EIGHT
The Green Jungle was not at all the sort of place Shayne would have expected a wealthy woman like Laura Peralta to frequent. It had none of the swank and glitter of the showplaces on the Beach, offered no floor-show or entertainment of any sort, did no advertising, and made no effort whatsoever to attract socialites or theatrical celebrities.
It was a solid, substantial establishment that had been in operation under the same management for more than two decades and made no pretense of being anything other than what it was: a place where people could go to spend a quiet evening dining exceedingly well on a simple but excellent cuisine at extremely moderate prices, with good drinks cheerfully served at one-half the normal charge in Miami bars, and with sedate gambling rooms where two-bit bets were welcomed at the roulette tables and no eyebrows were raised if a crap-shooter risked only a buck on his turn with the dice.
Thus, over the years it had become almost a family sort of place, catering to a substantial, middle-class clientele which enjoyed the excitement of gambling without being high-pressured into losing more than they had budgeted for an evening’s entertainment.
There were no drinks served in the gaming rooms, and no rowdiness tolerated. Professional gamblers gravitated to the place by instinct, and the pace of the games was kept leisurely enough to encourage system players to keep their notes and figure their odds without being rushed into making reckless bets.
It was, in other words, a comfortable place in which to lose one’s money, and Shayne wondered about Laura as he parked Tim Rourke’s battered coupe among a hundred other lower-priced cars. His brief encounter with her had not given him the impression that she was the type of woman to choose a “comfortable” place in which to lose her money. Her nightly stake of five hundred dollars was far in excess of the amount most habituees of the Green Jungle could afford to lose, and that might be the answer, he mused, as he got out and threaded his way among parked cars toward the entrance of the low, rambling building almost hidden by a luxuriant growth of untended tropical shrubbery.
Here, a woman with half a grand to drop at the tables every night would be marked as a V.I.P. and treated with every consideration and respect, while the same half-grand would be disdainfully considered peanuts at the more publicized Beach joints.
The front doors were invitingly open, and Shayne entered a low-ceilinged hallway with a bar and cocktail lounge on the right. Directly ahead at the end of the hall was a sign that said, “Dining Room,” and halfway down, on the left, was a large archway leading into the gambling rooms. There was a winsome-faced and adequately dressed hatcheck girl behind a counter on his left as he entered, and he exchanged his hat for a numbered check and a smiling “Good evening, Sir.”
Shayne returned the smile and went into the barroom where there were booths along the left wall and a long bar with half a dozen bartenders behind it at the right.
No more than half the stools at the bar were occupied, mostly by men hunched quietly over their drinks, and less than half the booths were in use.
Shayne stood for a moment in the doorway, glancing down the bar at the backs of half a dozen women on stools without recognizing Laura Peralta. Then he strolled past the booths, looking into each one that was occupied with the same negative result.
Glass doors at the end opened into a pleasantly-lit cocktail lounge with well-separated tables and an air- conditioning unit that kept the atmosphere clean and fresh. Again, Shayne paused on the threshold to study the room carefully without seeing Laura. A smiling waiter came up and asked, “One, Sir?” but Shayne shook his head and said, “Later.” He strode through the room to a side entrance into the large dining room that was being well- patronized at this hour; and turned left to meet the maitre d’ whom he knew by sight, but not by name.
He was welcomed pleasantly, but not effusively. “Mr. Shayne, isn’t it? A table for dinner?”
Shayne said, “I’m meeting someone. Mrs. Laura Peralta. Have you seen her tonight?”
“Mrs. Peralta? No, Mr. Shayne. Not yet tonight. Have you tried the roulette tables?”
Shayne said, “I will. If she turns up, tell her I’m here.”
He went out into the entrance hall and sauntered through the archway to the main portion of the building and its reason for being.
The large room was brilliantly lighted and luxuriously carpeted, with no whirring clatter of slot machines to distract the players from the serious business of losing money at the tables. Just inside the archway was a cashier’s grilled window where chips could be cashed on leaving, and beyond were six well-separated roulette tables, four of which were getting a good play at this hour, and three huge revolving wheels where a player could get as much as twenty to one if the arrow on the wheel stopped in the right slot.
Opening off the main room on the right was the Card Room with its black-jack, poker and baccarat tables, and four crap layouts were in a similar room on the left.
It was a quiet and orderly scene that Shayne surveyed as he stopped inside the archway. Each of the four operating roulette tables had from four to six players seated about the rim, with half as many spectators standing behind the chairs watching the balls go around with intent but not feverish interest.
Shayne’s first casual glance did not discover Laura Peralta at any of the tables. He lit a cigarette and started forward over the thick carpet and was intercepted by a tall, ascetic-faced man wearing a dark business suit and a black bow tie. It was Alexander Griffin, manager of the Green Jungle, and he held out his hand to the detective with a faintly wary smile.
“Feel like trying your luck, Mr. Shayne?”
Shayne shook hands cordially and shrugged wide shoulders. He said, “I may donate a few bucks, Alex. Actually, I’m looking for someone.”
“No trouble, Shayne.” It was part question, part statement, and part plea. “Not inside? If you got to make a pick-up, just tell me and we’ll handle it quiet.”
“No pick-up,” Shayne assured him. “At least not the kind you mean. I was to meet Mrs. Julio Peralta here.”
“Her?” Griffin looked and sounded relieved. “Sure. At the far table with her back to us.” He jerked his chin to the right and Shayne’s eyes followed the gesture to see Laura’s piled dark ringlets above bare white shoulders that leaned forward eagerly as she watched the bouncing ball slow and drop into a slot.
“Mrs. Peralta, huh?” The manager’s voice dropped on a note of questioning. He sucked in his lower lip and put a persuasive hand on Shayne’s arm. “Why don’t we go in my office for a drink? She’s just starting on her second C- note and wouldn’t want to be disturbed just yet.”
Shayne said easily, “Sure,” and turned with Griffin toward a closed door on the left marked PRIVATE.
The manager opened the door on a lighted and orderly office. He crossed the room and opened the sliding door of a wall cabinet, revealing a well-stocked bar. He hesitated, asking over his shoulder, “Cognac, Shayne?”
“Please. And don’t bother with a snifter. A straight slug… with ice-water on the side, if it’s handy.”
Griffin said, “I should have remembered.” He selected an old-fashioned glass and filled it halfway from a bottle of Martell. Then he opened the freezing compartment and took out two ice cubes which he dropped in a tall glass and filled it with water from a decanter. He set both glasses on the desk and Shayne pulled a chair up and sat down while the gaming house manager made himself a Scotch highball.
He brought it to the other side of the desk and sank into a swivel chair and lifted his glass. “Here’s to crime.” His voice was blandly expansive, yet it seemed to pose a question. Shayne lifted his cognac glass to return the salute, took a sip and set the glass down.
“What are you worried about, Griffin?”
“Worried?” The manager blinked at him owlishly.
Shayne said, “This is good cognac. I appreciate it. What’s on your mind?”
Griffin looked past him at the open door. He got up, circled the desk and closed it firmly. Then he went back to the swivel chair.
“I run a quiet, decent business here, Shayne.”
“I know you do.”
Alexander Griffin sighed and squirmed uneasily in his chair. “Mrs. Peralta is a respectable, respected, and always-welcome customer here.”
Shayne took a sip of cognac and chased it with ice-water. “I’m sure she is,” he agreed calmly. “Anyone who
