sort out the feelings that had overwhelmed him since Lucy Hamilton had curtly hung up on him after informing him he was no longer her employer.
His first sensation had been one of angry hurt. It had been a long time since any woman had been able to hurt him. Somehow, his action in turning over his ticket to Parson-or Dawson if the big blonde’s statements were true-and remaining in Miami had been a way of striking back at Lucy. If she didn’t want the pearl necklace, he was damned sure he could find plenty of dames in Miami who would be glad to have it.
Inexplicably, he thought of the coiled braids of hair around Mrs. Dawson’s head, of the smooth column of neck rising above her shoulders. There, the pearls would look good.
The occupants of the gray sedan seemed in no hurry to move even after the motor was started. Now it was being backed out and turned into the driveway.
“Where to, mister?” the taxi driver asked again.
“Follow that car,” said Shayne. “The gray sedan heading toward town. But stay back far enough so they won’t know they’re being followed.”
The taxi slid away. Shayne settled back to make himself physically comfortable in the car, but there was a deep scowl between his half-closed gray eyes. Suddenly he wanted to get drunk. Drunk enough to forget all about Lucy and the empty office in New Orleans. But he needed a drinking companion and he liked women who could hold their liquor the way Mrs. Dawson had been holding hers when he had first seen her entering the terminal.
It had absolutely nothing to do with the glimpse he had had of Fred Gurney. Gurney was nothing to him. He simply felt sorry for a woman like Mrs. Dawson who had to rely on men like her dough-faced husband and Fred Gurney for male companionship. He was convinced that she deserved better than that.
On the other hand, perhaps she was genuinely in love with her husband and worried about him. In that case, the decent thing would be for him to tell her where he was. He’d heard too many women blaspheme husbands whom they loved, when they were angry or upset. And certainly Mrs. Dawson had reason to be worried and angry and upset about hers.
If he could contact her and get rid of Gurney, maybe she’d invite him to her home where they could talk privately and have some drinks. He’d like to see her in a flowing dressing-gown, with her hair brushed out and hanging around her shoulders.
Shayne stirred angrily as the taxi sped on through the cool, humid air. A derisive grin twisted his mouth as he looked ahead at the taillights of the gray sedan. He was bored and jealous and feeling sorry for himself. By God, he was chasing after the first woman to come within his line of vision after Lucy kicked him in the face. He was striking back at Lucy, and she was in New Orleans and would never know how he felt.
The sedan was whipping along at a good pace on the nearly deserted street a couple of blocks ahead. Mrs. Dawson drove steadily and well, giving no more evidence of drunkenness than she had at the airport. The road led due east into Miami, and Shayne’s thoughts went around in circles. It had been a tough day and a tougher evening.
He knew there were some night spots in this section, and he was about to tell the driver to forget the sedan and stop at the first place that was open when he felt a slackening of pace, and the driver grunted, “They’re slowing down. Want me to stay behind ’em?”
“Without making it too noticeable,” said Shayne.
They were much closer to the gray sedan now. A cluster of neon lights on the left side of the street told passers-by that the Fun Club was still open for business and half a dozen cars parked in the semicircle in front proclaimed that they weren’t without customers.
The car they were trailing suddenly swung to the left and into the driveway leading up to the low, stuccoed building.
“Go on past,” Shayne directed the driver sharply. “Far enough so you can swing around and come back after they’re inside.”
The driver accelerated and passed the driveway as the sedan pulled into an open place among the parked cars. Shayne let him continue a few blocks before saying, “Turn around now and take me back.”
The driver made a U-turn and, a moment later, pulled into the driveway and stopped in front of the door. Music pulsed gently into the silent night, and brilliant red and green lights on the outside rippled over the gently swaying palm fronds circling the building, dimming the yellowish glow from within.
“No,” the driver said unhappily, when Shayne invited him to go in and have a drink. “I gotta be gettin’ in, see? I’m due in at midnight, an’ my old lady’s sorta sick, an’ I’ll catch Hail Columbia if I’m any later’n I am already.”
Shayne’s Gladstone was still in the back of the cab. He thought for a moment and then took his wallet out. “Will a five fix it for you to drive on in and drop my suitcase off for me?” He gave the address of an apartment hotel in downtown Miami and added, “Tell the night clerk that Mr. Shayne missed another plane and has decided to stay in Miami for a while. Tell him to hold my old apartment for me if it’s still vacant, or hunt up something else. I’ll be in later.”
He took a five-dollar bill from his wallet, noting as he did so that it was the last one smaller than a hundred. This reminded him of the two bills Parson-or Dawson-had given him at the airport. He reached in his pocket, found them wadded together in a ball, smoothed them out, and fitted them into the wallet with others of the same denomination.
The driver eagerly accepted the five-spot, saying, “Shayne? Are you Mike Shayne, the detective I been readin’ about that-”
“I’m Mike Shayne,” the redhead told him good-naturedly, “but don’t believe all you read in the newspapers. And don’t forget to deliver my suitcase and the message.”
He stood back and waited for the taxi to pull away, then strolled leisurely over to the parking space in front and looked inside the gray sedan. It was empty.
He sauntered back to the entrance of the Fun Club, pulled a screen door open and went in.
The room was not large, and the tawdry murals of cavorting nudes against dark green backgrounds on the walls, the low ceiling dotted with pale yellow lights, and the tables crowding the tiny dance floor diminished its size. The air was smoke-laden, and stuffy with the stench of liquor. There was a short bar, accommodating only six stools, on the other side of a small square left bare for dancing.
One couple was dancing languidly to muted music from a juke-box-a shapeless, skinny girl wearing a backless playsuit, and her slender partner, shirt hanging out, who held her in a vise-like grip, his sleek black head pressed against her pale blonde hair. Five of the tables were occupied by couples who had reached a mellow stage in their search for gaiety, or escape, via the alcoholic route.
Shayne quickly spotted the couple he had followed from the airport. They were seated at a table near the short bar. He went over and sat on one of the empty stools.
Fred Gurney wore a tan sports coat and had a Panama hat tipped back on his head. He was leaning forward talking to Mrs. Dawson, who sat solidly in her chair, filling it but not overflowing the edges; she did not spread as most large women do when they sit down. Their table was on his left, and Shayne could observe them without looking directly at them. The woman’s braids looked the color of tarnished gold in the murky yellow light, and there was an expression of determined placidity on her face.
Pulling his hat brim a little lower on that side, Shayne hunched an angular shoulder upward farther to conceal his profile, though he thought it unlikely that Gurney would recognize him. He watched with interest while the thin- faced bartender placed a drink order on a metal tray at the end of the bar. The drinks consisted of a double shot of rye with a glass of root beer for a chaser, two double shots of dry gin in separate glasses, a bottle of beer, and an empty goblet into which the bartender put four ice cubes.
A very dark-complexioned waiter with black hair greased against his scalp and wearing a dirty white jacket came lazily to the bar, took the tray and carried it to the table where Gurney and Mrs. Dawson were seated. Shayne watched him set the rye and root beer in front of Gurney and the two double shots of gin, the beer, and the ice goblet before the gray-suited blonde.
Shayne turned to see the bartender watching him curiously. He grinned and jerked his head toward the table and said, “That’s quite a mess they’re drinking. Got any cognac?”
“Enough to make a drinking man sick to his stomach,” he said, his upper lip curling. “Hennessy?”
Shayne repeated, “Hennessy. Two ponies in a snifter with plain water on the side.”
The bartender turned his back. Shayne saw Mrs. Dawson pour one of the glasses of gin on top of the ice in the goblet. She then filled it with beer and thrust a plump, tapering forefinger in the mixture to stir the floating
