She moodily drank half the glass of brandy and water, and thought about the wounded man in her bedroom. What manner of man was Jack Bristow? What sort of jam could he have got into in Miami to bring him to her apartment seeking refuge with a gunshot wound? In the past, when she had known his sister well, she had sensed that Jack was weak and probably lazy, but she could recall no hint from Arlene of vicious or unlawful tendencies. Of course, she told herself drearily, a sister is likely to be the last person to suspect a brother of such things, and it was perfectly possible that Arlene had been unaware of his real character. Also, it had been many years since Lucy had seen Arlene, and all sorts of things might have happened to Jack in the interim. He might well be a noted criminal, wanted by the police of a dozen states, and Lucy would not be aware of it.
But somehow she couldn’t make herself believe that. Not of the boy whom she had once dreamed about, and who had been able to arouse in her tonight the passionate desire to kiss him by merely sliding the tips of his fingers over the inside of her wrist and laughing up at her with challenging and half-parted lips.
No, Lucy told herself desperately. He can’t be really bad. Certainly I would know subconsciously if he were, and would be repelled rather than attracted by him. Whatever trouble he’s in must be the result of a prank or some sort of mistake, and I would be disloyal to Arlene if I refused to protect him for the short time he asked.
On the other hand, his threat to smear her reputation in front of Michael Shayne if she admitted his presence to the detective rankled, and she conceded in her heart that it was not the act of an innocent lad. Still, it was a threat that had been born of desperation and of his lack of knowledge of Shayne’s real character.
There I go, she muttered to herself despairingly, pretending I know Michael’s real character when the fact is that I’m not at all sure how he might react if Jack were to tell him a lot of lies about me. I should be sure that he’d disregard them, but I’m not. I simply don’t know. And I’m afraid to put it to the test. On the other hand, I’ll hate myself forever if I lie to Michael and let Jack stay hidden in the bedroom without telling him.
Lucy still hadn’t made up her mind when the buzzer rang and she got up to push the button that would admit Michael Shayne to the apartment building.
Chapter Two
The rangy redhead was in a pleasantly relaxed mood when he appeared at the top of the stairs in front of Lucy’s door. He sailed his wide-brimmed Panama over her head into the center of the rug and grinned down at her, putting one big hand at each armpit and lifting her from the floor to kiss her lips lightly.
She was flushed and confused when he set her down, trying to distinguish in her own mind between the sudden rush of passion that had drawn her briefly toward Jack Bristow a short time previously and the very real affection she felt for Shayne.
Misinterpreting her blushing confusion, Shayne slid one arm over her shoulders and turned her back into the apartment. “A person would think that was the first time I ever kissed you, angel. You ought to be used to it by now.”
“That’s just it, Michael. You’ve been doing it for years now, and I’m beginning to wonder if it means anything to you at all.”
She hadn’t known she was going to say that. She could have bitten off her tongue after hearing the words if that would have recalled them. Long ago, when she first entered the half-intimate relationship of secretary and favorite female friend of Michael Shayne, she had sworn to herself that she would accept from him only what he freely offered of himself and would never seek anything more. She gazed up at him in stricken silence as he stopped abruptly and his arm tightened about her shoulders.
“I don’t believe you really wonder, do you, Lucy?” Michael Shayne’s voice was curiously gentle. “I think you know just about how I feel.”
She smiled wretchedly and nodded her brown head, eeling away from his encircling arm and avoiding his questioning eyes. “Skip it, Michael.” She made her voice light with an effort. “That just slipped out. I guess I’ve been sitting here alone too long wondering whether you were coming tonight or not. Brooding over a glass of diluted cognac.” She leaned over to pick up her glass in which the ice cubes had melted, drained off the watery residue with convincing gaiety. “Do you want yours straight tonight, Mr. Shayne?”
He nodded. “As usual. Plenty of ice water on the side.” He spoke abstractedly, continuing to study her with speculative eyes while his left hand went up mechanically to roll the lobe of his ear between thumb and forefinger.
Lucy knew that look and that gesture by heart. Just as she knew every one of Michael Shayne’s looks and gestures. He was troubled and thinking deeply, sorting things out in his mind with that damnable logic of his which sometimes frightened her and often infuriated her.
Lucy sighed and turned to the kitchen. Somehow, the opportunity to tell Shayne about Jack Bristow in the bedroom had vanished. Why had she made that crack about sitting there alone wondering if he were coming? And why had she, tonight of all nights, done something to force the issue between them?
She busied herself in the kitchenette for as long as she dared, pouring Shayne a full six ounces of amber liquor and fitting four over-sized ice cubes into a tall twelve-ounce glass, then filling it to the brim with cold water. She made her own drink very light this time, and was completely self-possessed when she returned to the living-room with a tray. Her mind was made up. This evening would be like all the other evenings she and Shayne had spent together in her apartment. She would be a reserved and pleasant hostess, making him comfortable and relaxed with good liquor and by being an attentive and responsive listener. After he left, around midnight it usually was, would be time enough to start thinking about Jack Bristow again.
Shayne was sprawled back at one end of the divan with long legs stretched out in front of him. His red hair was rumpled and his tie slightly askew, the gauntness of his features softened and lessened somewhat by the indirect light from a floor lamp and the comfortable feeling he always had when alone with Lucy.
He watched her without speaking and without moving while she leaned forward to set the tray on a low coffee table close to him and then seated herself on the other side of it. He lifted the cognac glass with knobby fingers and sipped meditatively for a moment, then said, “Give me a little more time, Lucy. I know I don’t deserve it, but I do need it.”
She didn’t ask him time for what. She knew what he meant. In her heart she wanted to cry out that she couldn’t wait much longer, that she was sometimes frightened by the things she felt, that she was a woman of flesh and blood and of normal desires, and that if he didn’t want to marry her she wished he would say so and propose some other sort of arrangement.
Instead, she crossed her nice legs and smoothed the shimmering blue hostess gown over her thighs and replied, “Of course, Michael.” Then changed the subject by adding, “Did you see Mr. Selkirk this afternoon?”
There was the tramp of heavy footsteps in the hall outside, and a loud knock on her door before Shayne could reply. He lifted bushy red brows questioningly at her, and Lucy shrugged her shoulders to indicate she expected no visitors and had no idea who was there.
She got to her feet as a second knock followed the first swiftly, went to the door, and opened it a foot to confront a red-faced and uniformed city policeman.
There were others beyond him, she noted, arousing the occupants of the other apartments, and knew instantly why they were there. Panic flowed through her and caused a tight knot in her throat, but she managed to get her words out past the knot calmly. “Yes? What is it, officer?”