He fumbled for his glass and picked it up and glared at it, then put it up to his mouth and drained the remaining three ounces of liquor out of it.
He got up out of his chair then, and moved a step toward her, and stopped when he saw her eyes were open. She was watching him, and waiting.
He forced a grin onto his face and ran both hands through his rumpled red hair. He said, “This is a hell of a time…”
“I know.” She lay on her side on the sofa, staring up at him unblinkingly. “You’re like me, Red.” She sounded sad. Desolated and torn. He wondered if she was really as drunk as he had thought her to be. She smiled slowly. A crooked, understanding sort of smile. She said, “We’re two of a kind. Ships that pass in the night. But we’ll meet again, Red. Next time, we won’t pass.” She shuddered violently and closed her eyes and was silent.
Shayne didn’t realize he had moved, but suddenly he was standing close beside the sofa and was looking down at her. She kept her eyes tightly closed, but he knew that she knew he stood there, and he hesitated, clenching his fists tightly together so his fingernails bit into the flesh of his palms.
Then, through the open door behind him he heard the light clickity-clack of high heels mounting the uncarpeted stairs toward the second floor. He turned his head, still standing close beside the sofa, dropping his left hand toward the woman who lay curled up there, feeling her fingers twist around his, tightly, warmly, compellingly.
Through the open door at his right he saw a slender, smartly-clad young woman reach the top of the stairs and turn toward the door opposite him with a key held in her outthrust hand.
She was well-stacked, as Timothy Rourke had told him. She was also beautiful, with a careful precision of features that made her into a “real lady-bitch type.”
She unlocked the door of Apartment 3-B and walked inside without bothering to glance over her shoulder at the open door of 4-B.
Shayne stood unmoving until she closed the door behind her. His left hand was still tightly gripped by the woman who lay on the sofa with her eyes closed.
He turned to look down at her, and he lightly said, “Hi.”
She opened her eyes and smiled up at him. “You didn’t close the door did you, Red?”
He shook his head from side to side. “Next time, I will.”
She said, “Okay. Next time.” Her fingers released his, and she closed her eyes again.
Shayne walked out of her apartment and crossed the hall and put his finger on the electric button beside the Larsons’ door.
3
The Door Opened Almost Immediately And Dorothy Larson stood in front of him, a frown slowly forming on her beautifully chiseled features as she looked him up and down.
Shayne had his smile all ready to put on, but he abruptly decided not to waste it on her. He made his voice impersonal and somewhat harsh as he said, “Mrs. Ralph Larson?”
“Yes. I’m Mrs. Larson. What do you want?” Her voice was as chilly as the cold, cornflower blue of her eyes.
“To talk to you a minute.”
She said, “I’m sorry, Mister, but I practically never talk to strange men who come ringing my doorbell.” She took a backward step and firmly started to close the door in his face.
Shayne had his big shoe in the way and the door stayed open a couple of feet. He said, “You’ll talk to me no matter what you practically never do. About Wesley Ames.” He put his hand on the doorknob and pushed it open against her effort to hold it shut.
She retreated three steps away from him into the room and said coldly, “If you don’t get out this instant I shall call the police.”
Shayne said, “I’m a detective, Mrs. Larson.” He had no difficulty making his tone match hers.
“A detective? What on earth do you want? What about Mr. Ames?”
“About you and Mr. Ames,” amplified Shayne. “About the affair you and he are carrying on.”
“What has a detective to do with my private affairs?”
“Well, you see I’m a private detective,” Shayne told her stolidly. “My name is Michael Shayne,” he added. “Make up your mind fast. Do you want to talk to me or shall I go to your husband?”
“Ralph would laugh in your face. He works for Mr. Ames.” She lifted her chin disdainfully.
“I don’t think Ralph would laugh in my face. In fact, I’m quite certain he wouldn’t laugh at all. And so are you,” he added harshly. “You know the poor guy is crazy in love with you. What you don’t know, evidently, is that he isn’t as dumb as you think. If he gets my report there’s going to be hell to pay, Mrs. Larson.”
“Your… report?” she gasped. “Do you mean he’s hired a detective to check up on me?”
“Did you think you had the wool pulled completely over his eyes?” Shayne quibbled. He folded his arms across his chest and sneered at her, and somehow found himself enjoying it.
“What do you want from me?” she demanded. “Do you think I’ll pay you blackmail?”
“No goddamnit,” said Shayne savagely. “I’m not here to blackmail you. I’m here to talk some sense into your silly head. Contrary to a great many popular misconceptions, all private detectives aren’t crooks and double-crossers. I happen to like your husband. I think he’s a decent guy and I feel sorry as hell for him married to a woman like you. I’m offering you a chance to come to your senses and break off with Ames before Ralph finds out the truth and kills himself or you or Ames… or all three of you. Maybe you don’t love the guy,” he went on harshly. “But you don’t want to see him in the electric chair, do you?”
“No,” she cried thinly. “Oh God, no. I never thought…” She put her hands up to her face suddenly and began to cry.
“It’s time you started thinking,” Shayne told her. “I happen to know Ralph has a vacation next week and he suspects the reason you want him to go off on his own while you stay in Miami alone is so you can be with Ames.”
“That isn’t true,” she cried wildly. “I just need time to be alone and think.”
“Whether it’s true or not,” Shayne told her brutally, “Ralph thinks it is. And if I make my report to him he’s going to be sure of it. And just as sure as God made little apples he’s going to go gunning for Wesley Ames and there’ll be all hell to pay.”
“You can’t have anything… really bad to tell him.” She was getting her sobbing under control and she lifted a stricken, tear-streaked face to Shayne. “It isn’t as though… Wesley and I haven’t…”
“I’ve got enough of a dossier on the two of you to send a man like your husband off his rocker,” Shayne lied harshly and convincingly.
She didn’t attempt to deny it. She asked weakly, “What do you want me to do? If he finds out you’ve been here…”
“Don’t admit you’ve ever seen me,” Shayne told her promptly. “This is completely unethical on my part, but in this case I think the end justifies the means. Don’t let Ralph even suspect that you know about him putting a private detective on your trail. That would ruin everything. You’ve got to make him think you’ve come to your senses all on your own and are sorry you ever met Wesley Ames. Insist on going off on vacation with him, and urge him to quit this side job he’s doing for Ames. He’s a good newspaper reporter and he can earn enough on his job to support you.
“Maybe you’re not really in love with him,” Shayne went on swiftly, glad that Timothy Rourke couldn’t hear him now because by God he was beginning to sound like a marriage counsellor. “Maybe you should separate. But let that come later. Your job right now is to convince your husband that you’re in love with him and that your playing around with Wesley Ames has been completely innocent.”
“And if I do that, you’ll… you’re willing to doctor your report so he’ll never know the truth?” she asked slowly.
“I give you my word,” said Shayne honestly, “that he’ll never learn differently from me. But it has to be tonight,” he warned her sternly. “As soon as he gets home. Don’t put it off because I can’t stall him very long. Call me on the telephone first thing in the morning and tell me it’s done,” he directed her. “Get a pencil and write down my telephone number.”