She gave him a brilliant smile. “How extremely nice to see you.”
Shayne went on, “I just got back this afternoon. Everything looks about the same.”
“Oh, Washington never changes,” she said. “It only gets more so. You remember my husband?”
“Very well!” Shayne said heartily, and after another handshake they all entered the embassy together.
Shayne’s new friends gave their names to a servant in livery in the entrance hall. Another servant checked them off on a typed list. Shayne was clearly a member of the party. The servant looked at him, but didn’t ask for his credentials.
Inside, the noise level was already high. A waiter with a large tray accosted Shayne and gave him a tiny glass of colorless liquid, which proved to have the kick of the best moonshine whiskey, with a pleasanter aftertaste. He began looking around for a redheaded woman wearing too much jewelry and perfume, with the kind of coarse vitality that would attract a fifty-eight-year-old senator and horrify his daughter. He couldn’t see anyone who even came close. There was a large buffet. Having eaten nothing all day but two hero sandwiches, Shayne loaded a plate, picked up another glass of the potent liquor and kept moving. Still he saw no one who would fit Trina Hitchcock’s description of her rival.
Ten minutes later he arrived back at the buffet and refilled his plate.
“You must have a marvelous digestion,” a woman beside him said approvingly.
“Only average,” Shayne said, his mouth full. “Can I get you anything to eat?”
She was the handsomest woman he had seen so far, with dark hair and carefully made-up dark eyes. She was wearing a black cocktail dress with an extremely low neckline. A great deal of skin was showing, and it was very nice skin, Shayne thought, the color and consistency of thick cream. She was holding a highball.
“Can you get me anything to eat?” she repeated, shaking her glass. “There are too many calories in this. You can’t be a Washingtonian. Nobody works up that kind of appetite in an office, and that’s where all Washington males spend their time, without exception. I’m Adelle Redpath,” she explained. “My husband’s the Senator. I hate it when an attractive new man appears at a party and I don’t know who he is. Now let me guess. You’re not a politician, that’s clear. You’re not in the diplomatic service.”
“Thank God,” Shayne said. “I’m supposed to be meeting somebody, Mrs. Redpath, and if I can get through here—”
“You’ll make yourself some enemies if you try,” she said. “Face the fact, you’re caught. I’m still guessing.” She put one finger appraisingly to her lips. “If you were a mystery guest on a TV show, considering your height, those shoulders, those lean flanks, and let me see—the sun wrinkles at the corners of your eyes, I’d guess you’re a private detective from Miami.”
“This quiz is fixed.”
“It is indeed. I was just talking to a congressman from your part of the world, Mr. Shayne. He told me your name and I’ve been stalking you ever since.”
“Why?”
“This time you guess. No, that’s not fair. From the way you’re wolfing the smorgasbord, you probably haven’t been in town long enough for a real meal. I don’t want you to think I’m a mind reader, although as a matter of fact I’ve been complimented on my mind-reading ability, but you’re looking for somebody named Maggie Smith, aren’t you?” Shayne had just taken a bite of an open sandwich, some kind of oily fish on a triangle of bread spread with pate, and it stuck in his throat. He managed to get it down without choking.
Mrs. Redpath laughed. From a short distance, she probably looked lighthearted and carefree, but he was close enough to get other vibrations. The laughter was only on the surface.
“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.
“Where did you find him, Maggie?” she said.
“Never you mind. You concentrate on your lines. Don’t hurry them tonight. Those pauses are vital.”
She took Shayne into a small office, which had barely room enough in it for a littered desk and two chairs. The walls were covered with theatrical posters and autographed photographs. None of the faces in the photographs was familiar to Shayne. If they were famous, it was in a world he knew nothing about.
She closed the door carefully. “The good thing about this building is that it’s solid. I can yell at you in here and nobody’ll hear me.”
Shayne cleared a corner of the desk and planted his hip on it. “Yelling won’t help, Mrs. Smith.” He took his unlighted cigarette out of his mouth. “I don’t suppose smoking’s allowed.”
“Go ahead. It’s against fire regulations, but maybe the best thing I can do for this theatre is burn it down.”
His lighter flared. She picked a cigarette out of a pack by the phone, and let him light it for her.
She sat down behind the desk, first moving a small pile of bound typescripts. “If this is blackmail, I don’t see how I can make it worth your while. I’m not just broke. I owe money all over town. Or isn’t it money you want?”
“I want some cooperation, Mrs. Smith.” He took the envelope from her and tore it into quarters, then dropped them in a heavy glass ashtray and set them on fire. “Is the name of the boat and the name of the guy enough, or do you want the rest of it?”
“I think I’d better hear a little more,” she said evenly. “Because there’s always a chance you’re bluffing isn’t there?”
“The man who arranged it was a fixer named Sam Toby. A corporation he was working for wanted a favorable ruling from the Wage-Hour Division in the Labor Department. The cruise lasted nine days. After you got back—”
“That’s enough,” she said. “I won’t ask you where you got this because I know you wouldn’t tell me. I just hope it’s not in the public domain.” She closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose hard between her thumb and forefinger. “What do you want from me?”
“I want you to stop seeing Senator Hitchcock.”
Her eyes opened. “So Trina sent you. I don’t like to think unpleasant thoughts about anybody, but Trina Hitchcock is one person I think civilization could easily do without. I wouldn’t have said she was your type, either.”
“Few of my clients are,” Shayne said. “I don’t let it bother me.”
“Are you a lawyer?”
“No, a private detective. She thought it would be better to have it handled by somebody from out of town.”
Maggie hit the desk a hard blow with her knuckles. “I didn’t think she’d go this far! I knew she didn’t approve, she hasn’t made any secret of that, but my God! Usually it’s the parent who’s possessive! Do you know how Emory has been spending his evenings the last few years? Bookbinding. That’s a restful hobby, and he actually does very good work. But it’s not too stimulating.”
“I’m sure you’re an improvement over bookbinding, Mrs. Smith.”
“I want to tell you something. I don’t know what’s wrong with Trina, but sometimes I think it’s fairly major. Her father is serious about being a senator. He works hard, and he’s good at it. I don’t agree with all his ideas, but they’re his own and nobody else’s. He’s never made five cents over his government salary. He doesn’t give a damn about popularity inside the Club.”
“That’s why I think he deserves a break.”
“You can’t think that. So long as he lets his daughter decide whom he can see and whom he can’t, he’s in danger of drying up, of turning into a self-indulgent, crotchety old man. I don’t like to pat myself on the back, but he’s changed in the last few weeks. He’s started enjoying himself for the first time in years.”
“You still don’t get the idea,” Shayne said wearily. “I wasn’t hired to argue with you. We want this broken off, and it has to happen right away.”
After a moment’s silence, breathing out a mouthful of smoke, she said, “Tell Trina I said to go to hell.”
“OK,” Shayne said. “Any o
ther message?”
“Mr. Shayne, look! He’s beginning to break out of his cocoon. That sounds corny, but it happens to be true. How do you think he’ll feel, or doesn’t that matter?”
“Don’t leave it up to Trina to tell him. Break off with him yourself and he won’t have to know about those nine days in the Caribbean.”
“Oh, it must be wonderful to be so sure you’re right! Well, I’m going to fight you. This happened eight years ago, when I was a different person, and I think Emory will be able to understand that. I have a chance.”
“Maybe, if it was between you and Hitchcock. But I’m in on it, and I’m here to make sure you lose. Unless you back out, and I mean as of now, I’ll draw up a memo giving the full facts of that Caribbean cruise, and run it through the copier. I’ll get Miss Hitchcock to tell me where to send the copies. Does your theatre have a board of trustees? That would be the logical place to start. And shell have other ideas.”
She stared at him. “It’s too bad you didn’t grow up in Germany. You could have had a wonderful career under Hitler.”
“Never mind the remarks. First you say yes, and then we’ll figure out how to make it stick. I think you’d better leave town for a while.”
“You filthy bastard.” She drew a deep shuddering breath. “You’re right—I don’t want that story circulated among my trustees. Oddly enough, I think I could explain it to Emory. He’s a human being.”
“I know it’s been beautiful,” Shayne said sarcastically. “And now it’s over.”
Her voice trembled. “I made a bad mistake once, and I’ve always had a sneaking suspicion I’d have to pay for it someday. Exactly what do you suggest I do?”
“Call him up and cancel your date for tonight. Say you have a headache.”
“That’s no lie.” She lifted the phone slowly, as though it was heavier than she expected, and started to dial. Then she slammed it back and stood up. “No! First I think I deserve the privilege of telling you what I think about people like you. You’re one of the main things that’s wrong with this world, Mr. Shayne. Probably my friendship with Emory wouldn’t have amounted to much. There were too many arguments against it. He doesn’t care about the theatre and I don’t give a damn about politics. But it was nice! After an evening together life seemed to be fairly manageable for a change. Do you think that anybody—anybody on God’s earth, including detectives—has a right to any privacy?”
The Violent World of Michael Shayne Page 3
