He looked at Rourke with less enthusiasm. “For two?”
“Not right now-Albert,” Shayne said. “You know Tim Rourke, don’t you? Of the News.”
“Of course,” Albert said with more warmth.
“We won’t give you any trouble,” Shayne said. “We want to get a picture. If the paper uses it, Larue’s will be mentioned.”
“Whatever you wish, Mr. Shayne. And if you could mention the location? Poinsettia Island.”
Shayne explained what they wanted while Rourke shut himself in a public phone booth and dialed Larue’s number. The phone rang in an alcove between the bar and the main dining room. After answering, Albert- dispatched a waiter to tell Candida Morse that she had a phone call from Pride’s Landing, Georgia.
Shayne, meanwhile, worked his way through the crowd in the bar. He came out at the far end as Candida Morse crossed the room and picked up the phone.
She had been given one of the desirable tables on the glassed-in terrace, with a view of the lights of downtown Miami. The man she was with had close-cut hair and black-rimmed glasses. He seemed pleased with himself. There was a tiny American Legion pin in his buttonhole. He was somewhat overweight, but expensive clothes took care of the problem. He was thinking pleasant thoughts as he fingered his martini, which had been served on the rocks in an old-fashioned glass.
His eyes met Shayne’s as the detective passed his table.
Their eyes held for an instant. Shayne gave him a half-nod of recognition, then turned back after a step and studied his face.
“Your name wouldn’t be Stanley Woodward, by any chance?”
The other man smiled. “Case of mistaken identity. Sorry.”
“From New York,” Shayne said. “Stanley J. Woodward. Cashier, Guaranty Trust Co. Butch haircut, horn-rims, always has an American Legion insignia in his buttonhole.”
The man glanced down humorously at his own buttonhole. “You’re barking up the wrong tree, I assure you.”
“For your sake I hope so,” Shayne grated, “because the man I’m thinking of beat his bank out of forty-odd thousand in cash.” He flipped open his leather folder to give the man a fast glimpse of his private detective’s license. “Your identification, please.”
“Look here-” the man started to protest, but broke off and took out his wallet. “Driver’s registration. Diner’s Club. Social Security card. Take your pick.”
Shayne looked at the data on the Missouri driver’s registration. The man’s name was Clark Ahlman. He lived in St. Louis, where he worked for a large lead company.
“I may have made a mistake, Mr. Ahlman,” he said more politely. “That’s the trouble with these condensed descriptions-they fit too many people. That American Legion button did it.”
“No harm done,” Ahlman said. “I’m sorry to hear a fellow Legionnaire’s an embezzler.”
“It’s Michael Shayne,” Candida’s voice said coolly at Shayne’s elbow. “The line was dead, which seemed odd. Now I understand it. You two know each other?”
“We just met this minute,” Shayne said cheerfully, returning Ahlman’s wallet.
He stepped aside. Tim Rourke, who had followed Candida back through the dining room, crouched with the big Speed Graphic to his eye and shot a picture of Ahlman pulling out her chair so the girl could sit down. She was wearing a low-cut black dinner dress. The exploding flashbulb caught her with an expression Shayne had never seen her without: cool, withdrawn, faintly amused. It went with her careful makeup and well-groomed hair.
Ahlman said threateningly, scowling, “What is this? What are you people trying to pull?”
“It’s on the nature of a practical joke,” Candida said, seating herself. “I wouldn’t worry about it. I won’t introduce you because they aren’t staying.” She brought a waiter to the table with a flick of her finger. “Will you ask Albert to step out here, please?”
The waiter disappeared.
“Practical joke, hell,” Rourke said, unscrewing the blackened flashbulb. “We’ve been trying for a picture of Candida Morse in action for a couple of weeks. And it wouldn’t be any good without the guy’s name.”
“Candida,” Ahlman murmured, “I think on the whole-”
“Sit down, Clark. Mr. Shayne and friend are merely trying to rattle me in connection with something altogether different. We’re within the Miami Beach city limits, aren’t we, Mr. Shayne? I believe so. And it’s well known that you’re not popular with the Beach police. I’ll call them if you like, but it would be simpler if you just went away. Take Tim Rourke with you.”
“We don’t seem to be wanted, Mike,” Rourke said, grinning. “And I thought she’d like to hear about the series we’re running.”
“What series?” Ahlman said, alarmed.
He had sat down, but he was using only the front few inches of his chair, unable to imitate Candida’s ease of manner.
“I’m on the News,” Rourke explained. “We’re working up an expose of industrial-spy outfits that masquerade as executive employment agencies. People are always complaining that I only give one side of the story. I thought I’d give Miss Morse a chance to express her point of view.”
Candida shook her head pityingly. “What a hypocrite you are, after all, Mr. Rourke. I know the kind of hatchet job you’re capable of. I’m certainly not going to offer the back of my neck.”
The waiter appeared and said almost rudely, “Albert had to go out.”
Clark Ahlman stood up. “Candida, this isn’t anything that calls for the police. Let’s simply cancel our dinner order and go somewhere else.”
“They’d come with us, I’m afraid,” she said with a smile. “One of the things a private detective and a newspaper reporter have in common is a thick hide. Let’s assume our evening is over. I’m sorry. You go on, Clark. I’ll call you at the hotel later.”
“Are you sure it’s O.K.?” he asked, itching to leave. “I mean, I wouldn’t want to feel-”
“I’m quite sure. Don’t be concerned about me. I eat private detectives like canapes.”
Picking up a stalk of celery, she bit into it with a quick crunch of her even white teeth. She held out her hand. Ahlman shook it quickly and went off among the tables, turning to glance back at the entrance.
“Farewell, cowardly lion,” Candida said coolly. “Farewell ten-percent commission. When I call his hotel, I’m afraid I’ll be told he’s already checked out. Are you really doing a piece on us, Mr. Rourke?”
“Thinking about it,” he said, grinning. “But Mike’s been telling me that if I do it his way, I could end up with something bigger. He’s usually right.” He flicked a hand at the detective. “That gets rid of the guy, and I’ve got to take off. See you, pal.”
“Sit down,” Candida said. “This is an expense-account evening. I’ll buy you both dinner.”
“You won’t buy me dinner,” Rourke said. “I’m due on the other side of town half an hour ago and theoretically I’m supposed to have a clean shave when I get there.” He looked her over admiringly. “Baby, you’re terrific. I have the feeling I’ll see you again. Don’t let Mike scare you. He’s not as tough as he looks.”
“You’ll join me, won’t you, Mr. Shayne?” she said, giving Shayne a slanting upward look as Rourke walked away. “You can eat Mr. Ahlman’s dinner.”
Shayne moved the table and slid into the unoccupied chair. “What’s he having?”
“Crabmeat thermidor. It’s supposed to be quite good here.”
Albert loomed up at the other side of the table to find out if everything was satisfactory.
“I was told you went out,” Candida said icily.
“For a minute,” Albert told her without embarrassment “Would you care to order dinner, Mr. Shayne?”
“I’m having the crabmeat that’s already ordered,” Shayne said. “Send me a double cognac in a wine glass. Miss Morse, another martini?”
“I’ll wait for the wine.” When they were alone, she said to Shayne, “It would be stupid, wouldn’t it, after all we went through in that Pittsburgh Plate Glass business, not to use our first names?”
Shayne shrugged. “All right with me.”
“I caught a glimpse of Teddy Sparrow in my rearview mirror. I suppose that was your doing?”
“I thought you’d probably spot him.”
“That was the idea, wasn’t it, so I’d know I was being chivvied? We used Teddy for a small job once. Never again. I suppose I can look forward to the pleasure of his company for an indefinite period?”
