“I haven’t had one and you’re shot,” she said faintly. “Probably bleeding inwardly. If you don’t see a doctor—”
“If I do see one,” he told her with a wretched attempt at a smile, “you’ll always feel like Judas, Lucy. Trust me, darling.” There was the old wheedling, self-assured note in his voice again. His smile became a real one. Whimsical and gay. “I’m a stranger here and you know the Miami cops. You ought to, working for Mike Shayne. You know how they look for a fall guy and once they get him quit looking for anyone else. I’m the fall guy this time. If I can just stay out of sight a few hours—” His fingers loosened on her wrist, the tips sliding caressingly over the flesh. “I could use a drink. And a kiss if you’ve got one to spare.”
He was laughing up at her quizzically, and Lucy felt a mad and almost irresistible desire to bend lower and press her mouth against his lips. She blushed hotly because the desire came to her, and turned her face away so he wouldn’t see the blush and guess at its cause.
“I’ll get you some brandy,” she said primly, “and when Mr. Shayne comes you can tell him about it. He’ll decide what to do.” She hurried out of the bedroom and to the small kitchen, stretched on tiptoe to reach a bottle of Shayne’s favorite cognac from the shelf. She filled a three-ounce glass and put it on a tray with a glass of ice water, hesitated only momentarily before pouring a couple of ounces in the bottom of another glass to which she added ice cubes and tap water.
Jack Bristow was lying back with his head on the pillow and his eyes tightly closed when Lucy re-entered the room. Short-cropped black hair clung to his well-shaped head in waves, and his mobile lips were slightly parted. He looked relaxed, asleep, perhaps, and Lucy approached the bed on tiptoe, looking down at him doubtfully when he did not stir or open his eyes.
She set the tray on the floor and gently lifted the loose tail of shirt and undershirt to study the small wound again. No more blood came from the bullet hole, and the red fluid that had previously oozed out was beginning to form a scab.
She drew his clothing back over the bare flesh, thinking it best not to disturb him, and debating anew whether she should call a doctor at once or hope Shayne would come soon and make the decision for her.
When she turned her head she saw Jack’s eyes wide open and fixed upon her unblinkingly. “Is Mike Shayne coming here — tonight?”
“I think so. If he doesn’t come soon I can call him and—”
“Don’t.” Jack’s teeth were set together hard and his voice was harsh. “From what you’ve told Arlene in letters, she guesses you’re in love with the guy. That right?”
“I don’t think that concerns you.”
“The hell it doesn’t. I wouldn’t be here if there was another soul in Miami I could have gone to.”
Lucy said, “That’s flattering.” She rocked back on her heels and reached for the glass of straight brandy. “You wanted a drink?”
He took it from her and lifted the glass to his lips swiftly without lifting his head, spilling a few drops but coming as close to “tossing off a drink” as Lucy had ever seen accomplished.
He dropped the empty glass on the coverlet beside him and muttered, “I didn’t mean anything personal. You’ve always been and still are the girl I like most. But I know all about Mike Shayne, see? Just the kind of dick he is.”
“What kind of dick,” asked Lucy faintly, “do you think he is?”
“He’d love to throw me to the wolves,” said Jack flatly. He paused before adding, “particularly if he found me shacked up with his — secretary.” His hesitation before selecting the final word was meaningful and Lucy felt herself blushing again like an embarrassed schoolgirl.
“Michael isn’t like that,” she declared vehemently. “As for you being shacked up with me, as you so elegantly express it, that’s utter nonsense. After all, I only saw you once before in my life.”
“But how’ll you make him believe that? You know how a guy is when another fellow pops up out of his — secretary’s past. Always ready to believe the worst. Why’ll he think I came to you if I weren’t sure you’d take me in?”
“What’s all this getting us?” demanded Lucy wearily. “Tell me about it, Jack. Who shot you in the side? Why are you afraid to be examined by a doctor?”
“A dead man, believe it or not. And I told you why not to call a doctor,” Jack snarled. “Because I can’t afford to start explaining things to the police. Not yet. Nor to your Mike Shayne, either. Get that straight, sister. If he does come and you say a word about me being here, I’ll fix you with him so you’ll wish you’d kept shut.”
“You’re hardly in a position to threaten anyone,” Lucy told him coldly. She retrieved the empty cognac glass and placed it on the tray, stood up. “Do you want some water?”
“No. More of that brandy would be okay.”
“You’ve had enough,” she told him with decision, and started toward the door.
His voice stopped her on the threshold. It was hard and level, yet with an underlying note of desperation which warned her that he was dangerous.
“Just don’t do it, Lucy girl. All I’m asking is a couple of hours, and I swear to you as God is my judge that you’ll be doing nothing wrong. But I’m also warning you that Shayne wouldn’t see it that way, and if you give me to him I’ll smear you so you’ll not only be looking for another man but for another job, too. Now close that door and get smart.”
Lucy went out without looking back. She carried the tray to the kitchen and carefully rinsed out Jack’s liquor glass and dried it. She emptied the ice water in the sink and took her own untouched glass of brandy and water back to the living-room. The bedroom door stood open, but she noted that Jack had turned out the bedside lamp.
Biting her lip in indecision, she slowly went to the door and drew it shut, then turned back to drop into a deep chair and wrestle with her problem.
In the beginning, immediately after Jack made his absurd threat, there had been no question in her mind. Michael Shayne was certainly best qualified to decide whether or not to turn Bristow over to the police after questioning him. Shayne had his own peculiar code of ethics which she sometimes did not wholly understand, but which she respected. Often enough, she had seen him set himself squarely against the police in their efforts to jail a man whom Shayne believed innocent, and many times she had seen him go far outside the law to gain an end which he believed right.
If Jack Bristow could convince Shayne that he was innocent in whatever sort of mess he’d gotten himself mixed into, she knew positively that the big redhead would hold the man’s confidence inviolate even though it involved a technical illegality on Shayne’s part.
On the other hand, Lucy was in love with her employer. She admitted the fact openly to herself, and more or less openly to him. For years now she had let herself dream of marriage, and had felt encouraged of late by the belief that he was coming more and more to put thoughts of Phyllis, his first wife, out of his mind and to allow himself to look at Lucy more and more as a woman instead of merely an attractive and competent secretary.
She knew full well what a struggle it had been for Shayne to adjust himself to losing Phyllis after possessing her for so short a time after living for years in loneliness, and she had respected him for keeping her memory alive.
But now things were beginning to work out; and she had a strong feeling that it was essentially right that they should. Right, not only for herself but for Michael Shayne, also.