with both hands while there is yet time.”
Shayne chuckled happily and opened his car door. “You’ve been talking to a newspaper reporter named Timothy Rourke.”
“Do you know Mr. Rourke?”
“Very well.” Shayne went around to open her door. “This is his car I’m driving. Would you be interested to know how he described you to me this afternoon?”
“I don’t… think so.” She stepped out and stood close beside him and he saw she was wearing a severely tailored suit of raw white silk which was molded to her slenderly lithe body in a way that vividly brought back Rourke’s parting words in the City Room that afternoon. The top of her blue-scarfed head came just above his left shoulder, and the scent of her perfume was heady in the warm stillness of the tropical air.
Shayne put his hand lightly under her elbow and they went into the dimly lighted lounge and found a vacant booth near the door. She settled herself across from him and he lifted his ragged, red brows inquiringly when a white-jacketed waiter soft-footed up to the booth.
She said, “A daiquiri please. A little on the dry side.”
And Shayne said, “And a sidecar, also light on the cointreau.”
Marsha opened a soft, white leather handbag and got out a pack of flip-top cigarettes. Shayne put one of his own in his mouth, struck a match and held it to hers and then to his. She inhaled deeply and let thin smoke trail from her nostrils and asked quietly, “Does Mr. Peralta want you to find the bracelet… or is he hiring you to get in the way of the police to prevent them from recovering it?” She put a very slight emphasis on the word “find,” and Shayne wrinkled his brow thoughtfully at the question.
“Why do you ask a thing like that?”
“A conversation I overheard between Julio and Nat this afternoon. Nathaniel Freed,” she added with a faint lift of her upper lip.
“And it gave you the impression that Peralta isn’t anxious to have the bracelet found?”
“That seemed to be Nat’s impression. I can’t imagine why. But it appears that Chief Painter is positive he’ll crack the case in a day or so and looks on you as a hindrance rather than a help.”
The waiter brought their cocktails. Shayne sipped his thoughtfully and found it good. He said, “Painter is always overly optimistic about his own ability, and resents a private detective being called in. Can you or Freed think of any reason in the world why Peralta wouldn’t want the bracelet back?”
“I don’t know what Nat Freed thinks, and certainly haven’t discussed it with him,” she replied somewhat acidly. “The only reason I can think of is that he wants to teach Laura a lesson. Punish her for her negligence by having the bracelet stay lost.”
“A rather expensive lesson,” suggested Shayne.
Marsha Briggs shrugged. “It was insured. And you have no idea how her carelessness with money and jewelry irks him.”
“Does she complain about not having enough actual cash to spend?”
“Not specifically. Just in a general way.”
“Has there been any occasion during the past few years when she might have needed a large sum in cash? Some crisis that she didn’t want to go to her husband about?”
“I’ve been with them only two months.” Marsha finished her cocktail and set the empty glass down decisively. “Aren’t you interested to know why I slipped out of the house and waylaid you tonight?”
Shayne grinned cheerfully and said, “I hoped it was on account of my sex appeal.”
She looked at him with candid, appraising eyes and said, “There is that… after being cooped up in the same house with Nat Freed for a couple of months. But I didn’t know it at the time. I just caught the merest glimpse of you as you passed the dining room.”
Shayne sighed and finished his drink. He glanced at her empty glass and raised his eyebrows. She said, “One more, thanks. Then I must get back to the twins.”
Shayne signaled the waiter with two fingers, then asked, “So, why did you waylay me?”
“Because I’m frightened, Mr. Shayne. Terribly frightened.” Her voice was pinched and thin, and she vainly tried to repress a shudder.
“Something to do with the theft?”
“It has everything to do with it. I received a threatening letter in the mail this morning.”
“From James Morgan?”
Her blue eyes widened and her lashes fluttered. “I don’t know any James Morgan. It was unsigned.”
She kept her wide eyes steadily on his face while she groped inside her handbag. “Perhaps I’m a fool to show this to anyone. But… private detectives are like lawyers, aren’t they? About respecting the privacy of a client? So if I could be your client…?” Her voice shook with entreaty as she withdrew a cheap white envelope from her bag-the sort that can be bought in any drugstore in packs of half a dozen. She held it in her hand indecisively and went on: “Should I pay you a retainer first… to make it official that I am your client?”
The waiter brought their second round of drinks, and Shayne gestured toward the check on a silver plate. “You pay the bar-bill as a retainer. That will make it official.”
She nodded and smiled wanly, extending the letter to him. “I just have to talk to someone. I’ve read about you in the papers, and it seemed like an Act of God when you came to the house tonight.”
Shayne took the envelope and looked at it. There was a typewritten address: “Miss Marsha Briggs” at the Peralta street address, with an underlined “Personal” beside it. It was postmarked in Miami the previous day. There was no return address.
Shayne took out a single sheet of plain typewriter paper. It was undated. The letter was neatly typed, without a single erasure or error:
“Dear Marsha Elitzen:
“It is unfortunate, is it not, that another similar jewel theft should occur in the Peralta household on the heels of that most unfortunate affair on Long Island last year?
“If you are very lucky and the local police are as stupid as I believe them to be, the case will be solved before they get around to checking the fingerprints and records of the members of the household.
“However, I think they would be most interested in a clipping I have in my possession from the New York Mirror of last August
“I do not want money from you, dear Marsha Elitzen. I desire only your fair, white, young body to hold warmly in my arms for one night.
“This, I think you will agree, is a small price to pay for my silence.
“If you do agree, whole-heartedly and without reservations, call this telephone number at exactly midnight, Wednesday the 13th. (A Miami Beach telephone number followed.)
“Say to whomever answers the telephone: ‘This is Marsha Elitzen. Yes.’ Then hang up. I will contact you later giving the time and place for our one-night assignation.
“Believe me, dear Marsha, you will not regret acceding to this simple request… and if you are foolish enough to refuse I sincerely fear you will exceedingly regret that decision.
“An ardent admirer.”
Michael Shayne read the entire letter without raising his gaze from the typewritten page. Then he slowly shifted his eyes upward to the salutation, and read it aloud in a questioning tone: “Marsha Elitzen?”
He looked up from the sheet of paper in his hands and across the table to the Peralta governess who was leaning forward, fiercely gripping the slender stem of her cocktail glass with both hands.
She nodded slowly, holding his eyes with hers. “That is truly my name.”
Shayne said, “Do you want to tell me what this means?”
“Yes. I want very much to tell you.” She lowered the lids over her round blue eyes and made an obvious effort to relax, unclenching her tense fingers from about the stem of her glass, and slumping her shoulders a little.
She lifted her lids again, and the blue of her eyes was startlingly clear and deep.
“I had a position as a child’s nurse with a wealthy family in East Hampton. I fell foolishly in love like a young girl with a man who swept me off my feet. For the first time in my life, Mr. Shayne, I loved and believed I was loved. I met him frequently at night, and for week-ends, when I was free. I gave myself to this man, and I trusted him the
