do the rest.” His eyes glittered and his voice was hard.
“All right. Sure, I’ll- No! Get out of here, you rat. Get out before I get sore.” She tottered to her feet and began to mouth out an assortment of curses.
Shayne gave her a push that sent her floundering back onto the divan.
“Think it over,” he said coldly. “Get your eyes open and think over what we’ve said.”
She lay back panting, her eyes distended with hatred and fear.
“If you don’t watch your step I’ll see if I can’t pin the murder on you,” Shayne growled. “I’m hanging the rap around somebody’s neck, and don’t forget it.”
He whirled and went from the room.
Chapter Twelve: DRUNK AS A SKUNK
When Shayne walked into the lobby of his apartment hotel the clerk had the afternoon News spread out on the desk and was reading Shayne’s statement and story, which was prominently displayed. The clerk looked up and smiled nervously when the tall detective came across the lobby with the exaggerated erectness of a man who is very drunk and knows it.
“Gee, Mr. Shayne,” the clerk said, “I’m sorry about the way I acted this morning. I’ve been reading here in the paper-”
“Still believing what you read in the papers, eh?” Shayne’s wide lips twitched. There was a brooding quality of madness in the stare of his bloodshot eyes upon the younger man. Then he made a savage gesture of impatience, dismissing the subject, and stood flat-footed, swaying a trifle from the hips. The sink between his cheek and chin bones was exaggerated into a deep gash.
“Has my wife come back-or phoned?”
“No, sir.” The clerk kept jerking his gaze away from Shayne’s face, then furtively letting his eyes slide back to a Michael Shayne he had never seen before. Finally getting hold of himself, the young man added, “But you’ve got a visitor-a client, I guess. I sent him up to your office. He wouldn’t give me his name but he looked a lot like the Thrip boy’s picture in the morning paper.”
Shayne nodded with no show of surprise. “I’ll go up, Jim.” He started to turn away, paused, and added in a flat, remote tone, “Don’t ever get married, Jim.”
The clerk gaped after him as he went straight to the elevator, which was letting a load of guests out just then. One fat lady didn’t get out of his way very fast. His shoulder swung her sideways and her escort caught her from falling, steadied her, and started after the detective with an indignant yelp, but Shayne stepped into the elevator without looking back and said, “Three,” to the operator, who shrank away from him and clanged the door shut hastily.
On the third floor Shayne’s feet traversed the familiar route to his old bachelor apartment. The door stood ajar and Ernst Thrip jumped up nervously from a deep chair when Shayne came in on heavy heels. The boy opened and closed his mouth two or three times without making any sound.
After one uninterested glance, Shayne disregarded his visitor. He moved with the precise somnambulism of habit to a wall liquor cabinet and took down a bottle of cognac and a wineglass. He brushed past young Thrip to set them on the center table, then strode into the kitchen, where he put ice cubes in a goblet, filled it from the faucet, and came back to set it beside the bottle and smaller glass. His face wore a harsh, preoccupied expression that took no notice of the other’s presence. He poured a drink, lit a cigarette, and sat down at the table with the manner of an acolyte performing a ritual of tremendous importance.
Ernst Thrip had stopped opening and closing his mouth, but the appearance of extreme youth and unintelligence clung to him even while he kept his mouth shut. He had changed from evening clothes to a tan sack suit, and dark rings in the flesh under his eyes asserted that he had not slept for a long time. Smoke curled up past his face from a cigarette in a long ornate holder and his eyelids and lips kept twitching while he waited for Shayne to acknowledge his presence.
Shayne downed a stiff drink of cognac and a swallow of water. He took a deep drag on his cigarette and let thin smoke curl out his wide nostrils. Staring across the room past Ernst Thrip, he said, “Sit down,” in a wearied, gentle tone.
The lad’s eyes brightened. He sank down in the chair he had been occupying before Shayne entered. “You acted so peculiar,” young Thrip faltered, “I didn’t know-”
Shayne said, “I’m drunk as a skunk.” He took another long drink of cognac and didn’t look at the boy.
In a high, thin voice, Ernst said, “I came to talk to you-that is-I’ve been reading what you said in the News.” He jumped up from his chair and circled it, then sat down on the edge and leaned forward to crush out his cigarette in an ash tray. His gaze clung imploringly to the detective’s harried face.
“A lot of people have been reading that stuff and getting hot flashes over it.” Shayne emptied his cognac glass and set it down.
Ernst’s long, effeminate lashes came down over his eyes in a semblance of coy confusion. He shakily inserted a fresh cigarette in his holder and lit it.
“What did you mean by it? What-did you mean?” He jumped up from his chair again, stood as if poised to make a hasty exit.
“I didn’t stutter,” said Shayne shortly.
“What makes you think that man didn’t do it?” Ernst panted. “What clues have you got?” He sat down again and puffed on his cigarette, blowing smoke out in short, jerky whiffs.
“I’m not just thinking,” Shayne told him placidly. “I know Darnell didn’t squeeze your stepmother’s throat.” He poured another drink into his glass, held it up to let afternoon sunlight spill through the amber liquid while he viewed it with unqualified approval.
“Do you know who did?”
“I’m beginning to get a damned good idea. Ultimate evaluations are eluding me for the moment. Perhaps another drink-”
Shayne lifted his glass and sipped from it with a questing look on his face. He nodded with conviction. “Yes- another drink-or two-or three-will undoubtedly remove the final barriers, roll away the nimbus of doubt and perplexity, and my brilliant intuition and talent for deduction, unhampered by mundane considerations-”
Ernst jumped up again. Excitedly he said, “You’re drunk, all right. Drunk enough to think you’re awful damn smart. I know what you think. Why don’t you come out and say it? Why don’t-”
Shayne emptied his glass and threw it hard against the wall, paid no heed to the shattered spray of flecked glass on the floor. He glared directly at the young man for the first time since entering the room and demanded:
“What in God’s name is eating you? Quit bobbing up and down like a chaperon at a picnic and say what you’ve got to say. I’ve got some drinking to do and I do it better alone.”
Ernst Thrip dropped back into his chair and stared sullenly at Shayne. “You’ve been talking to that Carl Meldrum,” he choked out. “Don’t believe anything he tells you. He’s lying to save himself. If it wasn’t that other man, I bet it was Carl. I knew he was lying when he wouldn’t let me go right up-” The youth paused suddenly, clamping a slim hand over his mouth and shrinking away from Shayne, who had come alert.
“He wouldn’t let you go right up? You mean last night when you came home?”
“No-I–I don’t know what I mean. But it wasn’t Dorothy. It couldn’t have been Dot. She’s so gentle and good-”
Shayne lunged to his feet, leaned over Ernst with lips drawn back from his teeth. “She’s gentle and good like a rattlesnake, you poor simp. You’re jealous of Carl, aren’t you? Don’t try to deny it. And this morning she was trying to get you to lie about last night. Don’t try to lie to me. You’re not cut out for lying. Spill it, kid! Spill it quick.”
“No-no! What you’re saying about Dot isn’t true.”
Deliberately, Shayne slapped him backhanded. Ernst’s head jerked sideways and he began to cry.
Shayne swayed upright. “You’re behind the eight ball, son,” he muttered, not unkindly. “You’re a fool if you protect either Dorothy or Carl Meldrum. Hell, do you think either of them would lift a finger to help you? Tell me the
