“No, the boys in the press corps think it can still go either way, depending on how mean Kendrick feels tomorrow. The father, not the son.”
“Is he here?”
“The father? No, he’s gone home for the night, back to the somnolent little town of Leesville, where life is so much simpler. Maybe so he won’t be spattered if garbage starts flying here. What’s your plan, Mike? I ought to know so I can back you up if you need me.”
“Plan? You’re kidding.” Shayne drew on his cigarette once more and pitched it away. “All I can do is show up and see who starts running. But I hope nobody offers me any cognac, because I’d have to turn it down.”
He now had a reasonably accurate notion of the inside of the darkened building. There was one main room with a high ceiling and an open balcony leading to the bedrooms. The sloping shed-roof of the kitchen ell ran up to within a few feet of the bedroom windows. He had to use his flashlight only once. In the angle of the ell, outside the door to the kitchen, there was a neat stack of logs, cut to fireplace length. He slid the sawhorse against the wall. Stepping up on it, he pulled himself to the sloping roof.
There were four bedrooms. All the windows were open, with sliding metal screens. No lights showed inside. He inched up to the first window and listened. He heard a low whisper, the creak of a bed.
The next room seemed empty. The door to the balcony was ajar, showing a narrow rectangle of dim light from the big room below.
Working slowly and carefully, Shayne removed the screen and slid inside. He waited again after replacing the screen. Crossing the room, he pulled the door shut and turned on his flashlight. At some point during the evening, the bed had been used. There were stale drinks on the table beside the bed, an overflowing ashtray, the reek of whiskey.
He hesitated, scraping his chin. He was getting a strong signal from somewhere. He directed the light around the room slowly, picking out the spare country furniture, a calendar on the closet door, the objects on the bedside table. He came back to the calendar. It was turned to the wrong month, not in the past but in the future. He dropped the light to the carpet, and saw a dark stain which seemed to originate from the crack at the bottom of the closet door. Stooping, he touched his finger to the stain and sniffed; it was nothing but whiskey.
He turned the doorknob carefully. As soon as the latch was free, the door came back hard and a seated figure toppled out.
Shayne let the door open all the way and pulled the man over on his back.
It was Senator Sheldon Maslow, and he had looked more like a rising politician that morning than he did now. His hair was the only thing that was still neat-perhaps the long, careful crest was held in place with spray. In other respects he had gone downhill. His tie was gone, his clothes were rumpled and dirty. He had dropped a burning cigarette in his lap-the leg of his expensive pants had charred through.
He was breathing harshly. He groaned in his sleep and turned on one side. There was a crunching sound. Shayne checked his jacket and found the shards of an infra-red bulb.
He poked around in the closet with his flashlight. There was an empty fifth of bourbon on the floor, a small brace and bit, but no sign of a camera. Two holes had been bored through the closet door. The calendar on the outside of the door hung from a long U-shaped wire. At the moment the holes were covered, but they could be unblocked by manipulating the calendar from inside.
Shayne left Maslow where he was, turned out the flashlight and let himself out in the dark. There was a key in the door, but after a brief hesitation he decided to leave it unlocked.
Standing on the balcony, he looked over the rustic railing into the big room below. It was lighted by a single candle. A poker game had been underway at the central table, in front of the fireplace, but it had broken up when the lights went off. The green felt was littered with cards and chips. Only one man remained at the table, working at a game of solitaire. Three other men were arguing in front of a small highboy, loaded with bottles. The girls were scattered about, several together, several with men.
He smelled pot, and turned.
A girl stood watching him. She was blonde and tall. Lifting her homemade cigarette, she sucked in the smoke, her eyelids flickering, and let it out luxuriously, with the semireligious expression of the dedicated pot-smoker.
“Elegant.”
Swaying away from the wall, she offered Shayne a drag. He accepted, hoping his recovery was far enough along so one lungful wouldn’t knock him off the balcony.
“I’m hallucinating,” the girl said, speaking with a marked English accent. “I was told all the men would be politicians. You’re not in politics.”
“Are you sure?”
She waved the cigarette lazily. “Quite sure. You have a certain air. A sort of impatience. You are not the type to sit quietly for hours upon hours, while a pack of Bedlamites split hairs about the difference between
“And not only that,” Shayne said, “you saw me on the six-thirty news.”
She came toward him slowly. She was wearing a simple white dress with a deep slit at the neck, and she was put together like a champion. She raised one hand dreamily and touched his face.
“Extrasensory. On the six-thirty news. Talking about gambling houses in Nevada. I saw you on a black-and- white screen, so without the red hair. Michael Shayne. What are you doing here, Michael Shayne, spying on us?”
“Yeah. Sam seems to be asking for it. And what are you doing here?”
“Never mind about me. I am a hostess, the U.S. equivalent of the Japanese geisha. I am paid two hundred dollars to make a relaxed atmosphere. And at this precise point in time I have a very nice high, can you notice?”
“The light’s not too good.”
“Are you interested in what I’m called?”
“I’d better have it for the record.”
“Anne Braithwaite. And now where does my duty lie? You are clearly an enemy, not really an enemy but in the pay of the enemy. You really shouldn’t be permitted to walk around observing and taking notes. I think you and I should find an unoccupied bedroom and you should let me distract you. I promise you it would be quite jolly.”
There was a disturbance beneath them. Voices greeted Sam Rapp, coming in from another room with a lighted kerosene lamp. He put it on the poker table.
“Who wants to play some cards?”
The words were spoken with forced gaiety, as though Sam, too, wasn’t sure he was in the right role. He was a small, leathery old man, with a skeptical manner and heavily pouched eyes.
He made another effort. “Anybody wants a drink, you know where to find it. Matt, you can use a freshener.”
Matt McGranahan, a citrus senator, was orating quietly to a girl on a wicker couch near the door. Interrupting himself, he waved his drink, and spilled some of it.
“Sam, you’re a doll. Tremendous party. Lovely young ladies.”
The room was much brighter since the addition of the kerosene lamp. Shayne, above, was able to pick out several other familiar faces, including one of the senators he had testified before that morning. In the group at the makeshift bar, he recognized a lobbyist named Phil Noonan, who represented the savings and loan banks.
The girl took Shayne’s arm and pulled it against her breast. “You didn’t hear a word I was saying.”
“Something about an empty bedroom.”
“Michael Shayne, will you please pay serious attention? The party is only just now getting underway. Don’t rush it. The first edginess is beginning to wear off. Look at me.” She rose and kissed him, bringing her other hand around to the back of his head. He let it happen.
“You moron,” she said. “Someone should look out for you. If you wander downstairs and start listening in on conversations you’re bound to be sat on. Don’t you realize that?”
“By Sam?”
“By Sam and a few of his friends, who are now getting quietly squiffed in the kitchen. Then there’s the local- fuzz, do you call it? — with their guns and their whistles and their leather boots.”
She sucked once more at the fragment of cigarette, and ground it underfoot.
