Shayne said, “Except for the fact that some cops may bust in here any minute to arrest me on suspicion of murder.”
Her eyes widened. “I don’t get the murder angle,” she protested. “Vicky said you yammered about that to him. How were you tangled up with the Hudson maid?”
“It’s a long story. I am tangled up in it and if I don’t hang the rap on someone quick, I’ll have it hung on me.”
“So? That would be too damned bad-just when we’re getting acquainted,” she drawled.
Shayne leaned toward her and said earnestly, “You can help me.”
“How?”
“In the first place, tell me how you found out the Lance Hastings deal was a frame-up to get divorce evidence against you?”
“One of your buddies told me about it. A little shrimp named Angus Browne.”
“Browne told you I handled it for your husband?” Shayne kept his voice casual.
“He didn’t tell me who. Just that a private dick employed by Vicky had been trailing me and getting evidence. I didn’t know who you were until you popped up today.”
“Did Browne suggest planting the letters on Mrs. Hudson as a retaliatory measure?”
“How would he know about the letters? I was the only one who knew what had been going on between them. And they weren’t planted. I figured she was the sort of dumbbell who would keep a batch of letters like that. So I fixed it with Browne to try and find them. He did. That’s all.” She wet her lips, looked at her empty glass and murmured, “Those drinks make me thirsty.”
Shayne’s glass was still half full. He concealed its condition by holding his hand clamped around the bottom, got up and took hers back for a refill. This time he put more than an ounce of straight cognac in it before filling it to the brim from the milk bottle. He also filled his own and carried them in.
Shayne set his glass down and leaned over her. She closed her eyes and made a little whimpering sound as her teeth closed strongly upon the fleshy part of his thumb.
He kissed her lightly and she returned his kiss fiercely. Shayne pulled away from her after a moment and said harshly, “I’ve still got a goddamned murder rap to beat.”
She slumped back in her chair, one hand groping for her glass. “I dunno what you put in these drinks,” she said thickly. “They make me feel all loose inside. You know what I mean.”
Shayne said, “I get the general idea. Is Hampstead handling the divorce suit against your husband?”
She waggled her head affirmatively. “Soon’s I’ve established residence so I can bring suit.”
“Whose bright idea was it to blackmail Mrs. Hudson with photostats of your husband’s letters?”
“I dunno anything about that. Didn’t know anything ’bout it ’til Victor told me today. Sounds like something Browne might think up-or that brother-in-law of hers if he’d got onto it.” She tilted her head and downed her third sidecar, then let her hand fall supinely in her lap.
Shayne took the empty glass from her. His gray eyes were very bright. “Whose brother-in-law?”
“Chrishtine Hudson’s-Floyd. Wouldn’t put anything pasht him ’cludin’ making passes at his brother’s wife. He’s stric’ly no good.”
“What do you know about Floyd Hudson?”
Estelle’s head lolled to one side. She opened her left eye and squinted at him, keeping the right one tightly closed. “Wouldn’ you like to know? I saw’m that night we were there. You betcha I saw ’em.”
“The night you were where?”
“Their housh.” She grew weary of keeping her left eye open and closed it. “Millionaire condeshends to visit ex-secretary. Takes unsushpectin’ wife ’long. Zif I didn’ know. Nice boat ride. Howsh ’bout nozzer li’l drink?”
“In just a minute,” he said gently. “Tell me about Floyd. I’ll bet he thinks he’s hell-on-wheels with the ladies.” He got up and went back to her chair and put his big palms against her cheeks.
Her body slumped to one side when he took his hands from her face. Shayne hurried into the bathroom and soaked a towel in cold water, brought it back and began slapping her face and neck with it. She opened her eyes and swayed to her feet, a vacuous smile on her red mouth.
Shayne put an arm around her to support her. She twisted against him and locked both arms around his neck. Her knees buckled and she was a dead weight against him
Cursing himself for overestimating her capacity, he picked her up and carried her into the bedroom and dumped her on the bed and pried her arms from his neck.
His telephone began to ring. He stalked into the living-room and answered it.
The desk clerk said cautiously, “Mr. Shayne? I thought I’d better tell you. There’s a man here-a taxi driver. He doesn’t know your name but he gave a perfect description of you and says he drove you home last night. I told him I wasn’t certain there was anyone here answering his description. Then he said there’d better be because if he didn’t see you right away he was going to the police. I told him I’d see if I could locate anyone and he’s waiting here in the lobby. If you don’t want to see him I’ll-”
Shayne interrupted him sharply. “No. Send him up here. Give him my room number but don’t mention my name.”
He hung up, trotted across the room and shut the door against Estelle’s irregular breathing. He then went to the front door, opened it slightly, picked up the two glasses, and carried them to the kitchen. He measured more Cointreau, cognac and lemon juice into the milk bottle and was adding ice cubes when a knock sounded on the outer door.
He called out, “Come in,” and went on mixing another batch of sidecars.
Chapter Fourteen: SILENCE AT A PRICE
The door was pushed open and Shayne said, “Come on in the kitchen.”
Shayne looked up and saw a squatty man with a square freckled face and loose lips. He stood in the doorway twisting a visored cap in his dirty hands. He said, “That clerk downstairs gimme the right steer all right. You’re the guy I drove home from the Play-Mor last night.”
“That’s right,” said Shayne. “I was just fixing myself a drink.” He was shaking the bottle again, vigorously. “Want one?” He moved into the living-room with the driver beside him.
“Sure,” the man said, looking around the room. He selected the chair Estelle had been sitting in. He sat down and took a newspaper from his pocket, smoothed it out on his knee while Shayne poured his drink.
“Hope you’ll like my concoction,” said Shayne.
“Sure will,” he said. “My name’s Ira Wilson. I just saw the picture in the paper of this dame that got bumped off on the Beach last night.”
Shayne sat down opposite him and said, “That’s interesting,” and lit a cigarette.
“Ain’t it?” The taxi driver chuckled and picked up his glass, tasted it and smacked his lips, then drank the entire contents. “Smooth,” he said approvingly as he set the glass down. “I never held much with these mixed-up drinks. A man never knows whether he’s gettin’ any liquor or not. Taste good, but they ain’t got much wallop. Gimme a boilermaker any time.”
Shayne said, “Sorry. I just mixed up the last of my liquor. The clerk downstairs said you wanted to see me about something?”
“Well,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “I ain’t the kind to cause anybody trouble. See what I mean? I always say live and let live, see? That’s why I come here ’stead of running to the cops and blowin’ my mouth off.”
“About what?”
“Now look, Mister.” Ira Wilson leaned forward and tapped Shayne on the knee. “You and me both know what I’m talking about. You take it now, this dame that’s got her pitcher in the paper. She’s the one you give a lift from the club last night.”
“So?” Shayne’s face and voice were without expression. He took a sip from his glass.
“Well, I got a hunch the cops might like to know about that,” the driver went on, his small black eyes sly, and his voice insinuating. “About you pretendin’ you didn’t know her when she hopped in my cab an’ you two not speakin’ a word an’ then you goin’ in with her when she got out.”