Shayne let him continue three blocks in that direction, watching through the rear window without seeing anything that gave him reason to think he was being followed. Actually, he felt the whole thing was pretty silly by this time, and he settled back and told the driver, “I’d like to go to the Cock and Bull, if you don’t mind?”
“Why should I mind?” the driver asked cheerfully, “That’s what I’m here for… to take people where they want to go. It’s my pleasure, sir. And the way I make a living. The way I look at it,” he went on earnestly, weaving expertly in and out of traffic, “I’m here to serve the people that honor me by riding in my cab. Don’t you agree to that?”
Shayne lit a cigarette and chuckled aloud. “Some drivers don’t feel that way.”
“Then they shouldn’t be driving cabs. If they don’t enjoy meeting the public and making the day pleasanter for everyone, they shouldn’t be granted a hacker’s license. Don’t you agree?”
Shayne said that he did agree, and all the way up Sunset Strip he was treated to a homily on the very fine class of people who rode cabs in Los Angeles, and how freehearted and generous they were with their tips.
Consequently, he tipped the man a dollar when he was finally deposited in front of the Cock and Bull, and got and affable, “God bless you, Mister,” in return for his money.
The interior of the restaurant was dark and cool and quiet, decorated to resemble a better-class English pub. Shayne checked his briefcase, strolled into the bar and looked carefully around the small, pleasantly masculine room. There were three couples seated at tables, along with groups of men in twos and threes, and there were half a dozen men on bar stools. No honey-blondes, and no unescorted women at all.
He started for the bar, then changed his mind and searched out the men’s room instead. There was a comfortable lounge equipped with a public telephone, and he tried Lucy Hamilton’s number again without success. He was a little surprised when she still didn’t answer. It was well after eight o’clock in Miami, and he had an irrational feeling of annoyance with Lucy because she wasn’t sitting at home waiting for him to call. She would be, he knew morosely, if she hadn’t gone out to dinner.
And she never went out to dinner alone. She much preferred fixing a simple meal in her own apartment.
So, she had a dinner date. No reason she shouldn’t, of course, but he was disappointed in her none the less. He had promised her that he would call. Granted that he had nothing to report as yet, but she had no way of knowing that. Suppose there were something important…?
He broke off that train of thought, grinning at himself ruefully as he went back to the bar. He was jealous, goddamn it. Just a little bit jealous of that unknown guy who had taken Lucy out to dinner as soon as his back was turned.
More tables were occupied now, and there were only a few vacant stools at the bar. One of those was beside a woman who appeared to be alone.
She was a blonde, even if her hair was not authentically honey-colored. Approaching her from the rear, Shayne wondered if a taxi driver would describe her as juicy.
Could be, he decided. There was a nice lushness about her figure that couldn’t quite be called plump. He sat beside her and drew in a deep breath. She was wearing a faint scent that he didn’t
He ordered a sidecar and glanced down at her right hand that negligently held an old-fashioned glass. It was a firm, smooth hand with tapering fingers that ended in nicely-manicured but garishly red nails.
There was no mirror behind the bar in which he could see her reflection, so when his drink was served he turned his head to glance aside at her as he lifted it, and caught her looking at him with disconcerting frankness. She had pleasant features, but she was hardly the knockout that Joe Pelter had described with such enthusiasm.
She colored slightly when his eyes met hers, and turned her head hastily to look straight ahead.
Her profile was better than full face, and he took his time studying it over the rim of his glass. She was in her thirties, all right, but she didn’t remind him of anyone he had known ten years before.
She glanced back and found him still looking at her, frowned slightly and said in a low, melodious voice, “I don’t know you, do I?”
It could be the same voice he had recently heard over the telephone at the Brown Derby but, like the scent she was wearing he couldn’t be sure.
He said, “I don’t know. I was wondering the same thing myself. I’m from out of town.” He paused to take a sip of his drink. It was good, but not quite as good as those he had been served at the Brown Derby. “From Miami,” he added deliberately.
She looked away with a little shrug, as though to indicate the subject did not interest her… and probably to convince him that she wasn’t an easy bar pick-up.
Shayne lit a cigarette and drew on it deeply, wondering, now, how well Elsa Cornell knew him… whether she would recognize him at first glance or whether she had only an illusive ten-year-old memory to guide her.
He thought back over what the captain had told him. Had she seen him at his table when she came into the Brown Derby and was frightened by the sight of another man? One of
But if it was Elsa seated beside him, the word “Miami” should have identified him to her.
She finished her drink and slid off the stool and sauntered toward the door. Shayne turned his head and watched her depart, again recalling more of Joe Pelter’s words: “She don’t sling it around for you to look at. It’s there, and she knows you know it’s there, but that’s all.”
Well, it could be, Shayne decided judiciously. There was something quite ladylike about her erect posture, her walk. But what kind of cat and mouse game was she playing? If she expected him to follow her…
Then a real honey-blonde entered the room in a sort of breathless rush, and stopped very still to look about hopefully.
This, Shayne knew with a sudden, unmistakable conviction, was the woman who had brought him out to Los Angeles. His luck was holding good. She was a real knockout. He mentally apologized to Joe Pelter for ever having thought the woman who had just left the stool beside him could possibly be Elsa Cornell.
She was quite tall and she held herself proudly just inside the doorway as she openly and coolly inventoried the male occupants of the room. She wore a clinging black sheath dress with a crimson sash and a crimson silk scarf at her throat. She was about thirty-five, and she had full, bold features. Even at that distance Shayne could almost swear that he smelled her distinctive perfume.
When her slowly moving gaze met his she hesitated momently, but she did not smile or give any sign of recognition. Her eyes moved on along the backs of the other men at the bar, and she completed a full circuit of the room before moving.
Then she did not look at Shayne, although he continued to stare at her openly. She dropped long, dark lashes demurely over her eyes and walked with sinuous grace directly to the empty stool beside him.
He did smell her distinctive perfume now with certainty. It was not too strong. Thank God she had not doused herself with it as she had her letter.
She sat beside him and glanced fleetingly at his cocktail glass, and then told the bartender, “I will have a sidecar, please,” and she had the sort of warmly intimate voice that made the request sound as though she were inviting the man into bed with her… and Shayne knew happily that this was going to be quite an evening.
5
“Do you like them too?” asked Shayne in a tone of politely surprised interest. “That’s quite a coincidence, isn’t it?”
She glanced at him obliquely, as though she wasn’t quite certain what he meant, and he wondered if she supposed for a moment that he hadn’t got a full description of her from the taxi driver… had not recognized the perfume she was wearing.
Then she said, “Oh? Sidecars, you mean? Is that what you’re drinking? It is a coincidence.” She opened her handbag on the bar and groped inside for a thin gold cigarette case, opened it and extracted a cigarette. Watching her with interest, Shayne caught a glimpse of green that came out with the cigarette.
