so very tough after they got slugged by Bert Paulson.
The way he had sat around and kept Paulson talking about Nellie when all the time he had the girl hidden in his kitcheni Damn his soul. So now Nellie was gone and only God knew where she was. Or what she was.
He drank more of the blended whisky and water, and the knot went away altogether. Suddenly his glass was empty except for two half-melted ice cubes. He frowned and caught the waitress's attention, and told her somewhat thickly, 'Another dose of the same. Miss. Guess my friends are held up.'
She said something about that was too bad, and went away to bring him another double Canadian rye with more water on the side.
He kept hold of his first glass when she returned, poured the whisky on top of the ice and then carefully measured water in to exactly the proper combination. Not too strong to go down easily, not so weak that you couldn't feel it hit bottom.
Having contrived exactly the right strength, he sipped the mixture happily. Let's see now. He was going to do some straight thinking. That was it. Those two doubles had fixed him up just fine. The thing was, now, to keep up just the right edge. Because now his mmd was fine and clear. He was in just the right mood to out-think Mike Shayne and all the cops in Miami. It was like being back in Korea. Out-thinking the enemy. He'd always been good at that. He was alive, wasn't he? And a lot of the damned yellow Communists were dead. Why? Just because he'd out-thought and out-fought 'em, by God! So he could do it again. Just him against all of them. What the hell did the odds matter? Hadn't he been up against worse odds in Korea?
As the level of liquid receded in the glass, it was like he had been a one-man army in Korea. Like he had defeated the enemy single-handed. There had been other American soldiers around, of course, but he had really done the worst of the job. He was Bert Paulson, wasn't he?
Well, wasn't he? he demanded fiercely of himself. Things were beginning to get a little mixed up in his mind again. He wasn't in the Hibiscus Hotel with his throat cut, was he? Then who in hell said he was? Somebody had.
Nellie 1 That was it. Or else the redhead was lying. That was a lot more likely. Helll Why hadn't he caught on that was it right away? Damned foolishness to think Nellie had seen him there with his throat cut. Nellie knew better than that. She knew her own brother, didn't she?
Well, didn't she?
He finished his third drink and gravely debated having another. Reluctantly, he decided against it. He was feeling fine, now. Wonderful. Just had a little edge on. Just right for the things he had to do.
And he didn't want any food. That was always a mistake-eating after drinking. Food just absorbed the liquor in your belly and sobered you up.
No more drinks. No food. This was just right.
He got out his wallet and fumbled in it. The waitress saw him and came to his booth with a slip of paper on a small, round tray. She asked brightly, 'Stood you up, I guess?'
He blinked at her, wondering what she meant. Then he remembered about the couple he'd invented who had been supposed to meet him for dinner. He said thickly, 'Guess so. Haven't time to wait any longer.'
He peered near-sightedly at the bill. Damn that accident that broke his glasses. He'd have to get another pair. First thing in the morning. Too late to do it tonight, he guessed. Goddamned lazy opticians probably all closed up shop when it got dark.
The figures on the slip swam before his gaze and he asked the waitress, 'How much?'
She told him and he blinked down at his wallet and carefully selected a five. He put it on her tray and said, 'Keep change.'
When she had gone away, he got up stiffly and slid out, walked a little unsteadily to the front door, remembering to keep the left side of his face averted as he passed the bar and went out into the cool night.
Things blurred as he dragged in a lungful of the clean air. He staggered a little more obviously as he went to his car and got under the wheel.
Looking for Nellie. That's what. Had to find her.
He put the car in gear and it lurched away. Lessee, now. Where was he exactly? He didn't know Miami too well, but it is an easy town for a stranger to orient himself in if he can read street signs, and he paused at the next intersection to peer out the windshield and read them aloud.
Sure. He knew now. Turn to the left and drive about six blocks. Then to the right three blocks. That was it.
Everything was all right now. He knew exactly where he was and where he was going. He needed another little night-cap maybe. Then he'd sleep soundly. And first thing tomorrow he'd get some new glasses and then he'd find Nellie.
TWENTY-TWO: 11:43 PM
The Silver Glade was a modest night-spot in the Southwest section not more than ten blocks from Michael Shayne's hotel. It had a floor show and a small dance floor, and it served honest drinks of liquor to natives or to tourists sober enough to notice what they were drinking.
Because it was close and because the bartender knew Shayne's preference in cognac, the detective was in the habit of dropping into the Silver Glade occasionally for a late drink. When he entered the door tonight the hat- check girl smiled at him brightly and said, 'Long time no see, Mr. Shayne,' as she took his Panama without bothering to give him a check for it.
She was a big-breasted girl wearing an evening gown that had been carefully cut to accentuate her bigness. Shayne leaned on the low counter in front of her and pleased her by leering at the deep valley beneath her chin and told her, 'I can only stand the rot-gut you serve here every so often.'
He took the four-by-six photograph from his pocket and pushed it in front of her. 'For a well-stacked doll, I always figured you were pretty smart. Ever see this guy around?'
She giggled appreciatively and gave her body a little shake to pull the low-cut gown a little lower. 'Always kiddin', aren't you?' She leaned forward so he could get a better look, and studied the picture doubtfully.
'Don't remember as I have. You know how it is. Half the time I don't even look at them when I hand out checks-unless they're big, ugly redheads, that is.'
Shayne said, 'Try hard. This evening is what I want. Last two or three hours.'
'I swear I can't say. It sure doesn't ring any bell.' Shayne nodded and turned, bringing his elbow up to brush against the distended fullness of her flesh so that she giggled again.
Holding the photograph in his hand, he went to the bar where there was an empty stool at one end. The bartender was middle-aged and bland-faced. When he saw the redhead coming to the bar, he turned and reached up to the top shelf to lift down a bottle of Martell that had an ordinary cork in it instead of the silvered pouring spout in most of the other bottles.
He set it on the bar in front of Shayne and uncorked it with a flourish, provided a four-ounce glass and a tumbler of ice water, and said reprovingly, 'Don't see you around much, Mike.'
Shayne laid the picture on the counter and poured cognac in the small glass. 'You notice this bird in here this evening?'
The bartender looked down at it, then reached into his hip pocket for a pair of glasses in a leather case. He hooked them behind his ears and studied the man's face carefully.
'Can't say that I did, Mike, but that doesn't mean he wasn't in. You know how it is-if a man isn't a steady-'
Shayne said, sure, he knew how it was. He sipped his drink morosely, and a slim, dark man in elegant evening clothes came up behind him and clapped him lightly on the shoulder.
'Glad to see you, Shamus. So long as you're not pinching the joint. On the house, Henry,' he told the bartender, nodding toward the bottle.
'Not as long as you put out Martell for free,' Shayne told the proprietor pleasantly. He moved the picture back with his forefinger on it. 'You had anybody in this evening that looked like this?'
Salvadore studied it critically, twisting his smooth black head slightly to one side.
