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Authors: Brett Halliday
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plainly.”
She paused as if some secret thought perplexed her.
“Well?” Shayne hunched forward, sipping his coffee.
“Well, I stood there for a moment practicing some of my best swear words on Harry, then a car drove up and stopped and it was Elliot Thomas. He was partially sober, and I asked him to drive me home.”
“That all?”
“That’s all. About midnight I heard the radio report that Harry had been murdered and you had been arrested. I remembered that you had threatened to break his neck when we were in the office of that gambling joint. I called the Miami Beach police and they wouldn’t tell me anything. Then I went out and bought a newspaper and—well, I got panicky and came over here and—and waited for you.”
“Then you didn’t see Grange after he left Marco’s office?”
“Marco?”
“John Marco. The gambler.”
“You mentioned a girl—”
“Marsha Marco. His daughter.” Shayne’s gray eyes gathered suspicion as he looked at her. “Say—are you stalling—trying to get away from the main subject?”
“No.” Her eyes were wide and candid. Her head moved almost imperceptibly from side to side. “I didn’t see Harry again. That is, to speak to him.”
Shayne got up abruptly and went into his bedroom where he fished around in his soggy coat pocket and found the handkerchief he had picked up at the murder scene. He carried it back into the living-room and handed it to Phyllis.
“Is that yours?”
She picked it up by one corner and held it up for inspection. “No,” she said with decision. “Why?”
“Maybe nothing. Maybe a hell of a lot.” Shayne sat down and shoved his empty cup over for a refill with the request, “Not too full this time. Leave room for the royal.”
“What’s that?”
“Coffee royal,” he explained. He took the cup from her and, carefully floating brandy on top, went deeper into the subject. “Coffee royal is what used to make kings kingly—before dictators started dictating.”
He leaned back, sipping the pungent mixture thoughtfully, shaking his head while a scowl of irritation spread over his angular face.
“What do you mean about the handkerchief? Is it important? A clue or something?” Phyllis asked.
“I’ll be damned if I know, Angel.” He smiled briefly. “I’m glad it isn’t yours. Preposterous as it sounds, it would appear that three men have died during the last twelve hours because of that little square of cloth.”
“Not—not actually?”
Her eyes were round with awe. She wanted to know why and how and when and where, but he shook his head at her questions, insisted that he didn’t know himself.
When they finished their coffee, he told her she had better go back home.
“And don’t do anything foolish,” he admonished her gently. “I’d just as leave have you keep on living.”
She faced him near the doorway with very bright eyes. “You’re keeping something from me,” she accused. “What makes you think I might be in any danger?”
“Just a hunch,” he insisted. “What I mean is—stay out of dark alleys and don’t go riding with strange men.” He paused, then added irrationally, “You haven’t met a mug named Chuck Evans in your meanderings, I suppose.”
“No—not that I recall.”
He muttered, “I didn’t suppose you would have. It’s too much to ask for something to make sense.” He slid his arm around her shoulders and moved her toward the door. “Strange as it seems,” he said lightly, “I have to work for a living.”
“Are you working on a case?”
“Not yet. Not until I see the glint of a stray dime that may be in it for a guy named Mike Shayne.”
He grinned and squeezed her shoulders, released her and went to the door to look down the hall. He turned back and tilted her face and kissed her lips.
“Run along now. Nice to have seen you again, sister. Do come back some time when you have more news of mom and pop and all the girls.”
He looked into the hall again, saw
She paused as if some secret thought perplexed her.
“Well?” Shayne hunched forward, sipping his coffee.
“Well, I stood there for a moment practicing some of my best swear words on Harry, then a car drove up and stopped and it was Elliot Thomas. He was partially sober, and I asked him to drive me home.”
“That all?”
“That’s all. About midnight I heard the radio report that Harry had been murdered and you had been arrested. I remembered that you had threatened to break his neck when we were in the office of that gambling joint. I called the Miami Beach police and they wouldn’t tell me anything. Then I went out and bought a newspaper and—well, I got panicky and came over here and—and waited for you.”
“Then you didn’t see Grange after he left Marco’s office?”
“Marco?”
“John Marco. The gambler.”
“You mentioned a girl—”
“Marsha Marco. His daughter.” Shayne’s gray eyes gathered suspicion as he looked at her. “Say—are you stalling—trying to get away from the main subject?”
“No.” Her eyes were wide and candid. Her head moved almost imperceptibly from side to side. “I didn’t see Harry again. That is, to speak to him.”
Shayne got up abruptly and went into his bedroom where he fished around in his soggy coat pocket and found the handkerchief he had picked up at the murder scene. He carried it back into the living-room and handed it to Phyllis.
“Is that yours?”
She picked it up by one corner and held it up for inspection. “No,” she said with decision. “Why?”
“Maybe nothing. Maybe a hell of a lot.” Shayne sat down and shoved his empty cup over for a refill with the request, “Not too full this time. Leave room for the royal.”
“What’s that?”
“Coffee royal,” he explained. He took the cup from her and, carefully floating brandy on top, went deeper into the subject. “Coffee royal is what used to make kings kingly—before dictators started dictating.”
He leaned back, sipping the pungent mixture thoughtfully, shaking his head while a scowl of irritation spread over his angular face.
“What do you mean about the handkerchief? Is it important? A clue or something?” Phyllis asked.
“I’ll be damned if I know, Angel.” He smiled briefly. “I’m glad it isn’t yours. Preposterous as it sounds, it would appear that three men have died during the last twelve hours because of that little square of cloth.”
“Not—not actually?”
Her eyes were round with awe. She wanted to know why and how and when and where, but he shook his head at her questions, insisted that he didn’t know himself.
When they finished their coffee, he told her she had better go back home.
“And don’t do anything foolish,” he admonished her gently. “I’d just as leave have you keep on living.”
She faced him near the doorway with very bright eyes. “You’re keeping something from me,” she accused. “What makes you think I might be in any danger?”
“Just a hunch,” he insisted. “What I mean is—stay out of dark alleys and don’t go riding with strange men.” He paused, then added irrationally, “You haven’t met a mug named Chuck Evans in your meanderings, I suppose.”
“No—not that I recall.”
He muttered, “I didn’t suppose you would have. It’s too much to ask for something to make sense.” He slid his arm around her shoulders and moved her toward the door. “Strange as it seems,” he said lightly, “I have to work for a living.”
“Are you working on a case?”
“Not yet. Not until I see the glint of a stray dime that may be in it for a guy named Mike Shayne.”
He grinned and squeezed her shoulders, released her and went to the door to look down the hall. He turned back and tilted her face and kissed her lips.
“Run along now. Nice to have seen you again, sister. Do come back some time when you have more news of mom and pop and all the girls.”
He looked into the hall again, saw
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