5:45 P.M.
He spent a hot half-hour and several dollars’ worth of dimes in a phone booth trying to track down Maggie Smith. She could always be found at her theatre in the evening, he was told, but he wanted to be asleep by then. No one knew her plans for dinner, but she had said she might drop in at a cocktail party at the Swedish Embassy on Sheridan Circle. Shayne rubbed his chin. Could he get into an embassy cocktail party without an invitation? Probably, and even if they didn’t let him in, he could park nearby and wait for Maggie Smith to emerge.
Enlisting another taxi driver, he found Sheridan Circle. A fleet of parked limousines helped him identify the embassy. Two taxis were discharging passengers as Shayne arrived, after parking his Ford. After a moment’s hesitation, he walked up to one of the women, put out his hand and said cordially, “Hello! Nice to see you again.”
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.