Shayne said, “Don’t,” in a remote tone.
Gentry studied him thoughtfully. “You’re plenty tough, Mike. But Painter-I wouldn’t push him too far.”
Shayne pushed the bottle toward his friend and grinned a mirthless, fleeting grin. “Drink up.”
Gentry shook his head. “No more, thanks. Painter will be waiting for me at my office.”
“How do you and he stand?” Shayne asked abruptly.
“Well-he’s only been over on the Beach a couple of months. I don’t know him so well but I guess he’s okay. Sort of hotheaded little rooster-and he likes to play hunches.”
“Tell him not to get any more hunches about me.” Shayne ground out his cigarette as Gentry got up.
“Play it your own way,” Gentry said. “But I’m warning you, Mike. Painter’s under pressure on that new job and he’s going to break this Brighton case or else.”
“Sweet Jesus,” groaned Shayne, getting up. “Between the two of you, you’ll have me believing I slit Mrs. Brighton’s throat. Who put the finger on me in the first place?”
“I wasn’t there,” Gentry reminded him. “I just came along with Painter when he said he was coming up.”
“Pedique told him my part of it,” Shayne growled. “That was finished when we walked in and found the old lady already croaked. What makes him think I stole the girl?”
“He’s going around in circles and had to end up somewhere,” Gentry said, moving toward the door.
“Sure,” sneered Shayne. “Just like all the rest of these boy-scout dicks. He hits a tough case and feels like he has to make a pinch whether he can make it stick or not. You can tell him for me,” he added as he opened the door, “that if I had the girl I’d keep her hid out just to get his goat.”
“I think he’s already figured that out,” said Gentry thoughtfully. He stood in the corridor and took off his hat, crushing it in his hands. “Well-g’night, Mike.”
Shayne said good night and stood in the doorway and watched the Miami detective chief go down the hall and board an elevator. Closing the door he went back into the room and stopped by the table to listen intently. No sound came from the closed bedroom.
He went to the door and opened it quietly. The gentle sound of relaxed breathing came to him. He went into the room and stood beside the bed. In the dim light he could see the girl lying on her left side with her face turned to the wall. Her left arm was curled up on the pillow, and her cheek rested on it. She was breathing evenly, and he wondered if she was asleep.
He said, experimentally, “Hey.”
She did not move. The spread was pulled down, and a bare shoulder was exposed. Shayne leaned over and said between his teeth, “It’s all right. They’ve gone.”
She still didn’t move. He straightened doubtfully, shaking his head. Then he said, “Hell,” in an undertone and went to the door. He stopped there, turned, and watched her for a full two minutes. If she wasn’t asleep she was doing a good job of playing possum.
He said, “Hell,” again and went out, closing the door behind him. Then he went over to the table, pulled out the drawer, and looked down at the nightgown-wrapped butcher knife with hard eyes.
His fingers groped in the pocket of his dressing-gown and came out with the. 25 automatic. He dropped that on top of the butcher knife and closed the drawer. Then he took the empty brandy bottle, glasses, and water pitcher to the kitchen, and remembered to open the kitchen window. It would be a hot night, and at least he might as well be comfortable. Then he went into the bathroom, opened that window wide, too, and left the door open for ventilation as he came out. In the living-room he pulled the studio couch out and spread it up to sleep on. For all his profession, Mike Shayne had something domestic in him. Years of hotel rooms had made him fond of his own brand of comfort. Moving a straight chair to the head of the bed he put an ash tray, cigarettes and matches on it, lit a cigarette, and turned out the light. Sliding under the sheet, he puffed lazily, thinking about the sleeping girl in his bedroom.
CHAPTER 5
Shayne awoke early the next morning. The moment his eyes were open, he snorted and sat up to look around, then sank back and reached out a long arm for cigarette and match. Lighting it, he puffed heavily and watched the gray-blue whorls of smoke drift upward and impinge upon the ceiling. When the cigarette was finished, he shook the spread and sheet from his gaunt frame and heaved his legs over the edge of the couch. He rumpled his red hair with one hand while his feet felt about the floor for bedroom slippers and his eyes studied the closed bedroom door. When he had managed to find the slippers, he stood up, slid his feet into them, pulled on his dressing-gown, and went to the closed door.
He opened it gently.
Phyllis Brighton was still there in his bed. Asleep. He padded in quietly, made a collection of clean clothes for the day, and carried them out without awaking her. Closing the door, he went to the bathroom and shaved, came back to the living-room and dressed.
His ensuing actions were an oddly typical combination of domesticity and professional shrewdness. Shayne had learned to keep house with a minimum of required thought. Going into the kitchen, he turned on two plates of the electric stove and the top oven burner, measured out six cups of water and put them on to boil, slid four slices of bread into the oven to toast, got some little pig sausages from the refrigerator and arranged them in a heavy iron skillet which he put on one of the burners after turning it to low. All of which took him less than three minutes.
In the living-room again, he threw dressing-gown, slippers, and pajamas in the middle of the mattress and folded it over. After pushing the two halves of the studio couch together, transferring cigarettes and matches from the chair to his pocket, and setting the ash tray on the table there was no outward indication that he had not slept in his own bed. He inspected the room thoughtfully to make sure that even Painter’s sharp eyes would find nothing amiss. Then, more carefully, he pulled out the table drawer, carried the bloody butcher knife and nightgown to the kitchen, and put them down on the drainboard while he turned the sausage and looked at the toast.
With no change of manner or expression, he took the butcher knife from its flimsy wrapping, and scrubbed it thoroughly at the sink. Yanking down a dish towel, he dried the knife and chucked it in the drawer with his own kitchen utensils. Then he ran cold water in a dishpan and put the bloodied nightgown in a pan of cold water to soak.
The sausages were ready to be turned again, and the toast was browned on one side. He took care of them and measured seven heaping tablespoons of granulated coffee into the Dripolator with the same impersonal care he had just given the kitchen knife that didn’t belong in his kitchen. The water hadn’t boiled yet so he soused the nightgown up and down in its water while he watched for steam to come out of the aluminum teakettle. Shayne liked making breakfast. When the kettle boiled, he poured it in the Dripolator, turned off all three burners, set the drip pot on one, turned the sausage again, took the toast from the oven, and buttered it.
Then he soused the gown some more and rinsed it under the faucet. Wringing it out he slipped his thumbs under the shoulder bands and shook it down full length. He nodded approvingly when he saw the bloodstains had disappeared, went to the oven and tested its heat with his hand. It was warm but not hot enough to injure the fragile fabric. After carefully spreading the damp gown on the toasting-tray, he closed the oven door and left it to dry, reflecting on the convenience of being able to destroy evidence while you prepared breakfast.
Whistling softly he took down a wooden serving-tray from a shelf, split the sausages on two breakfast plates; put cups, saucers, and silverware on the tray; punched two holes in the top of a small can of evaporated milk and put it on the tray beside a sugar bowl; balanced the toast on one end and the steaming Dripolator on the other; managed to get the whole thing set right side upward on the palm of his right hand.
In the living-room he set the loaded tray on the table, pushing the cognac bottle to one end. As an afterthought, he took half a bottle of dry sherry from the cabinet and carried it to the breakfast table with two glasses. Then he went to the closed bedroom door, knocked, and opened it.
Phyllis Brighton sat up with a dazed cry of fright and stared at him. He said, “Good morning,” went to the closet and took out a flannel robe which he tossed across the foot of the bed, saying, “Get into that and come on out to breakfast. It’s getting cold.”
The bedroom door opened, and the girl emerged timidly. The bathrobe was swathed about her slender body,
