him. The heavy door opened at the turn of the knob and they went into a long carpeted hallway. A burst of music came from beyond the partition, and there were loud voices and laughter.
Midge turned him to the right and led him to a stairway. “They gamble in the back upstairs,” she told him in a conspiratorial whisper, “and they say you can order most anything you want served in the private rooms.”
Shayne climbed the stairs with her and didn’t probe further into the suggested evils of the upstairs rooms. A dark-featured man wearing a white mess jacket lounged at the top of the stairway. He nodded woodenly to Midge and led them to a closed door at the end of a row of closed doors. He opened it onto a dimly lit cubicle with a small table set for two. There was an overstuffed couch in the room and a deep club chair in the opposite corner. The man said, “I’ll send a boy right up,” and went out, closing the door behind him.
Shayne stood in the center of the small, intimately furnished room and rumpled his coarse hair. “It’s a nice quiet place for high-school youngsters to do their consorting,” he observed dryly. “Lots more fun learning the facts of life here than by observing bees and flowers.”
Midge’s laugh was constrained, as though she didn’t quite know whether to take him seriously. She dropped onto the couch and took a compact from her purse, examined her face in the tiny mirror.
Shayne saw that she was older than she appeared in the moonlight and by the faint light on the instrument board. At least twenty-five. She was tall, and had extremely nice legs. The heels of her black suede slippers were run down, and the backs of her hands showed clearly that they were used for hard work.
When a discreet knock sounded on the door, Shayne swung around and opened it. A middle-aged waiter entered bearing a menu, but Shayne waved him aside. He asked the girl, “Would you like champagne?” and she clasped her hands to breathe, “Oh-yes.”
“Domestic,” Shayne ordered grimly. “Thirty-four or thirty-five-and bring me a triple slug of cognac in a beer mug. Martell, if you have it.”
The waiter bowed and withdrew. Midge patted the couch beside her. “Sit here beside me. He’ll pull a table up for us when he brings the drinks.”
Shayne sat down, leaving a foot of space between them. He glanced past the table to a closed inner door and growled, “Where does that lead to?”
Midge followed his glance. Color crimsoned her cheeks. “I think that’s a-a lavatory.”
“You seem to know a hell of a lot about the setup,” Shayne commented in a thoroughly disagreeable tone. “For a girl who knows her way around like you do, I can’t quite feature you walking home from the buggy ride.”
Her eyes lowered swiftly to her tightly clasped fingers. She drew her breath in with a little gasp and said sharply, “Just because I know about things is no reason for you to think I’m-bad.”
Shayne laughed aloud at her naive choice of the word. As yet he had no idea why he had been steered to the private room, but he was evidently going to have a few laughs finding out. He stopped laughing and assured Midge, “On the contrary, I think you’re pretty damned nice.”
He got up and wandered to the closed inner door, turned the knob without result. Midge watched him with eyes clearly frightened now. She murmured. “It’s-I think it’s connected with the next room too. They’ve locked it from the other side.”
Shayne’s eyes narrowed but he said nothing. He returned to sit beside the girl and called, “Come in,” when a knock sounded on the outer door.
The waiter had a split of domestic champagne in a silver bucket of crushed ice, and a beer mug a third full of cognac on a tray. He deftly slid the table over in front of them, pulled the cork from the champagne bottle with a gratifying plop, then poured a tall glass of the cold bubbling liquid for Midge.
He laid a check face up before Shayne and waited stiffly. Shayne glanced at the total and whistled. The amount was $23.50-115.00 was marked opposite the word Service.
Shayne shook his head angrily and pushed the bill aside. “That’s highway robbery. I want to see the manager.”
The waiter said, “It’s perfectly correct, sir. The usual charge for a private room and allows you the use of it for as long as you wish it.”
“To hell with that,” Shayne growled in a murky tone of anger. “Send MacFarlane up here. I’ll settle with him.”
“Please-don’t!” Midge grabbed his arm and raised terror-stricken blue eyes to his. “Don’t make a scene. I–I couldn’t stand it.”
Shayne’s laugh was harsh. “The old gag, eh? How many of his come-on gals has MacFarlane got lined up on the highway to lure suckers in for a fleecing? Hell,” he went on with relaxed brutality, “I can rent a hotel room for a week with a woman thrown in for fifteen bucks.”
Midge’s hold on his arm grew lax. She shrank away from him, her face drained of color except for the red spots of rouge high on each cheek. “Don’t say such things,” she pleaded. “You don’t really mean them.”
“The hell I don’t,” Shayne jeered. He picked up the beer mug and drank half the cognac. “Get MacFarlane up here,” he insisted to the waiter. “I’ll tell him what I think of his gyp joint.”
The waiter nodded and went out with a stiff bow.
Midge sank back, breathing in great piteous sobs. “I don’t know what I’ll do,” she moaned. “Oh, how could you be so-so cheap!”
Shayne laughed and settled comfortably on the sofa close to her. “Don’t worry. MacFarlane doesn’t want publicity any more than you do.”
She moved closer and buried her face convulsively against his shoulder, tugging at his long arm to draw it around her waist.
Shayne had the beer mug to his lips when he felt her squirm against him. He heard the sound of ripping cloth. Then, a wild scream as she stood up and raked her finger nails across his cheek. The torn bodice of her dress came open showing one white breast. Her braids tumbled down, and in the space of a few seconds she was a disheveled and outraged young girl, clinging to him now with surprising strength.
He heard a door opening as he thrust her away. She threw herself at him, pulling his arm around her waist.
There was the flare of a flashlight bulb and Shayne looked up to see two men grinning at him from the doorway leading into the lavatory. One of them was lowering a camera and the other held an ugly short-barreled gun trained on Shayne’s belly.
Chapter Eight: A MUG WON’T LISTEN
Shayne reached for his pocket to get a handkerchief and the gunman yelled, “Keep your hands in sight,” as he caught the edge of it and flipped it out, then held it against his scratched face. He laughed shortly as the girl cringed away from him, covering her face with one hand while she pulled her dress together in front.
“That was nicely maneuvered, sister. Everybody seems in the mood for pulling old gags tonight. A nice piece of badger baiting.” He shot a sardonic look at the gunman. “I presume you’re the deacon-this gal’s properly indignant father.”
“Cut the funny stuff, pal.” The man leaned negligently against the door casing, his weasel eyes darting from Shayne to his confederate with the camera. “Go on out the door with your pic, Jake. Get it developed right away. This mug is going to sit quiet until you’re in the clear.”
Shayne grinned amiably. He asked, “What would the plate cost me?”
“It ain’t for sale. Get going, Jake.”
Jake sidled toward the outer door with his eyes warily on the detective. Midge was making little whimpering sounds. The gunman dropped his weapon into his coat pocket when Jake was safely out of the room. His thin lips curved into a sneer of triumph. “I guess you know what the score is, shamus. You’ve pulled enough fast ones yourself to recognize one when you walk into it.”
Shayne nodded agreement. He took the handkerchief away from his cheek and frowned at the spots of blood on it. He admonished Midge, “It wasn’t necessary to scar me for life. The scene would have been just as convincing without that.”
“She did just right,” the man in the doorway told him. “That’s the little angle that’ll really make it tough if
