The tiled bathroom was clouded with steam and Shayne was blissfully relaxed in a tub filled to the overflow outlet with water near the scalding point. The door opened a cautious crack and Phyllis’s voice came timidly through the steam.
“Can I do anything? That is-”
“You can stay out and let a man have some privacy,” Shayne shouted severely.
He snatched the shower curtain the length of the tub and slid farther into the water. As the door started to close, he yelled out, “Wait. If you feel domestic, put on some coffee water to boil.”
“Yes, Mr. Shayne,” Phyllis said meekly through the crack. “Is that all?”
“That’s all, Angel.”
He luxuriated in the hot water a little longer, then dragged his long, sinewy body out and turned on a stinging blast of the coldest water Miami affords. He stepped out and rubbed down briskly with a coarse towel. He then wiped the mist from the mirror and scowled at his marked face.
Passo’s backhanded blows hadn’t added materially to his looks. His upper lip was puffed, and there was an ugly, livid bruise on the left side of his jaw. He quit scowling and grinned ruefully when he thought about the damage the hoodlums might have done if their scheme had worked.
He applied witch-hazel to the bruises and wrapped a dry towel around his belly, then opened the door a few inches and peered into the living-room.
It was empty. He hastily negotiated the few steps to his bedroom door, and closed it behind him. Five minutes later he emerged wearing gray flannels and a white shirt open at the throat. His red hair was plastered to his head. He whistled an off-tune version of “Mother Machree” as he stepped out into the living-room.
There was an unopened bottle of cognac in the wall cabinet. He went to the kitchen carrying it by the neck.
Phyllis smiled at him from her position in front of the electric stove where she bent anxiously over an aluminum pot half full of water that was about to boil. She was wearing a yellow linen suit badly rumpled from her slumber, but the dark eyes that looked into Shayne’s were clear and purposeful.
Shayne stopped behind her and said, “Last time, I made the coffee. Remember?”
She nodded. “After harboring me for the night.”
“It’s getting to be a habit,” Shayne complained, “sleeping in my apartment. One would think you didn’t have a bed of your own to sleep in.”
“A habit?” Phyllis scoffed. “I’ll bet it’s a record.”
The water began to boil. She started to pour it into the top of an earthenware dripolator, but Shayne put out his hand to stop her.
“Let me see how much coffee you’ve got in there,” he growled. “Most women treat coffee as though it was more precious than diamonds.”
He lifted the top with its tiny drip holes and nodded with surprised pleasure at sight of the middle container heaped high with drip-ground coffee.
“It’s unbelievable,” he exclaimed in a tone of high praise. “You’re actually making coffee a man can drink. You’ll make some man a swell wife when you grow up.”
She said, “I’m nineteen,” and grimaced charmingly, poured the water with a steady hand, though a deep flush came into her cheeks.
“Uh-huh. One month older than you were last month-”
“When you pushed me out of the door and told me to grow up.”
She put the empty pot down and faced him, her eyes wide and probing.
“Lord, you’re slow growing up,” he told her in a light, complaining voice, but his eyes were deep, serious.
“Maybe,” she said gravely, “you’d be surprised.”
He touched her cheek, then turned away abruptly to reach for a corkscrew.
“Want a drink?”
She said, “Of course,” behind him, and bent zestfully over the dripolator to see if the water had all passed through.
He paused, with the screw just biting into the cork. “Like that, huh? Before breakfast and everything? And when I first met you, you choked over the smell of the vile stuff.”
“It’s your fault,” she told him serenely. “It’s up to you to save me from a drunkard’s death.”
He twisted the corkscrew carefully, slid the bottle down and gripped it between his thighs and pulled steadily and with infinite patience.
“How did you get into my apartment?”
“The night clerk let me in with a pass-key. I told him I was your sister.”
Shayne chuckled. “Did he believe you?”
The cork was reluctantly letting go. Shayne eased it out cautiously.
“I don’t think so.” Her eyes twinkled. “He mumbled something about you having a hell of a lot of sisters-and all with funny visiting habits.”
“Swearing too, eh?” Shayne swung around, pointing the cork, impaled on the screw, at her accusingly.
She wrinkled up her nose and laughed at him.
“That was just quoting. I’m not very good at it yet. Hell and damn are really as far as I’ve gotten with any degree of sophistication. But I know lots more. Like-”
“Skip it,” Shayne snapped. His eyes had a hungry, yearning glint in them. “I’ll take you like you are, Angel. Don’t go getting your face dirty.”
She took a quick step forward, put her hands on his biceps.
“Why don’t you?”
“Why don’t I what?”
“Take me,” she cried, “like I am.”
Shayne’s tongue licked out to taste the witch-hazel on his lips.
He said, “Darling,” and stopped short. Beads of sweat stood on his forehead. He said roughly, “You’re crazy, and you’re damned sweet. Let’s have that drink.”
He turned from her and went into the living-room. Phyllis sighed and followed with a stubborn frown creasing her smooth brow.
Shayne took down a tiny liqueur glass and set it beside the tall wine glass he had drunk from the preceding evening. He filled them both and dropped into the chair she had been sleeping in when he entered the room. Stretching out a long arm for the large glass, he said gruffly, “Suppose you start telling me what it’s all about. Starting a month back, when I lost track of you in the shuffle.”
She sat down in a straight chair and regarded him levelly over the rim of the tiny glass.
“You didn’t have to-lose track of me. I telephoned and left my new address when I moved into an apartment.”
He made an impatient gesture. “We’re talking in circles. A man was murdered last night.”
“I-know.” Her lips paled. “Did you-the papers said-”
“That I killed Harry Grange,” he supplied cheerfully. “Why did you come here if you read the papers and knew I was supposed to be in jail?”
“Because I knew you wouldn’t stay in jail.”
Shayne grinned wryly and took a long drink.
“You were going to tell me about things, Angel.”
“There isn’t much to tell.” Phyllis lifted her glass and drank the small potion swiftly. “I followed your advice-about growing up.”
“By running around with chiselers like Harry Grange?”
She folded her hands meekly in her lap and looked at him wide-eyed.
“Not particularly with Harry. You’d be proud of me if I made out a complete list of the men who have volunteered to teach me about life with a capital L. Elliot Thomas-among others.”
Shayne’s right arm stopped rigidly with his glass halfway to his mouth.
“Elliot Thomas!”
Phyllis nodded complacently.
“He is considered quite a catch-but he’s stupid. He thinks every girl likes to be pawed after she’s had a glass of champagne.”
Shayne’s glass went on to his lips and he inhaled a deep breath of the bouquet, then drank two long swallows. He said, gently, “I’m particularly interested in Elliot Thomas. Have you been seeing him lately?”
Phyllis shook her lustrous, close-cropped head of black hair.
“Not for a couple of weeks.”
“Do you happen to be acquainted with Marsha Marco?”
Phyllis repeated the name, shaking her head again.
“I don’t think so.”
“You girls should meet,” Shayne grunted. “You’ve got a lot in common.” He finished off his drink and set the glass down, got up and went into the kitchen, asking over his shoulder, “Cream and sugar?”
“Cream-if you have it. No sugar.”
He got a half-pint bottle of cream from the refrigerator and took the coffeepot from the hot electric coil and carried them into the living-room. Making a second trip, he brought two cups and saucers and set them out in front of Phyllis.
“You can pour.”
She filled the cups with steaming black coffee and handed one to Shayne.
“Who is Marsha Marco-and what have we in common?”
He stared across the room somberly.
“Tell me exactly what happened after I saw you last night.”
“I was mad as-as hops at you,” she told him. “Mostly because you had showed Harry up when I thought he was just what he pretended to be-”
Shayne nodded impatiently.
“I knew you were mad. Did you catch Grange?”
“Yes-that is-I did and I didn’t.”
When Shayne didn’t say anything, she hurried on to explain, “He had gotten in his car and was just driving away when I came out. I called to him and thought he heard me because he slowed down and stopped. I started walking to his car, but another girl got in ahead of me-and they drove away.”
“Was she wearing a red dress?”
“I-don’t know. There was just the moonlight and I didn’t see her very 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 that it was empty, and gave her a little shove through the door. She turned to make a grimace at him, but the door was already closed.