A plump, fair-haired man in a black silk suit came in from the street with a blonde girl. They were bickering quietly, like husband and wife. He went on into the main room and the girl came over to the bar, where she took a stool once removed from Shayne and ordered creme de menthe. She kept looking at her watch impatiently. She lit a cigarette, which she took from a silver case in a small evening bag, and put it out again after a few puffs. When the man didn’t return, Shayne gave her a closer look.
She was in her early twenties. Most of the things that had happened to her so far had obviously been pleasant. Her features were finely cut, with a shadow of dissatisfaction at the corners of her mouth. Her white dress had a short skirt, very little back, and not much front. She wore a diamond necklace that looked authentic to Shayne. He didn’t know much about diamonds but he was an expert on girls, and he knew that this one couldn’t be picked up in this kind of bar unless she had been told to by someone with money to spend. So he decided to try.
He swayed in her direction. “People all told me back home that Washington’s a dead town after dark. Dead? It’s putrid.”
She glanced at him coolly, moved her drink a fraction of an inch farther away and went on looking at her watch. But she stayed where she was, though there were half a dozen empty stools farther down.
“You didn’t have the privilege of hearing the singer,” Shayne said loosely. “That was an experience. She got up off her deathbed to fill the engagement. Fascinating, if you like ghoulish entertainment. One number there, ‘Night and Day,’ I was giving three to one she wouldn’t make it all the way through. Rallied in the middle. What’s that in your glass?”
“Creme de menthe,” she said indifferently.
“Creme de what?” he said, almost falling off his stool. “Never heard of it. What’s it taste like?”
Without asking her permission he lurched closer, picked the glass out of her hands and tasted it. He recoiled.
“Say, that’s horrible! That’s the worst drink I ever tasted. I’d rather take cough syrup. Let me buy you something that will stir up your circulation. You’re a good-looking kid except for one thing-you’re too pale.”
“Thanks,” she said with another look at her watch. “I’ll stick with this.”
“Baby, don’t you know when your date has run out on you?” Shayne said. “Or hasn’t it ever happened to you before? He’s been gone fifteen minutes. What did he tell you? He was going to the men’s room? Don’t believe it. He left by the back door.”
She frowned. “Why would he do that?”
“I could name you any number of reasons. I’m more or less in the business myself. Maybe there’s somebody in there he didn’t want to see you together. He’s a married man, right?”
She looked at Shayne fully for the first time. “His wife is in California. Listen, would you be willing to-”
She stopped, frowning again.
“To check the men’s room for you?” Shayne said happily. “Baby, I will do that with the greatest of pleasure.”
He straightened his shoulders. Coming down too hard on his heels, he walked a straight line to the men’s room, where there was a colored attendant but no customers. Checking his appearance in the mirror, Shayne rumpled his hair and loosened the knot of his tie. His eyes were already bloodshot, from a shortage of sleep, not from too much liquor.
“Nobody there but us chickens,” he reported to the girl after returning to the bar. “Bartender! Make mine a double this time, and for the lady-” He looked at her. “Not that goo, for God’s sake.”
“What are you having?”
“Martell’s. The best cognac you can get in a creep joint like this.”
He waved at the bartender. When the drinks came he attacked his thirstily, spilling part of it. The girl didn’t like this, but Shayne no longer doubted that she was following orders.
“Honey, we’ve got to get out of here,” he told her earnestly. “I’m beginning to feel like a mummy, and that’s not what good cognac is supposed to do for you. That singer’s going to come back any minute. There has to be one livelier place than this in town.” He tightened his necktie and said, “Michael Shayne, from Miami, Florida, the greatest little city in the world. I can tell just from looking at you-” he looked at her solemnly “-that you don’t ordinarily take drinks from strangers in bars. But this is an emergency! Washington’s reputation is at stake! You don’t want me to die of boredom, do you? How would that look in the papers?”
He clutched at his chest suddenly and staggered, his face going blank. She clapped her hand to her mouth and her eyes widened. Shayne was being watched closely by the bartender and the headwaiter. He laughed.
“Relax, everybody. I’m in excellent health. Only clowning. I just mean,” he said to the girl, “it’s your duty, and if you have any stublic pirit at all-”
He looked doubtful. “What did I say? That didn’t sound right.”
She gave him a grudging smile, showing excellent teeth. “I think you said if I had any public pirit.”
“I’m not drunk,” Shayne assured her. “I’m not exactly stone-cold sober either, but I want you to know that I’m hitting on all cylinders. What kind of nice first name do you have?”
“Cheryl,” she murmured.
“Cheryl! Did you hear that, bartender? Cheryl happens to be one of my favorite girl’s names. What do you say, Cheryl, are we getting out of here?”
She studied him, smiling faintly. “I suppose if it’s my duty. I do know a place with a very gaudy nude floor show.”
“Well, now,” Shayne said. “I’m not one of those people who slobber every time they see a female nude, but I’ve got nothing against them. What are we killing time here for?” He finished his drink. She wasn’t drinking fast enough to suit him so he took her glass out of her hands and finished it for her. The headwaiter was hovering nearby, in case he needed help making the door. Shayne brushed him out of his way and headed for the street in a stiff careful walk. The girl followed.
Outside in the darkness, he wavered from the curb in to the storefronts and back.
“This town!” he said in disgust. “With all the taxes we pay they can’t even get the sidewalks to stay level.”
Cheryl, laughing, hugged his arm. He dragged her toward his Ford, continuing to weave and wobble while he examined both sides of the dark street. He spotted a motionless figure in a doorway across from his car. There would be one other somewhere. Shayne didn’t think this would be considered more than a two-man job.
He wrapped his arms around the girl and attempted to kiss her. But Cheryl didn’t want to lose status by being kissed on a public sidewalk, and while they were pushing and tugging at each other Shayne lurched against his car and located the second man, crouched on the floor behind the front seat, his face hidden.
“Baby, you’re gorgeous,” Shayne said with enthusiasm. “You’re the nicest thing that’s happened to me in months.”
“Mike, behave yourself.”
“What’s wrong with the way I’m behaving? Are you implying I’m not being respectful?”
“Of course not.” She gave his waist a squeeze. “You keep in good shape, don’t you?”
“I try to,” Shayne said modestly. “But I don’t get enough sleep. Too damn much else to do. You know what I like about you? The way you carry yourself. It’s the one essential thing I insist on in a dame. Instead of going someplace hot and stuffy, what we could do, let’s get in the back seat and stretch out.”
She jerked his hand away from the door handle. “No!”
“If you don’t want to, OK,” Shayne said, aggrieved, “but I didn’t like the way you said that.”