cognac, with a tall glass of ice-water beside it, and within easy reach was an uncorked bottle of Monnet. A rich, garlicky odor drifted tantalizingly from the kitchen into his nostrils, and there were the small domestic sounds of Lucy preparing her special “poor-girl steaks” to which she had first introduced him in New Orleans many years ago.
“Like an old shoe,” he told himself complacently. That’s the way Lucy was comfortable. Then she came out of the kitchen wearing her absurd, frilly, little apron and with her face rosily flushed from the heat of the stove.
She carried a highball glass in her hand and said, “I’ll let the sauce simmer another five minutes while I finish this drink.”
He studied her appreciatively and said, “You don’t look old-shoeish.”
“What?” She sat down hard at the other end of the sofa and stared at him with narrowed eyes.
“Well, you don’t.” He grinned sheepishly and lifted his own drink in a salute. “In fact, you’re pretty damned beautiful.” He spoke angrily, as though defending her.
“What are you talking about, Michael Shayne?”
“You,” He sipped his drink and dropped his gaze from her challenging eyes. “And you can cook, too,” he added lamely.
“Michael.” She deliberately made three syllables out of his name. “Tell me what you’ve been sitting there thinking while my back was turned.”
“You know what?” He sat up enthusiastically and put his glass down. “I know just what you need to make you into a real glamour-puss.”
“I don’t know that I care to be a glamour-puss.” She lifted her firm chin and glared at him. “On the other hand, I don’t particularly appreciate…”
“I know, I know,” he interrupted placatingly. “It just slipped out while I was sitting here feeling so comfortable.” He got to his feet and crossed the room to his jacket neatly hung over the back of a chair, and fumbled in a side pocket. “Close your eyes,” he directed her, and turned about slowly with the emerald bracelet concealed in the palm of his hand.
Lucy hesitated a moment, trying to remain angry, and then obediently closed her eyes like a little girl. Shayne crossed to the sofa and knelt beside her, took her wrist and laid it flat on the arm of the sofa, and carefully draped the bracelet across it. Then he said softly, “Open your eyes, Angel.”
Lucy opened her eyes wide, and a rapturous, “Oh!” came from her lips as she looked at the flexible golden bracelet with six large, square-cut, green stones brilliantly reflecting light from the table lamp beside her.
“Michael.” She touched it gently with her fingertips, lifting her arm so that it hung about her wrist. “You lied to Tim out there. You did find it. It’s… heavenly.”
“Let’s see if it fits.” He bent over her arm to fasten the catch.
“You shouldn’t, Michael. It frightens me. A hundred and ten thousand dollars,” she said in an awed voice.
“Just what you need to set off that apron. It’s a trifle loose on you, but that can be fixed, I guess.” He stood back, smiling down at her admiringly.
“Michael! I shouldn’t even try it on. It frightens me just to think…”
“Keep it,” he said casually. “The thief is dead, and, if Peralta goes off on that boat to Cuba tonight, I don’t think he’ll be in a position to do any complaining.”
“That’s terrible, Michael,” she said severely. “You’ve got to return it to Mrs. Peralta. You can’t even think…” Her door buzzer rang three times loudly from downstairs. Shayne said, “That’ll be Tim hoping to soak up a nightcap. Keep it on your wrist, Angel,” he urged her as he crossed to press the release button. “Let’s see anybody compare you to an old shoe with that on.”
“But you’re the only one,” she began, and then subsided, holding her arm up and turning it slowly, admiring the green fire lurking in the depths of the stones.
Shayne opened her door and stood aside to let Timothy Rourke in. The reporter shambled past him, saying, “Couple of questions I want to ask, Mike. Hi, Lucy. If you’ve got a drink…”
He stopped in mid-stride with his mouth open. “Mother of God! Where’d you get that?”
“Just a paltry little old emerald bracelet I picked up for her,” Shayne said casually. “Sets off the apron rather nicely, don’t you think?”
“Where’d you get it, Mike?”
“Upstairs over the boathouse in the caretaker’s bedroom.”
“So he was the one who stole it! Wait a minute, Mike. That torn half of a claim check you found on Felice’s body. I figured she had been in on the theft and they had stashed the bracelet away in some checkroom and each of them kept half the check. So, why did Brad kill her and tear up her room looking for her half of the check, if he had the bracelet all the time?”
“Did Brad kill her, Tim?”
The reporter shook his head slowly, getting his thoughts back into focus. “Whose fingerprints were on the barrel of my gun?” he demanded.
“Brad’s.”
“I thought so,” exploded Rourke. “In fact, before I came up here, I phoned Will Gentry and told him to check the dead caretaker’s prints with those on my gun and the ones they found all over Felice’s apartment.”
“You hadn’t told me that before,” Shayne reminded him.
“I know. Things have been happening too damned fast.” Rourke looked imploringly at Lucy who was still admiring the bracelet on her wrist. “For the love of God, Lucy, darling, are you going to get me that drink?”
She said, “Sorry, Tim. I was practicing being a glamour-puss.” She stood up regally, holding her braceleted arm stiffly in front of her. “Bourbon and branch water, Mr. Rourke?”
Rourke stared after her as she swept out into the kitchen. “What makes with the bracelet, Mike?”
Shayne shook his head sadly. “I just gave it to her.”
“A hundred grand worth of emeralds?” gasped Rourke.
Lucy came back carrying Rourke’s drink. Shayne went to her as she handed it to the reporter, and put his arm tightly about her slim waist. He asked, “Do you really like it, Angel?”
She looked down at the glittering bracelet on her wrist. In a curiously small and forlorn voice, she told him, “I’d like it a lot better, if you’d buy me a kind of imitation that we could afford instead of stealing one for me.”
Shayne asked quietly, “How’d something be at about six or seven hundred dollars?”
“It would be wonderful, but…”
Shayne carefully placed the first two fingers of his left hand underneath her chin and turned her mouth up to his. He kissed her on the lips and then told her cheerfully, “We can easily afford that bauble on your wrist, Angel. Don’t you think that garlic sauce is about ready to serve?”
She drew away from him, looking up into his face with rounded, imploring eyes. “I don’t have enough for Tim. too.”
“Timothy Rourke,” said Shayne, firmly, “is leaving. As of this moment.” He released Lucy and gave her a little shove toward the kitchen. Then he put his arm about Rourke’s thin shoulders and moved him toward the door. “Aren’t you, Tim?”
“Wait a minute. About that bracelet…”
“Call me in the morning, Tim, you and Will Gentry. After I’ve had time to work on that torn claim check. That’s where the real bracelet is. When we get it, we’ll all go to call on Ham Barker and see what sort of deal we can work out. In the meantime…” Shayne opened the door of Lucy’s apartment and ushered the reporter out happily, “… if you want a hamburger, go order one at the nearest Greasy Spoon.”
He closed the door firmly on the departing reporter.
