In the living-room he set the loaded tray on the table, pushing the cognac bottle to one end. As an afterthought, he took half a bottle of dry sherry from the cabinet and carried it to the breakfast table with two glasses. Then he went to the closed bedroom door, knocked, and opened it.
Phyllis Brighton sat up with a dazed cry of fright and stared at him. He said, “Good morning,” went to the closet and took out a flannel robe which he tossed across the foot of the bed, saying, “Get into that and come on out to breakfast. It’s getting cold.”
The bedroom door opened, and the girl emerged timidly. The bathrobe was swathed about her slender body, trailing the floor behind her. She had tied the cord tightly about her waist, and rolled up the sleeves so her hands came out.
Shayne lifted his eyebrows and grinned at her. “You look about fourteen in that getup. How about a shot of sherry?”
She smiled bravely and shook her head. “No, thanks. Not before breakfast, at least.”
“Sherry should be our national before-breakfast beverage,” Shayne told her. He filled a glass and emptied it, then pushed the easy chairs aside and set two with straight backs at the table. “Sit down,” he said without looking at his companion.
He deftly transferred the things from the tray to the table as she sat down, dropped the tray on the floor, and poured two cups of strong, steaming coffee. Then he sat down opposite her and started eating. With downcast eyes she silently followed his example.
“What time did you go to sleep last night?” Michael Shayne deftly speared a sausage with his fork, bit half of it off, and chewed appreciatively.
“I-” She hesitated, lifting her eyes to him, but he was lifting his coffee cup and seemed interested only in determining whether it was yet cool enough to drink.
“I-it all seems so much like a dream that I hardly know what was sleeping and what was waking.”
Shayne nodded and grunted, “Eat your breakfast.”
She drew her sleeve back to reach for the sugar, and Shayne shoved it toward her, asking casually, “Did you hear the John Laws talking about you?”
“Part of it.” She shuddered and spilled sugar from her spoon. “Who were they?”
“Miami and Miami Beach detectives.”
“Oh.” She stirred her coffee.
“It’s a damn good thing you don’t snore.”
Her body tensed. “They-didn’t find out I was here?”
“Hell, no.” Shayne contemplated her in mild surprise. “You’d be in the cooler if they could find you.”
“You mean-arrested?” There was morbid fear in her voice and eyes.
“Sure.” Shayne drank his coffee with the healthy appreciation of a strong man for strong coffee.
“What did they-I pulled the covers over my head and tried not to listen.”
“They don’t know anything,” Shayne told her calmly. “Everything would have been jake if you just hadn’t taken the fool notion to run away. Painter has a reputation to uphold and he feels that he just has to pinch somebody. You’re it.”
“You mean-he’ll arrest me now?”
“If he finds you,” Shayne told her cheerfully. “Go on and eat your sausages. They won’t be any good after they get cold. And this coffee’ll put hair on your chest.”
Her lips quirked up at the corners. She dutifully nibbled at a sausage and sipped her coffee.
Shayne finished his share and poured himself another cup of coffee. Then he leaned back and lit a cigarette. “You’d better stick around here for a while, while I try to find out just what’s what.”
“Stay here?” She raised her eyes fearfully to his.
“This is about the last place they’ll look for you. Especially since last night.” Shayne chuckled and added, “Painter admitted he didn’t think I was dumb enough to bring you here.”
“But-what will they do to you if they find me here?”
He shrugged wide shoulders. “Not a hell of a lot. After all, you’re my client. I’m within my rights in protecting you from false arrest while I do some checking up.”
“Oh.” She breathed happily, and a flush colored her cheeks. “Then you do believe me? You’ll help me?”
Her gratitude and joy embarrassed Shayne. He frowned and said, “I’m going to try and earn that string of beads you handed me yesterday.”
“You’re wonderful,” Phyllis Brighton said tremulously. “Everything will be different if you’ll just believe in me. You’re so strong! You make me feel strong.”
Shayne didn’t look at her. He lifted his coffee cup and said into it, “I came damn near weakening last night, sister.”
The flush on her cheeks deepened to scarlet but she didn’t answer.
Shayne said, “Forget it.” He drained his cup and got up. “I’ve got to stir around and earn my fee.” He went into the kitchen and took her nightgown from the oven. It hung crisply dry from his finger tips when he came back.
Phyllis Brighton looked at the filmy garment in utter consternation. She gasped. “Why, that-that’s mine. Where did you get it?”
Shayne’s eyes were wary. He asked negligently, “When did you see it last?”
She frowned as though trying to remember. “I don’t know exactly. It’s one I wear quite often.”
Shayne kept on watching her. He said grimly, “If you’re lying you’re doing a hell of a good job.”
She shrank back under the impact of his words. “What is it about? I don’t understand.”
“You and I,” Shayne told her wearily, “are in the same boat.” He tossed the gown to her. “Put it on and go back to bed. It’s silk and it’ll soon get rumpled and won’t show that it’s recently been washed without benefit of ironing.” He stalked to the corner and took down his hat.
Phyllis turned her head to watch him. She half arose, and her voice was frightened.
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going out to walk around in circles.” He put on his hat and went to her and rubbed his knuckles against the soft smoothness of her neck between the hairline and the rolled collar of the robe.
“You stick it out here. Better wash up the dishes first thing-at least one set. Then go back to bed. And put that nightie on. Close the door and stay in bed no matter what happens until I tell you to come out. Understand?”
She nodded with a quick intake of breath, pressing her cheek down hard against his hand before he withdrew it.
He moved toward the door, warning her. “Don’t pay any attention if the phone rings or somebody knocks. And don’t move if you hear someone come in. It might be me, but I might not be alone. You stay behind that closed door no matter what happens. Rest and try to sleep. Don’t try to think.” He went out and closed the outer door on the night latch.
He stopped at the desk in the lobby for mail. There wasn’t any. It was almost ten o’clock. He chatted with the clerk for a minute, telling him he would be back at noon or would call for any messages.
Outside in the bright Miami sunlight he walked to Flagler, then west to the police station. He went in a side, door and down a hall to Will Gentry’s office. The door stood ajar. He rapped and pushed it open.
Gentry looked up from the newspaper he was reading and grunted, “Hello.”
Shayne tossed his hat on the desk and sat down in a straight chair.
Gentry said, “Painter got his headlines, all right.”
“Did he?” Shayne lit a cigarette.
“Haven’t you seen the paper?”
Shayne said he hadn’t, so Gentry pushed it across the desk to him. The detective smoothed it out and read the headlines, squinting through the upward-curling smoke of his cigarette. He glanced swiftly through the two-column version of the Brighton murder and pushed the paper aside.
Gentry leaned back in his swivel chair and thoughtfully bit the end off a black cigar.
Shayne said, “Mr. Peter Painter and the press find the girl guilty.”
Gentry nodded. “The poor devil had to give the papers something. Her disappearance looks bad.”
“Yeah.” Shayne contemplated the glowing end of his cigarette.
“You’d better dig her up, Mike.” Gentry lit his cigar.