don’t interest me-particularly other people’s.”
“Who are you?”
“Kyra Swoboda.”
“Nuts! Who were you before. Jenny Hopfstedder? Mary Murphy?”
“To you,” she said coldly, “I’m Madame Swoboda. And I think it’s time you were getting the hell out of here.”
Shayne rose, moved in front of her and rested one hand on each arm of her chair, completely fencing her in. She looked up provocatively, eyes quizzical and inviting, her moist lips slightly parted so that the tips of her white teeth showed. A movement went through her body-a movement wholly material and physical. Looking down, Shayne saw the mounds of her breasts outlined by the crossed shawl. They rose and fell as her breathing quickened.
“You could be a career,” Shayne said huskily.
“That interests me more.”
He was bending to kiss her when her eyes quickened with recognition. She drew back, forcibly removed one of his hands from the chair arm and squeezed past him, rising and walking across the room with a lithe animal stride.
“I thought I recognized you when I first saw you out there this evening. Your picture’s been in enough papers. You ought to start wearing a beard, Mr. Shayne.”
“It’s not becoming-”
“What do you want with me?” she asked harshly.
“Your background.”
“Why?”
“Let’s say it’s a matter of close personal interest.”
“That’s not true!”
“All right then. I’m investigating a murder. A man was found dead today. His name was Henry Henlein and he had received two of your little dolls, one stabbed, one strangled.”
She laughed humorlessly. “What have I to do with that? Hundreds of people have bought them. We don’t keep records.”
“You keep a record of those who attend your seances regularly. Otherwise you wouldn’t be able to prepare the tape recordings in advance. Who does attend them regularly-besides the Thains and the Milfords?”
“I don’t know. There are no tapes and I don’t keep records!” There was venom in her voice.
“What about the Woodbines? Are they regulars?”
Her manner changed. She became softer, almost placating, as if she now wanted to co-operate. “I’m not sure who you mean.”
“A chunky, bald-headed man, blond. His skin’s peeling from sunburn. His wife’s dumpy and middle- aged.”
“It seems to me they’ve been here once or twice, but I’m not sure. Really,” she smiled in sweet reasonableness, “I hold a seance every night. Tourists come and go. I can’t keep track of them all and don’t try to. I have no reason to.”
“What were you-before this?”
“I had a mentalist act. I was a mind-reader on the stage. Not that it’s any of your business.” She recovered her assurance suddenly, turned her back, jabbed her cigarette viciously in the ash tray and took another from a box on the table.
“Who set you up here?”
“I took my own money and set myself up. Now, will you get the hell out?”
“I hate to leave on this note. We were getting along so beautifully.”
“We’re not any more.”
“One last question. Are you in love with Dan Milford?”
She swung around, her mouth set in a crimson line, her eyes flashing. “Now I get it! Now I know who sent you. Murder, indeed! It was that jealous wife of his! She came here, threatening to interfere with the way I make my living, throwing her weight around and upsetting me so I could hardly go into a trance that night.”
She flipped the ashes of her cigarette irritably in the direction of an ash tray, then using it as a pointer, shook it at him.
Unaccountably, despite the show of anger and indignation, Shayne had a feeling that her true feeling at the moment was one of relief, almost as if she had welcomed mention of Dan Milford.
Ostensibly still holding to her anger, Swoboda said, “Whoever murdered that Milford woman would be doing a good deed.”
“Is that why you sent her a voodoo doll-to scare her to death?”
She stopped, honestly surprised, her mouth agape, her aquiline nose uptilted, the flush of anger slowly receding. The respite was only temporary, however. On the next instant the fury returned.
“It’s none of your damned business, but I didn’t. Now, for the last time, get out! You’re invading my privacy!”
“I’d like to. The idea’s tempting. You’re not going to answer my question about Dan Milford?”
“I am not.” She threw herself into the wicker chair and rocked violently, staring sullenly ahead, the cigarette sending a wavy stream of smoke up from her moving hand.
Reaching out, Shayne touched her bare arm lightly with one finger.
She jumped. “What are you doing?”
“I wanted to see if you’d burn me. Dan Milford’s wife says you’re on fire.”
“If I had my way, I would. The less Shaynes in this world, the better.”
“And the more Swobodas?”
“What do you think, Shayne?”
“I don’t know yet. Dan Milford’s wife says you’re soulless, too.”
The moment of softness was gone. “Will you stop quoting that woman? And get out of here!”
“I’m on my way-but I’ll be back. I think I’m a mystic, too.”
She opened her mouth to release a flurry of abuse.
He ducked out fast.
7
When Shayne reached the street he found all the other cars gone except his own and a big gray sedan which he assumed belonged to Swoboda. It seemed a trifle incongruous for someone on familiar terms with the spirit world to be operating a contrivance as unethereal as a Buick, but of course even delvers into the occult had to get around some way, broomsticks being outdated in this age of rockets.
He opened the front door of his own car and slid behind the wheel. He had covered only a few blocks before he became aware that the gray Buick was behind him. The trenches in his lean face deepened, and he turned experimentally off Southeast Third Avenue, heading toward Biscayne Boulevard. The gray sedan turned too. He swung south, circled the block. The sedan followed.
No doubt about it, he’d picked up a tail.
He cruised slowly, his face bleak. He could play along with the tail and find out who it was-but that would take time.
Two pressing errands faced him. He wanted to see Clarissa Milford and the Thains and find out why, among other things, Dan Milford, who purported to take the seances so seriously, had stayed away tonight.
But even more compelling was the need for a clarifying talk with his little Cuban friend, Sylvester. Ed’s presence at the seance was disturbing and the interview Shayne had just concluded with Swoboda had deepened his concern, for it was obvious that Swoboda had been on guard. She had sweet-talked when he brought Ed’s name up and overacted her anger at mention of Clarissa and Dan Milford. The real object of her concern would seem to be the man from the fishing boat.
