dangerous as a sulking tigress.
“You know all about it,” Shayne insisted. “He told me you were fixing him an out for last night.”
Mona Tabor’s tongue came out and wet the outer surface of her lips. She said, “Then he hasn’t anything to worry about, has he?”
“He sent me over to get the whole thing straight. So there won’t be any mix-up in the stories you and he tell the cops.”
“You’re lying, redhead.” She said it without rancor. “I don’t know what your game is but there’s something about you that does things to me-if you know what I mean and I’m damned sure you can guess in three tries.” She was languorous, her words were faintly slurred, and the tawny glint was in her eyes again. They were not so dark a brown as he had thought at first
Shayne shook his head impatiently. “That sort of thing isn’t going to get us anywhere. What I want-”
“I can make you want me, redhead.” She made no physical movement.
“You’re not guessing,” he agreed harshly. Sweat was standing on his forehead. He stared across the room at the wall, which he discovered was stippled in rose and blue and yellow. His hand groped for the bottle beside him. He lifted it and drank and there was perfect silence in the room.
Shayne broke the silence. “I’m a married man,” he said.
“I’m married, too, but I’m not working at it right now.”
“I’m told it lasts longer that way,” Shayne said, “but right now I’m working at it.”
“You’re the kind that would be,” Mona Tabor agreed with an undertone of bitterness.
He turned his head slowly to look at her. She had not moved a muscle of her relaxed body, yet beneath the surface tension was apparent to his wary scrutiny.
“You’re going to come over here close to me in a minute,” she told him. “You can’t help yourself, redhead. We haven’t anything to do with it. Neither of us. I think we’ll get drunk together. God! I love getting drunk in the daytime. You know what I mean-drunk!”
Shayne crossed his knees and stared down at the tips of his big shoes. He could get everything out of Mona if he went at it right. Less than three weeks ago he would have seen his job clearly and worked at it.
He lurched to his feet, grabbing his cognac bottle by the neck. “Yeh, I know what you mean,” he repeated thickly, “but I’ve got to see a dog about a man.”
“Not until you’ve had a drink with me, redhead. Just one drink and then you won’t care whether you ever see a dog or a man either.”
She was standing close to him, body muscles curved beneath the clinging silk of her robe. He dragged his eyes away from them, set his jaws hard.
She nodded triumphantly and moved away in a long-limbed stride. Shayne watched her go into an inner room and presently she reappeared with a small liqueur bottle and two gold-rimmed glasses. He watched her pour green absinthe into one glass and strode forward to put a big hand over the other glass to stop her from filling it.
“I’ll stick with my own brand,” he said, dangling the bottle before her eyes. “And before you take that drink you’d better tell me what I should say to Carl.”
“Damn Carl,” she said. She caught his wrist to pull his hand away. He gripped the glass tight enough to crush the fragile rim. The pieces dropped to the floor. Shayne looked down at blood oozing from his palm. He was too drunk to cope with this sort of thing, and he knew it.
Laughter gurgled up in Mona Tabor’s throat; she pushed her body against him and took a sip of absinthe while her wide eyes looked into his speculatively over the tilted rim.
He muttered, “I’m sorry but I’ve still got to see a man,” and started for the door in long strides.
She didn’t move to stop him. He was sure she expected him to stop of his own accord.
He didn’t. He was reaching for the doorknob when a knock sounded outside.
She cried, “No,” from behind him as he kept on reaching and got hold of the knob. With his hand grasping it he turned to glance at her over his shoulder.
She came to him shaking her coppery head, holding one crimson-tipped finger to her lips as the knock came again. “Don’t open it,” she whispered. “Whoever it is will go away. For God’s sake, redhead-”
He laughed down into her face from which self-assurance had vanished; fright was in its place. He turned the knob sharply, pulling the night-latched door wide open. The woman behind him cut short an angry remonstrance, then pressed close to Shayne as if for protection, sliding her arm about his neck. They stood like that, looking out at the tall, white-haired man who stood outside.
The man’s face was lined and weary. His deep-set eyes were haunted with tragedy. Shayne judged him to be about fifty. He was neatly dressed in flannels and a double-breasted coat with a soft shirt and a blue tie.
He stood solidly outside the threshold without making any move to enter, as if politely awaiting an invitation. His eyes studied Mona, then flickered upward to Shayne’s face.
He made no faintest show of recognition, but Shayne had a singular feeling of being recognized. The white- haired man carried a folded newspaper in his left hand, and as he looked at the detective he unobtrusively slid his right hand into the side pocket of his coat.
Shayne’s wide mouth twisted into a sour grin. He gave Mona a little push that sent her away from him, and said, “Come on in. I’m just leaving.”
The white-haired man said, “No, you’re not leaving,” scarcely moving his colorless lips but articulating with astonishing clarity. His right hand was bunched in his coat pocket and he leaned from the waist slightly, looking from Shayne to Mona and demanding:
“What are you trying to pull, anyway? I guess I wouldn’t have known he had been here if I hadn’t happened to run into him.”
“Well, what of it?” Mona Tabor’s voice was throaty with anger.
“You know what I’m talking about. Don’t try to-”
“Look,” Shayne interrupted affably, “if you’re pimping for her, don’t get any wrong ideas. She’s not holding out.”
“Keep your mouth out of this.” The man drew a short, big-muzzled gun from his pocket. He held it carelessly pointed at Shayne’s guts where it would do the most harm if it went off. His voice was gentle with that same absence of lip movement which Shayne had first noted, the words seeming to come from a point a foot or more in front of his mouth.
Shayne’s eyes narrowed and he took a step backward. He knew that brand of talk. The bartender-at the Cat’s Whiskers on Flagler Street-Joe Darnell-when others might be listening. A clever stunt learned in stir when the screws don’t permit convicts to carry on conversation openly.
Shayne decided that he wasn’t in as great a hurry to leave Mona Tabor’s apartment as he had first thought.
Mona laughed scornfully behind Shayne. “Don’t mind Buell,” she advised him. “He has no strings on me. I do what I please and-”
“Shut up,” said the white-haired man. He came through the door holding the pistol in front of him.
Mona said, “Nuts,” and moved back to the divan, where she slumped down and reached for her glass of absinthe.
Shayne kept his hands in sight and watched the man close the door firmly so that it latched. The folded newspaper which he carried was the latest edition of the Miami Daily News. Shayne had a hunch it carried the story he had given Timothy Rourke that morning.
From the divan, Mona spoke in a voice that dripped venom, “I don’t know what you think it’s going to get you to push in here flashing a rod. I’ll put the cops on you and-”
“You won’t put anybody on me any more than you maybe have already. I’m staying and this rod is staying until I find out what you’ve spilled to this copper.”
Shayne backed up toward the window seat while the man advanced. Mona sat erect and mumbled, “Copper? I don’t believe-”
“No? Didn’t you see this morning’s extra with his mug spread all over the front page? This guy is Michael Shayne. Take a gander at this story in the News”- he tossed the folded newspaper into her lap-“and see if you still think he just came here to give himself a good time!”
He turned to Shayne. His face darkened when he said, “Looking for a fall guy to take the rap for you, huh? All right. Just so you don’t make the mistake of trying to make a sucker out of me.”
