“We’re incurable gossips,” she said. “When a widowed senator like Emory Hitchcock suddenly begins to be seen everywhere with a sexy widow, it excites comment. And naturally everybody’s a bit tense about this lobbying investigation. Those things have been known to get out of hand. You’re working for National Aviation, I suppose?”
“Mrs. Redpath, I don’t know National Aviation from a hole in the ground,” Shayne said truthfully. “I think there’s an opening there. Excuse me.”
“One more minute,” she said softly. “I have a small interest in this. I introduced them.”
Shayne turned. “Mrs. Smith and the Senator?”
“Yes. I asked him to a little dinner I was giving for Maggie’s theatre, and that’s where it seems to have started. Sam Toby’s a friend of mine, a very old and dear friend, and he helped me make up the list. It was all very impromptu, not in the least sinister.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Shayne said. “Can you talk a little louder? I’m only catching about two words out of three.”
“This isn’t the best possible place to talk. You may not realize how you stick out in this crowd. As it happens, my husband played a peripheral role in the award of this contract, a very minor and unspectacular role, and that’s why I hope the hearings tomorrow won’t degenerate into one of those name-calling brawls. Can you hear what I’m saying?”
“Barely.”
She came closer, pressing her breast against his arm. “I can’t expect you to take any advice from me. But what you’d better do, Mr. Shayne, is go back to Miami before the booby traps start exploding. Well, I know you probably won’t. But I’d like to make you an offer. I’ve been finding my way through the Washington quicksands for too many years, and if you run into anything you don’t understand, phone me. I won’t promise I can give you the answer, but I might be able to send you to someone who can.”
“That’s generous, Mrs. Redpath.”
She gave him a swift upward look. “It’s not generous, and that’s your first lesson. If your interests coincide with mine and my husband’s, I’ll help you. Trina Hitchcock talked to me. I could see what she thought-that Sam Toby hopes to use Maggie to compromise her father in some way. I doubt it. Whatever Sam is, he can’t be accused of being crude. But if it turns out that there’s anything to it, anything at all, I’ll be miffed. I don’t like to be used. Keep that in mind and take advantage of it. Will you recognize Maggie when you see her?”
“I think so.”
“She’s here. I’ll point her out to you.” She put her hand familiarly on his shoulder and came up on her toes to look around. “Yes, over there.”
“Where?”
“In the beige dress. See the tall man with white hair and the monocle, talking to the President’s wife? Maggie’s-no, she just went out. You may be able to catch her in the hall. Now, remember what I said. Phone me, it doesn’t matter how late.”
“All right, Mrs. Redpath, thanks.”
She maneuvered to one side and let him pass. The jam had become much worse. Halfway to the door he collided with the woman he had met on the sidewalk when he arrived. She, too, had been drinking the Swedish national liquor, and she gave a squeal of pleasure, recognizing Shayne. Their friendship had ripened very fast, and she now seemed to look on him as one of her oldest friends. He persuaded her that he couldn’t possibly take her to dinner, and continued to work his way to the door. But she had delayed him too long. By the time he reached the sidewalk Maggie Smith was gone.
CHAPTER 4
8:25 P.M.
Shayne stopped at a bar for a cognac to kill the taste of the open sandwiches. While he was there he looked up the address of Maggie Smith’s Little Club Theatre. It was on Macomber Court. He hired a taxi driver to point it out to him, parked his rented car, and then had a hard time finding it again. Macomber Court was a tiny cobblestoned street, so narrow that he nearly walked past the entrance. The houses on it were two windows wide and jammed tightly together. Probably the theatre had once been a stable.
The first act was underway. In the ticket booth, a bony girl with her hair in a ponytail brightened at the prospect of selling Shayne a ticket. He grinned at her and stooped so she could hear him through the round hole in the window. “Where do I find Mrs. Smith?”
“I’m not sure that she’s here tonight,” the girl said vaguely. “What do you want to see her about?”
“A friend of mine told me to look her up when I came to Washington. What do I do, walk in?”
The girl slid off her stool. “No, wait here. If anybody wants a ticket, tell them I’ll be back.”
Instead of going into the theatre, she went along the alley and around the building. Shayne looked at the posters while he was waiting. A local dramatic critic had called the play “a searing statement about our precarious human condition.”
The box-office girl came back. “Mrs. Smith was in earlier, but she’s left for the night. Would you like to leave your name and phone number?”
“I don’t want to chase her around town,” Shayne said. “Could you get a message to her? This friend of mine met her on a Caribbean cruise. I’ll write it all down.”
Using the back of an envelope, he wrote the real name of the man the little Civil Service investigator, Ronald Bixler, had called Mr. Y, and added the name of the ship and the stateroom number.
“I’ll see,” the girl said uncertainly.
She went back around the building. Shayne had cut the fuse very short. Before the count reached ten the girl was back, bringing Maggie Smith with her. An unlighted cigarette in his mouth, the redhead watched them approach. Trina Hitchcock, thinking of Maggie in terms of a potential stepmother, had exaggerated some things and omitted others. Maggie Smith’s hair was a dark burnished red. She wore it long, combed back from her forehead. A pair of horn-rimmed glasses had been pushed up out of the way. She was in her late thirties, Shayne judged, with a pleasant face and a humorous mouth. He had only an instant to appraise her, but that was time enough to realize what it was that had so frightened Trina. Physically Maggie Smith was one of the most exciting women he had ever seen. Her arms and shoulders were bare. It was true that she carried a great deal of jewelry-necklace, rings, bracelet, earrings-but what had seemed overdone to Trina seemed fine to Shayne. She wore a full-skirted dinner dress.
She looked at him curiously. “What you sounded like,” she said in a throaty voice that went with everything else, “was a process server. I have a vast number of creditors, and some of them have begun sending me registered letters, I’m sorry to say. Thank you, Agnes,” she said to the girl. “Better get back to the window. There might still be a few latecomers.”
“I hope so, Mrs. Smith.”
Maggie Smith lowered her glasses to read the address on the front of Shayne’s envelope. “Michael Shayne, Miami, Florida.”
“Are you busy?” Shayne said. “Can the theatre get along without you for half an hour?”
“I’m not exactly busy, but I’m working in a new actress in the lead, and I have to stay within shouting distance. I think I can squeeze you in backstage.” As they started around the building, Shayne remarked, “How’s business, not so hot?”
“Business is lousy. We got rave reviews and the few people who’ve seen the play are crazy about it. I hope we can keep it open so it can find its audience.” She glanced at him. “I really doubt if you’d like it.”
“Thanks,” Shayne said with a grin.
Her arm grazed his as they turned the corner, and he grounded some of the electricity she was carrying around. He didn’t like what he had heard about her, and for her part, she must have known that he was bringing bad news. Nevertheless, the flow of current continued. It was something she obviously couldn’t help, and she might not even know it was happening. It was simple, uncomplicated sensuality, and Shayne told himself that he had better drop his bomb fast and get the hell back to Miami.
They went up two steps and through a fire door that had been propped open. A thin actress with green eyelids, puffing almost desperately on a cigarette, flattened herself against the wall to let them pass.