He waited while she turned away meekly and went to the telephone stand and got a pad and a pencil. He gave her his hotel number and she wrote it down.
“That’s my home number,” he explained. “You can reach me there until nine or ten tomorrow morning. After that, call my office.” He gave her that number.
“If I don’t hear from you by noon tomorrow it will be too late,” he told her. “Don’t forget that you’ll be responsible for whatever happens.”
She nodded and hung her head and said, “I guess I’ve been an awful damn fool, Mike Shayne. I’ve changed my mind about private detectives.”
“Most of us are damn fools at times,” Shayne assured her. “And stop watching the private eye shows on television. Just because a man is a licensed private investigator it doesn’t make him into a complete heel.” He stopped, grinning at himself as he realized that he was beginning to sound positively mawkish.
“All right,” he said briskly. “So much for that. My Boy Scout deed is accomplished. I’ll now dismount from my white charger and go find some more keyholes to peek through.” He turned away from her and opened the door and went out and closed it firmly behind him.
He was feeling good, by God. Surprisingly good. Despite his cynical scoffing at Timothy Rourke earlier he was glad he had come.
He’d ended up almost liking Dorothy, and he was feeling very smug and paternal about the whole thing.
He noted that the door of 4-B was now tightly closed as he hesitated there in the corridor. At the moment he didn’t know whether he was sorry or glad. She was quite a person… that barefooted one. And she served good brandy. What the devil was Napoleon V.O.P.? It was a new one on him. He wondered if she had made it up, and he suspected that she had.
Ships that pass in the night!
Next time he would close the door and lock it.
But right now Tim Rourke and his brown-haired secretary were waiting for him at Lucio’s, and Tim was going to pay for the drinks and dinner, and he and Lucy were both going to be properly impressed when he related the manner in which he had handled the Dorothy Larson affair.
He stopped at the row of mail-boxes outside the open glass doors and looked at 4-B.
“May Graham.”
He liked that. Not Mr. and Mrs. Not Mrs. Graham. Just May.
Somehow that was right for a big, barefooted woman who called him Red without waiting for an introduction.
Michael Shayne felt very much at peace with the world as he went down the walk to his parked car.
4
Lucio himself met the redhead at the arched doorway of the pleasant dining room overlooking Biscayne Bay. He said happily, “Your friends are already here, Mr. Shayne. I have put them at a nice table in the corner.” He led the way through the uncrowded room and Shayne saw Timothy Rourke and Lucy Hamilton seated across from each other at a round table in front of a window that showed the lights of Miami Beach gleaming through the early darkness along the peninsula that formed the eastern shore of the bay.
Lucy had a champagne cocktail in front of her and was leaning forward across the table talking animatedly to the reporter who was slumped back in his customary pose and nodding slowly with an intent expression on his face.
Soft overhead light glinted on her brown hair, bringing out a faintly reddish tinge which blended nicely with the smooth tan of her face and shoulders which was accentuated by the low-cut white gown she wore, and Shayne slowed down behind Lucio as he neared the table to enjoy another moment of looking at Lucy before she was aware of his presence.
The picture of May Graham came fleetingly to his mind by way of sharp contrast, and he was glad, now, that her door had been shut when he let himself out of the Larson apartment. Men were inherently lecherous bastards, he told himself with a trace of self-anger and more than a trace of self-guilt. Let a woman like May flaunt her sex in front of him and he started braying like a jackass at stud. When all the time there was a charming, sweet, intelligent girl like Lucy Hamilton waiting patiently in the background…
He stopped beside the table as Lucio drew out a chair, and looked down into Lucy’s sparkling brown eyes when she glanced up at him, and she was startled for a moment by the intensity of his expression. Her bright smile faded and she exclaimed, “Michael! You look as though you’d never seen me before.”
“I’ve never seen you look so devastating,” he told her. “How many champagne cocktails have you had?”
“This is just my second, but I’ll certainly have several more if they’re going to produce that effect on my boss.”
Shayne nodded approvingly and said, “You do that. Tim’s paying the bill tonight. Did you hear that, Lucio?” he added to the proprietor as he seated himself between the two.
“Assuredly, Mr. Shayne. A sidecar for you? With Martel and not too heavy on the Cointreau, eh?”
Shayne said, “Please,” and Rourke leaned toward him eagerly and asked, “Did you see the lady, Mike?”
“I saw her.”
“And talked to her?”
“Like a Dutch Uncle.”
“And did you…?”
“I scared the pants off her.” Shayne glanced at Lucy and grinned. “Don’t take that literally, angel. I don’t even know whether she had any pants on. Anyhow, she promised to start behaving herself like a proper wife and quit seeing Wesley Ames. I don’t know how much Tim told you about this, Lucy…”
“He told me all about it.” She screwed up her face in a grimace of distaste and then drank from her tall-stemmed glass. “From what I’ve heard of Wesley Ames I’m not at all certain that you did humanity any great favor by persuading Tim’s friend not to kill him.”
“I’m sure it’s only a temporary reprieve,” Rourke assured her. “There must be dozens of people gunning for Ames and one of them will certainly catch up with him before long. I’ll just be happy if it isn’t Ralph Larson. How did Dorothy react, Mike?”
A brimming sidecar was placed in front of Shayne by their waiter. He lifted it carefully so as not to spill a single drop and drank half of it with open pleasure.
“She indignantly denied any wrong-doing with Ames, but she somehow got the impression that her husband had hired me to get the dirt on the two of them, and she certainly wasn’t anxious to have me tell him what I’d found out.” He shrugged and took another sip of his cocktail. “I’d say she’s basically a cold and calculating type.”
“But ‘damn well-stacked’ according to Tim’s graphic description,” gurgled Lucy.
Shayne said disparagingly, “Any woman who can fill a B-cup is well-stacked according to Tim. And that reminds me… have you ever seen the Larsons’ neighbor from across the hall, Tim?”
“What reminds you?” demanded Lucy.
“Not B-cups,” Shayne assured her with a sidelong, teasing grin. “How about it, Tim?”
“I’ve never been to that apartment. But I do believe I’ve heard a description of the lady’s charms from Ralph soon after they moved in. Magnified in the telling, no doubt.”
Shayne chuckled and said, “That I doubt.” He glanced at Lucy and saw a frosty look of suspicion beginning to dawn on her face, and explained hastily, “She’s one of those females who goes slopping around in the afternoon barefooted, angel. Not my type at all.”
“You seem to have done a fair amount of detecting in a rather short time,” she suggested.
“Not really. I just happened to catch a glimpse of her while I was ringing the Larson doorbell. What’s the most expensive thing on the menu?” Shayne picked it up and spread it out in front of him, hiding his face behind it while he ostentatiously ran a blunt forefinger down the list of prices at the right-hand side.
It was just seven-thirty when the trio left the restaurant after an excellent dinner over which they had dawdled comfortably and companionably and for which Timothy Rourke had paid the bill without protest.