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Authors: Brett Halliday
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angle that’s turned up yet and I didn’t want to pass up any bets.”
The waiter brought the sidecars. As Shayne lifted his glass he turned his head slightly and saw Helen Brinstead following the headwaiter to a table for two against the opposite wall. She was alone and she still wore the dove-gray dress he had seen that afternoon. He set his cocktail down and said, “Don’t look now, but I think I smell heliotrope perfume.”
Phyllis sniffed unconsciously. Her eyes widened and she glanced aside in the direction of his gaze where Helen was sitting down. Shayne hunched his chair around so that his back was partially toward the girl.
Phyllis breathed, “She’s—beautiful, Michael.”
He nodded and lifted his glass again. “Maybe that’s why she’s bored with her husband.”
“Michael! Are you sure there isn’t some mistake? She doesn’t look like that sort of girl.”
Shayne said, “Most of them don’t, angel. Take you, for example. Now who would think you were a dish-throwing female?”
Phyllis grimaced. “You knew she would be here for dinner,” she challenged. “That’s why you came.”
Shayne shook his head. “I’d have come alone if I’d been sure. But it isn’t strange that she’s here,” he added. “Her apartment is only a block away and this is the only decent restaurant in this vicinity.”
As they finished their drinks, the waiter approached proudly bearing aloft a tray holding huge bowls of the German dish prepared as only the Danube cook could prepare it. A short little man waddled in the wake of the waiter. He was almost as wide as he was tall. Deep lines of worry were etched in a moonlike face that was normally placid and beaming. Otto Phleugar’s round blue eyes held a hurt look of bewilderment like that of a child who has been unfairly punished by his parents.
He stopped beside Shayne’s chair and put a fat, moist hand on Shayne’s shoulder. “It is good to see you ordering the hasenpfeffer, mine friend. It is for wonder you do not fear so German a dish would be poisoned by the Nazi ideals.”
Shayne smiled up at the proprietor. “Is it really getting that bad, Otto?”
“Worse nor that,” he declared. “Those who were my friends in past years have declared the boycott. For yourself, you can see.” He waved a pudgy hand toward the almost deserted dining-room.
Shayne said, “It’s just the backwash of war hysteria. It will pass, Otto—if you keep on serving the same kind of food you have been.”
“I am sure of nothing,” sighed Otto Phleugar. “In America I have lived for twenty years yet, and now I am hated and threatened because once I lived in a land that is now at war with us.”
He hesitated, then ventured timidly, “Could I in my office see you after the dinner is ended, Mr. Shayne? There is somethings for talk in private that I your advice would ask.”
“Sure, Otto. You can’t drag me away from this dinner, but as soon as I’m full to the chin I’ll be in.”
“It is with the greatest thanks,” the rotund man said. He bowed from his enormous belly to Phyllis and turned away.
“Poor little fat man,” she breathed. “He looks so lost and heartsick, Michael I do hope you can help him.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
“TURN YOUR HEAD and take a casual look at that girl for me,” Shayne directed his wife after they had topped off a heavy dinner with black coffee and thimble-like glasses of Otard Cognac. “I’d like to get into Otto’s office without her seeing me.”
Phyllis took a slow look in Helen Brinstead’s direction and reported, “She’s eating dinner and not paying any attention to anything else. She seems to have a remarkably good appetite for a woman with husband murder on her mind.”
Shayne grinned and said, “Feeding her nerves. You stay here while I see what Otto has on his mind. I won’t be long.” He turned sideways as he pushed back his chair, keeping his back to Helen. He sauntered out of the dining-room and turned to
The waiter brought the sidecars. As Shayne lifted his glass he turned his head slightly and saw Helen Brinstead following the headwaiter to a table for two against the opposite wall. She was alone and she still wore the dove-gray dress he had seen that afternoon. He set his cocktail down and said, “Don’t look now, but I think I smell heliotrope perfume.”
Phyllis sniffed unconsciously. Her eyes widened and she glanced aside in the direction of his gaze where Helen was sitting down. Shayne hunched his chair around so that his back was partially toward the girl.
Phyllis breathed, “She’s—beautiful, Michael.”
He nodded and lifted his glass again. “Maybe that’s why she’s bored with her husband.”
“Michael! Are you sure there isn’t some mistake? She doesn’t look like that sort of girl.”
Shayne said, “Most of them don’t, angel. Take you, for example. Now who would think you were a dish-throwing female?”
Phyllis grimaced. “You knew she would be here for dinner,” she challenged. “That’s why you came.”
Shayne shook his head. “I’d have come alone if I’d been sure. But it isn’t strange that she’s here,” he added. “Her apartment is only a block away and this is the only decent restaurant in this vicinity.”
As they finished their drinks, the waiter approached proudly bearing aloft a tray holding huge bowls of the German dish prepared as only the Danube cook could prepare it. A short little man waddled in the wake of the waiter. He was almost as wide as he was tall. Deep lines of worry were etched in a moonlike face that was normally placid and beaming. Otto Phleugar’s round blue eyes held a hurt look of bewilderment like that of a child who has been unfairly punished by his parents.
He stopped beside Shayne’s chair and put a fat, moist hand on Shayne’s shoulder. “It is good to see you ordering the hasenpfeffer, mine friend. It is for wonder you do not fear so German a dish would be poisoned by the Nazi ideals.”
Shayne smiled up at the proprietor. “Is it really getting that bad, Otto?”
“Worse nor that,” he declared. “Those who were my friends in past years have declared the boycott. For yourself, you can see.” He waved a pudgy hand toward the almost deserted dining-room.
Shayne said, “It’s just the backwash of war hysteria. It will pass, Otto—if you keep on serving the same kind of food you have been.”
“I am sure of nothing,” sighed Otto Phleugar. “In America I have lived for twenty years yet, and now I am hated and threatened because once I lived in a land that is now at war with us.”
He hesitated, then ventured timidly, “Could I in my office see you after the dinner is ended, Mr. Shayne? There is somethings for talk in private that I your advice would ask.”
“Sure, Otto. You can’t drag me away from this dinner, but as soon as I’m full to the chin I’ll be in.”
“It is with the greatest thanks,” the rotund man said. He bowed from his enormous belly to Phyllis and turned away.
“Poor little fat man,” she breathed. “He looks so lost and heartsick, Michael I do hope you can help him.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
“TURN YOUR HEAD and take a casual look at that girl for me,” Shayne directed his wife after they had topped off a heavy dinner with black coffee and thimble-like glasses of Otard Cognac. “I’d like to get into Otto’s office without her seeing me.”
Phyllis took a slow look in Helen Brinstead’s direction and reported, “She’s eating dinner and not paying any attention to anything else. She seems to have a remarkably good appetite for a woman with husband murder on her mind.”
Shayne grinned and said, “Feeding her nerves. You stay here while I see what Otto has on his mind. I won’t be long.” He turned sideways as he pushed back his chair, keeping his back to Helen. He sauntered out of the dining-room and turned to
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