore the foil around the cork with his thumbnail.
“By God, you’re a real boy scout,” beamed Ryan. “Be prepared, huh? Say, you like water on the side don’t you?”
“If it’s handy.”
Ryan got to his feet and hurried out with two cups which he brought back filled with water just as his telephone rang.
He picked it up while Shayne poured cognac, listened a moment and said, “Send him into my office. Shayne is right here.”
He hung up and told the redhead, “Taxi driver at the desk asking for you.”
