The girl who had visited Lieutenant Drinkley’s hotel room stopped and looked around at the booths, then went slowly to the bar.
When the waiter approached Shayne to take his order, Shayne asked, “Can I get quicker service at the bar?”
“Yes, sir. It’s a little early for the booths to be filled and all the waiters haven’t come on yet.”
Shayne said, “Okay,” and went to the bar. He sat down beside the girl with the tawny hair and ordered cognac.
Shayne was watching the girl’s reflection while he spoke. She gave him a swift, low-lidded glance, fumbled in a glittering evening bag and brought out a cigarette case. She snapped the case open. It was empty. Shayne took out his pack and shook one out.
The girl said, “Thanks,” and dug into her bag for a match.
Shayne took a cigarette for himself, struck a match to both, and said, “Those little bags aren’t good for much, are they?”
She looked levelly at him as she lit her cigarette. She chuckled and said, “I never seem to have anything but the habit, anyway.”
The bartender set a sidecar before Shayne. He said, “Make it two,” lifting one bushy red brow to query the girl.
She nodded and asked, “How come you’re on the loose?”
“I’m new in town.” He appraised her with a frank, steady gaze and added, “A girl like you shouldn’t be here alone—accepting drinks from a strange man.”
“I work here,” she told him, and turned to pick up the sidecar the waiter set on the bar.
Shayne lifted his glass and touched hers. He said, “So that’s it. Well, here’s to bigger and better percentages.” He shoved a five-dollar bill toward the bartender. “Let me know when that’s used up.”
“You seem to know all the answers,” she said, and there was a fleeting return of the sullenness around her mouth that he had noticed in the elevator.
“I’ve been around,” he told her, then asked abruptly, “What’s your name?”
“Lana Moore.” She turned to him as she spoke and added, “You’ll only give me a phony if I ask yours, so I’ll call you Red.”
“Make it Mike.” He shoved the two empty glasses aside and held up two fingers when he caught the bartender’s eye.
She laughed and said, “Five dollars’ worth of these ought to fix things up between us, Red. You see, I kind of go for red hair. But you’ll be thinking it’s a line,” she ended seriously, as the bartender set two sidecars before them.
“It’s a good one if it is.” He drained his glass, pushed it aside and folded his arms on the bar. “What’s your racket? Tell me about it.”
She sipped reflectively, said, “I get a percentage here and at other places. If I can entice you back to the gambling room I get a rakeoff on your losses.” She laughed deep in her throat.
Except for her first low-lidded glance, the girl gave no indication that she recognized him as the man who had ridden down in the elevator with her at the Dragoon Hotel.
After they had drunk four sidecars Shayne suggested, “Let’s find something to eat.”
“There’s a nice dining-room here,” she told him, “with a fair floor show. But it isn’t the hottest one in the Quarter.”
Lana Moore eased herself from the stool, tucked her arm in his and they went out and through the corridor into the dining-room. The head waiter met them with a deferential bow and seated them at a table for two near the velvet rope separating a small stage from the diners. The large room was less than half filled, but the first floor show was already in progress. The acts were risqué without being indecent, and Shayne was beginning to understand why Dan Trueman never had any trouble with the law.
When a waiter brought the menus Shayne laid his aside and said, “You know the joint, Lana. Order for both of us.”
“I’d love to,” she answered with a pleased smile. “We’ll start with a Sazerac cocktail,” she went on, looking up at the waiter, “shrimp salad with Arnaud’s dressing and oysters Rockefeller.”
Shayne made a wry face. “That’s not much food for a hungry man.”
She laughed delightedly. “You evidently haven’t eaten oysters Rockefeller. We’ll have a Petit Brule and coffee later.”
“I’ll trust your judgment,” he said. “Now tell me what the hell are you doing in this racket.”
The waiter was coming with the cocktails. When he went away she took a long drink from her glass, set it down and looked across the table at Shayne. Her tawny eyes were cold and her mouth sullen again. “It’s a good racket,” she said huskily. “I make enough money and I get back at men.”
Shayne tasted the Sazerac and puckered his mouth in distaste. “Somebody has ruined good bourbon and vermouth and absinthe by mixing them,” he complained. “So you’re getting back at men?” He raised one brow quizzically.
Lana’s laugh was mirthless. She was getting drunk and her voice was thick and halting when she said, “Once upon a time I sowed one teeny little oat—on a plain in Montana. It was a tame little oat, Red—not the least bit wild, but it came a cropper. I went through hell—you know, little mid-west town, ashamed to go home to my parents—”
Shayne grunted. “And I’d pick you for a smart one.”
“I was smart,” she blazed. “I’m still smart. I’d had two years at the University before—it happened. I was just nineteen,” she ended, and finished her cocktail.
The waiter brought their dinner, and they sat in moody silence while he arranged it on the table. He asked, “Will there be something else, madam?”
“Petit Brule with our coffee,” Lana ordered, and he went away.
The moody silence continued as they ate. Lana sobered a little, and when the last oyster was gone from her plate she said, “Brain food, Red. I should have eaten before I talked. Maybe I would have lied instead of telling the truth.”
“I usually sift out the truth in the long run,” he told her.
She shrugged her bare shoulders. Her eyes were troubled and she leaned toward him with both elbows on the table, her chin resting on her clasped fingers. “I wouldn’t have lied to you, Red,” she said softly. “You know how it is sometimes. I find a man I can really go for.”
“Meaning me?” Shayne grinned. “Your eyes are green.”
“Meaning you,” she drawled. “They’re yellow-cat eyes, Red. It’s the green-dress influence.” She smiled.
“It’s a nice influence. Let’s get started.” Shayne pushed his chair back.
“Not yet.” She reached across the narrow table and laid her hand on his. “We have to perform the rites over a Petit Brule first.”
A third tray arrived and the waiter set dishes containing cups made from half an orange peeling before them, a small flask of brandy, a decorative container filled with cinnamon and two pots of coffee.
Shayne said, “Just leave the check, and that’ll be all.”
Lana poured brandy into the orange cups, dropped two lumps of sugar in each and sprinkled cinnamon over the brandy. She struck a match to each and a blue flame glowed. “Isn’t it beautiful,” she breathed, her full lips smiling.
“Looks pretty,” Shayne agreed, “but I don’t like my liquor messed up that way.”
She laughed and blew the flames out, waited a moment, then began drinking with relish. Shayne took one sip from his orange cup and set it aside. “Here—you can have mine,” he said, and poured a cup of coffee.
“I’ll have to take you in hand, Red,” Lana said, “and teach you the wonders of the French Quarter.”
“Let’s start with the game room,” he suggested.
Lana finished both the drinks, drank half a cup of coffee, and got up. Shayne paid the bill and she slipped her hand into the crook of his arm, pressed it hard, and led him to the rear of the dining-room and on a circuitous route not easily discovered by the uninitiated, to the gaming room.
A tall man with wide shoulders bulging his dinner coat smiled and said, “Good evening, Miss Moore.”
The room evidenced
the same discreet good taste which characterized the rest of the Laurel Club. There was a crap table and a roulette wheel, three green baize card tables and a 4-5-6 game was in progress at the table nearest the door. All the games were getting a fair play from a quiet and well-mannered group of men and a few women.
Lana stopped Shayne by squeezing his arm and holding him back just inside the door. “You don’t have to play heavy,” she said in a low, husky voice. “Just enough to keep me in right.”
Shayne grinned at her upturned face.
“If I’ve got money to throw away, why not throw it at you instead of the wolves? Is that it, Lana?”
She shrugged and smiled. “Figure it out any way you want to.”
He said, “By God, Lana, you’re a wonder,” and meant it. “Let’s try our luck at four-five-six.”
He drew her to the table and changed a fifty-dollar bill into chips, divided them into two piles and pushed one toward her. Lana pressed close to him and moved the chips back into one pile. “I never gamble that way, darling,” she whispered.
A fat man had the bank. A couple of hundred dollars in chips were stacked in front of him and he was perspiring freely. Shayne took ten of it and watched while the rest of the chips were covered. The fat man threw a pair of fives and a trey, then passed the three dice to the first player on his left who had faded part of the money.
Shayne was next in line. His first throw was a natural: a 4-5-6 which brought the dice and the bank to him after the play was ended. He added another hundred to the sixty and said to Lana, “I have been hot in this game a couple of times.”
When the dice came to him he rattled them in the cup while the houseman called the size of the bank and checked the bets against him. When he was completely faded, Shayne rolled the dice against the backboard and crapped out with a pair and an ace,
Shayne grimaced at Lana and got two more hundreds from his wallet. He rattled the dice gently while the other players covered his money, then bounced them out again. He got a five for his point, and passed the dice on.
By the time the dice returned to him, his bank had increased to three hundred and twenty dollars. He waited impassively until it was all faded, then rolled a six with a pair of deuces—a natural.
As he watched the chips come in he heard a smooth and softly modulated voice say to Lana “Good evening, Miss Moore. Is everything all right?”
The voice was so distinctive that Shayne instantly recognized it as the one that had offered to sell him the emerald necklace over the telephone. He turned his head enough to see the speaker as Lana replied, “Everything is fine, Mr. Trueman.”
The proprietor of the Laurel Club was a tall, spare man with sharp features and elongated eyes that drooped slightly at the outer corners. Shayne judged him to be in his early forties, and he looked more like a successful lawyer than a gambler. He nodded pleasantly to Lana and passed on to another table.
With six hundred and forty dollars in front of him, Shayne got only a little more than four hundred of it faded. He watched Dan Trueman’s spare frame going out of the room through a side door as he rolled the dice. They stopped on a straight 4-5-6.
He waited until his winnings were gathered in, then calmly handed the dice to the player on his left, announcing, “The bank passes.” He paid no attention to the low murmurs of protest around the table, turned his back and waited while the houseman cashed in his chips for bills. There was slightly more than eleven hundred dollars in the roll he received.
He grinned down into Lana’s flushed face and said, “This isn’t going to make you very popular with your boss.”
She laughed with more animation than she had shown all evening. “I won’t worry about that. You’re wonderful, Red. First man I ever saw quit a winner.”
Shayne glanced around the room and muttered, “Wait for me in the cocktail lounge—and order a couple of drinks. We’ve got some celebrating to do.”
She squeezed his arm and said, “I’ll like that.”
“Which way—?”
“Right through that side door. Men to the left,” she anticipated him with an amused smile, and they separated.
CHAPTER EIGHT
SHAYNE opened the door into a narrow hallway, closed it, and opened another door straight in front of it. The room was small with a bar at one end and a few square tables lighted by low-hanging bulbs. Most of the stools were filled by men who slouched against the bar drinking straight whisky. Two of the tables were occupied by sober-faced men squinting at poker hands through thick smoke.
A door to the right had Private painted white on the dark upper panel. A big man with a pockmarked face leaned against the door sill. Bulky muscles swelled a jersey sweater and he was built solid all the way to the floor. As Shayne came close, he asked in a surly tone, “Lost somethin’?”
Shayne said, “I want to see the boss. Is this his office?”
The big man nodded. “He’s busy. You’ll hafta wait.”
Shayne said, “I haven’t got time,” impatiently, and made a forward move to shoulder the man out of his way.
The man’s eyes glittered. He shoved Shayne back with his left hand and brought his other hand out of his pocket gripping a pair of brass knucks.
Shayne shifted quickly to the left and landed a blow on the bottom of the man’s chin. The man staggered backward, his eyes bewildered, and swung a ponderous right with the knucks.
Shayne stepped aside and hit him on the side of the jaw. His weight helped carry the man to the floor. Shayne turned the knob and swung the Private sign inward.
Four men looked at him as he closed the door. Two were seated at a desk and the other two were leaning forward with their hands on the desk as though they had been listening intently.
Dan Trueman sat facing the door. He took a cigar from his mouth and looked at the intruder with mild surprise. The man who sat across from him had to turn in his chair to see Shayne. He was a big man who had no eyebrows or lashes, and his mouth was very small. He looked smart and cruel. The other two men were young and slender and looked like cokies.
Trueman said, “I guess you’ve made a mistake. This is a private office.” He enunciated his words carefully as one speaks to a dimwit or a drunkard.
Shayne said, “If you’re the boss here I’d like to speak to you a minute.”
“If you’ve got a beef,” said Trueman, “it’ll have to wait. How did you talk Tige into letting you in?”
“I persuaded him.” Shayne blew on his bruised knuckles. “This’ll only take a minute, Trueman.”
Dan Trueman said, “He must be tough, boys. Take him out and keep him out till I’m through with Nolan.”
The two gunmen straightened up and turned toward him. Shayne didn’t look at them. He was watching Trueman as he said, “I’m Shayne.”
Trueman’s eyes narrowed. Then he smiled faintly. “Mike Shayne?”
“That’s right.”
Trueman said, “Skip it, boys. Go out and see about Tige. Tell him to throw those knucks away or learn to use them.” He waited until the two young men had gone out. He blew a smoke ring toward the ceiling and gazed at it, saying softly, “I’ve heard of you, Shayne. What’s on your mind?”
Shayne glanced at the big man sitting in front of Trueman. The proprietor of the Laurel Club said, “Don’t mind Jim Nolan. He’s my attorney and knows more about my business than I do.” He smiled disarmingly.
Shayne said, “I’ve got emeralds on my mind.”
“Is it a disease?” asked Trueman.
“You phoned me this afternoon offering to sell a necklace.”
Trueman shook his head. “Come again. I’m no jeweler.”
“These emeralds are hot. So damned hot they’re going to burn somebody.”
“Nor a fence,” Trueman told him quietly.
Shayne rubbed his jaw, then his mouth spread in a grin but his eyes were cold. “I don’t make mistakes. Maybe you’re handling it for another party.”
“If I were, what wo
uld you want me to tell him?”
“Just this. He’d better get out from under because I’m after that necklace. There’ll be no buy from the insurance company.”
“No?” Trueman crossed his legs and sat up straight in his chair, his elongated eyes considering-Shayne. “If you’re talking about the Lomax thing—I was reading about it in the papers.”
“Let’s say I am talking about the Lomax emeralds.”
“I hear it was insured for a hundred and twenty-five thousand,” Trueman purred. “A company hates to put out that kind of money if it can be bought back for, say, forty. No—if I knew the party who had it I’d advise him to hang on for a time.”
Shayne’s laugh was sour. “And you’d be right nine times out of ten. But wrong this once. My company’s got a legal out if it comes to that.”
“So?” Trueman seemed only mildly interested.
“We don’t want to take it. We’d rather recover the stuff and I expect to. But I want you to get this straight—there’ll be no buy.”
Trueman looked inquiringly across the desk at his lawyer.
“Does this talk make sense, Jim?”
“What sort of legal out?” Nolan spoke for the first time since Shayne had entered, and he kept his back turned. The sounds emitting from his small mouth were thin and high, almost a falsetto.
“Negligence of the insured,” Shayne told the lawyer’s fat back. “It’s open and shut. So much so that Lomax admitted it to me privately this afternoon. But his wife is stubborn. To avoid losing a lawsuit Lomax even offered to advance the money himself to cover the loss. That’s how much we’re in the clear.”
“Why bring this story to me?” Trueman asked.
Shayne stepped up to the desk and looked down into Trueman’s eyes and said quietly, “Just so you’ll know where you stand. I don’t like misunderstandings about a thing like this. I’ve been in the middle of some fixes and I hope to be in the middle of a lot more. But not this time. And I don’t want any howl of a double-cross going up. I’m beginning to light a fire and somebody’s going to get burned.”
Murder & the Married Virgin Page 8
