here’s something you may want: Your Carl Meldrum hangs out at the Tally-Ho a lot.”
Shayne asked, “What else have you turned up on Meldrum?”
“Damn little. He pays his hotel bill and sleeps there once in a while. He’s got half a dozen dames on the string, including the Thrip girl. From rumors, he may be on the junk or maybe he just feeds it to his women to loosen them up. No dope on Renslow. I’ve wired Colorado and I’m still trying to get touch with the Renslow estate lawyers.”
Shayne said, “Thanks, Will. Keep on trying.” He paused, then asked throatily with a hint of anxiety telling in his voice, “You haven’t got a tail on Meldrum, have you?”
“No. I sent a man over after you left but Meldrum had gone out with some frail. Not one of his regulars, according to the hotel help, but the way she was hanging onto him they guessed she would be before the day was over.”
Shayne said, “Thanks,” again and hung up. His hand stayed on the telephone while he looked broodingly down at the unmade bed. The covers were thrown back from Phyllis’s side and her pillow still held the dent her head had made. The red pajamas were tossed over the foot of the bed. Shayne took two long steps forward and stooped to touch the pajamas with the tips of his fingers. He shook his head and laughed for his own benefit. The laugh was directed at one Michael Shayne, hard-boiled private dick who refused to let life touch him. The laugh ended in a deep gurgle in his throat.
After a while he went out of the bedroom and closed the door behind him. He got his hat and coat and slid the bottle of cognac into his pocket, then went down in the elevator, stalked through the lobby, and got in his car to drive north to Little River.
At the suburban section at Seventy-Ninth Street and Northeast Second Avenue he turned north on the avenue and drove slowly past two blocks of business buildings. Mona Tabor’s apartment house was on a side street half a block from the avenue, a neat three-story stucco building with an impregnable atmosphere of respectability, set back in the middle of a lawn. Gaily striped garden chairs in palm-shaded spots about the lawn were occupied by lounging groups of young and middle-aged women in slacks or shorts who were keeping negligent eyes on their sun-suited youngsters playing on the grass in the bright sunlight.
Shayne parked just beyond a wide concrete walk and got out stiffly. He dragged the brim of his hat down against the sun’s glare and went up the walk toward the entrance. The chattering of the women on the grounds stopped and he knew they were watching him, sizing him up with the universal interest of bored matrons.
He walked on into the coolness of a large, comfortable lobby green with potted palms, straight past the desk to an elevator in the rear. A Negro operator wearing a red pillbox hat slid the door shut behind Shayne and looked at him questioningly with black pupils swimming in white orbs.
Shayne said, “Miss Mona Tabor,” and curiosity flickered in the lad’s comical eyes, went away when Shayne stared at him with hard blankness. The boy manipulated the lever and the elevator rose smoothly to the third floor. He opened the door and gestured down a wide hall to the right. “Down yonduh, suh, at th’ee-o-six, but I don’ reckon Miss Mona done got up yit.”
Shayne got out without replying and went to the end of the hall, where he stopped in front of 306. The elevator door did not close until he knocked, but he did not look back to see the curious black and white eyes watching him. He waited for the silence in upper hall and room to be broken by footsteps coming toward the door.
The silence continued. He tried the knob and it wouldn’t turn under his hand. He knocked louder and more authoritatively and waited again. He took a drink from the cognac bottle and his eyes became brighter.
He knocked twice again before he heard the sound of heels clacking on the floor inside. He kept on waiting and presently the door opened inward a few inches.
He put his shoulder against the door and went in past a woman wearing a rich red and yellow silk kimono of Oriental design who was pushed back by the opening of the door but who made no great effort to hold it against him.
Little light filtered into the living-room past the drawn curtains of two wide south windows. The atmosphere was heavy with the sweetish odor of perfume or incense, overlaid with a peculiar scent that was irritatingly familiar to the detective but one which he couldn’t immediately name.
He strode directly across the room and drew back one of the draperies, then lifted the window to let in fresh air.
Mona Tabor was closing the door as he turned back from the opened window. She was a tall woman with a willowy grace which bespoke firm flesh and inward poise. She looked an assured thirty-five and there was a hint that some of her earlier years might have been tough ones. She wore no make-up on her strong regular features but there was deep natural color that tinted her smooth cheeks, and full lips took color from the flaming crimson of her robe. Coppery hair was brushed directly back from a wide, smooth forehead and the same metallic glint showed in thick eyebrows and long lashes above the brown eyes which calmly appraised this intruder.
Shayne took off his hat before her cool appraisal and rubbed a calloused hand over his coarse red hair, waiting for her to speak.
She didn’t say anything. Her attitude was wary though not hostile. She stood facing him with an impersonal directness which simply questioned his presence.
Shayne grinned disarmingly after a time and said, “You’re okay, sweetheart.” He lounged down on a padded window seat and tossed his hat on a brocaded divan.
Mona’s left shoulder lifted slightly and her lips curved in a not unfriendly smile. She said, “Maybe you are too,” her gaze catching the reflected flame of sunlight on his red hair. She added, “Maybe not,” as an afterthought and moved across to the divan.
When she sat down, Shayne saw that she was short-waisted with a pair of the longest legs he had ever seen.
She leaned back gracefully, letting her head lie so that chest muscles lifted high breasts against the silken fabric. She looked down her straight, nice-sized nose at Shayne with a hint of mockery in her eyes.
Shayne held her gaze unwaveringly. He said, “I’m okay, all right. I’m a friend of Carl’s.”
She showed no sign of being impressed. Her expression did not change when she said, “That doesn’t prove a damned thing.”
Shayne asked, “Doesn’t it?” He was digging in his pocket for a cigarette and he looked away. When he got the pack out she was holding flame-tipped fingers toward him.
Shayne stuck a cigarette in his mouth and shook another from the pack for her. She didn’t move and he had to take three steps to give it to her. She looked up searchingly into his face while he lit a match and held the flame to her cigarette.
Her brown eyes were slumbrous, conveying the same hint of passion in repose that her body and position cried out. There was no odor of perfume about her, and Shayne liked that, but her parted lips exuded that half- familiar scent he had noticed strongly when entering the room.
He took a step backward to light his own cigarette and her gaze lingered on the strong, harsh lines of his face. She patted the divan beside her. “It’s more comfortable here than by the window.”
Shayne shook his head and muttered. “Thanks.” He retreated to the safer position and sat down, reminding her, “I told you I was a friend of Carl’s.”
She said, “How nice.” Her tone was mocking, and it was as though claws had been momently unsheathed.
Shayne knew that she was a dangerous woman. Dangerous as hell. An intelligent woman with no scruples. A woman who could easily destroy a man. He recognized the tantalizingly familiar odor from her lips now. It was the strong unnerving smell of absinthe, and he knew now that Meldrum had been under the influence of the green stuff that morning.
He drew the cognac bottle from his pocket and worried the cork with his teeth while she watched. Perfunctorily, he asked, “Have a drink?” then tipped it to his mouth when she shook her copper-colored head as he had known she would.
The drink steadied him. He set the open bottle on the floor beside him and growled, “Carl sent me to get things straight with you. You know the spot he’s in.”
She didn’t reply. A tawny glint came into her eyes and went away while she waited for him to go on. She took a deep drag on her cigarette and smoke flowed smoothly out of her nostrils. She was as quiescent and as
