“I’m going to end up with a stomach ulcer unless I can cut that out,” she said. “I keep forgetting you’re in her corner. Now if the bitch drops dead of heart failure some morning, you’ll think I did it by witchcraft.”
The phone rang again. “And who the hell that is, at three in the morning-”
She picked up the phone and said hello.
“Shayne? Michael Shayne? Yes, he’s here.”
She held out the phone to the detective. An instant after Shayne took it he heard a muffled click, followed by a change in the intensity of the sound. Without bothering to cover the mouthpiece, he said to Barbara, “Where’s the extension?”
“At the end of the hall.”
He put the phone down and crossed the room. By the time he reached the hall the second phone was back on its bracket.
He returned and picked up the living room phone. “O.K., this is Shayne.”
“I want to report that it’s three o’clock,” Rourke’s voice said. “The girls kicked me out so they could go to sleep, which was unfriendly of them, I thought. I’m at Harry’s, and there isn’t much to do at Harry’s except drink. Come to think of it, it’s a bar, that’s what the place is for. Do you want to react now?”
“What?” the redhead exclaimed furiously.
“That’s a nice strong reaction. I’m not sure I follow your reasoning on this. You want the lady to think I’m calling to tell you that Kitty Sims has been found in her bed in a welter of blood, as we used to say in the days when they let us use cliches?”
Shayne swore savagely. Across the room, the lip of the martini pitcher rang slightly against the glass as Barbara poured. She looked at Shayne. Their eyes held while the reporter continued.
“Yeah. Nude, in a welter of blood, with filthy playing cards all over the bed. The age-old story. She should’ve asked for his references before she invited him up. Now don’t hang up on me before I pass along a piece of legitimate news I just picked up from a fellow barfly.”
“Where did you hear about it?” Shayne demanded.
“That’s a complicated story, and while she thinks I’m answering your question, I’ll pass on my tidbit. It comes from a legman who covers the courthouse for us. It’s about Francis X. Shanahan, one of your client’s fellow heirs, and how he became a judge. He became a judge by laying out a substantial hunk of money, Mike. I won’t bore you with how much, or whose safe-deposit box it ended up in, because I don’t want to shake your faith in the great American system of representative government. The interesting angle is that my guy was surprised that Frank had it, being what we call a semipro playboy. Then, too, he’s always given every sign of liking the bachelor life, so how come he suddenly decided to marry Cal Tuttle’s daughter Barbara? The talk is that she put up the dough. In return she gets a judge for a husband. They’ve been engaged six months. People in that age bracket don’t usually get engaged. They just get married. Maybe he’s not too enthusiastic about the idea, do you think? This might be something to work on.”
“I’m afraid I can’t help you,” Shayne growled. “I’ve only been on the case since yesterday afternoon, and all I know is what people have been telling me. I’m almost through here. I can be back in an hour and start picking up the pieces.”
He hung up. For a long moment he and Barbara looked at each other.
“There are only three in the pot now,” he said.
She picked him up sharply. “What are you talking about? What pot, Mike?”
She was facing him, her back to the tall picture window. Suddenly there was a small explosion, followed at once by a tiny ping. An instant passed before the little interruption broke through to Shayne.
“Get down!” he snarled.
He knocked her to the floor, jolting the glass out of her hand and sending the cold gin in a cascade over her chest. The quick little sequence of sounds was repeated, the explosion, the crisp spattering noise, the ping. Tiny holes had been drilled in two adjoining pipes above the organ. There were two matching holes side by side through the double glass of the picture window.
“That’s a thirty-caliber carbine,” Shayne said quietly, “so keep your head down.”
Barbara’s eyes were wide with shock. “You mean somebody’s shooting at us?”
“Not at me, baby. I’m not one of the joint tenants.”
She moved her head and looked toward the window. A tiny network of cracks radiated out from each neat double hole. She looked back at the pipes, and Shayne could see her drawing an imaginary line connecting the holes and projecting it outside.
“Someone in a boat,” she whispered.
“What kind of a shot is Eda Lou?”
“Eda Lou! Don’t be an idiot.”
Eda Lou spoke acidly from the doorway. “On the floor already, I see. That didn’t take long. I don’t like to barge in on the orgy, but I thought you might like to know there’s a boat out in the cove.”
“Stay away from the window!” Barbara commanded. “They’re shooting at us.”
“Who’s shooting at us, may I ask?” the old woman said sarcastically. “Cupid?”
She was wearing high-heeled slippers and an old-fashioned floor-length negligee with a collar of feathers. The carbine fired again and she went down like a stone. A loose feather floated down after her.
She moaned faintly.
“Eda Lou!” Barbara cried. “Are you hurt?”
“Twisted my ankle,” the old woman snapped. “What a rotten shot. I thought there was something creepy about that boat-it just sat there with no lights on. What a comfort to think we have a man in the house for a change.”
Shayne grunted. “Take a look around.”
She did as he told her, without lifting her head. “I think I see what you mean,” she said slowly.
The front windows came down to within twelve inches of the floor. The room was as brightly lit as a stage set. From the gunman’s position in the cove he commanded every inch of it except for a narrow stretch of front wall. There were two standing floor lamps, one large ornate table lamp with a Tiffany glass shade. The main light came from a brass ceiling fixture, four frosted bowls attached to a central stem. This was controlled by a switch which Shayne could see on the wall inside the door. To reach the switch, he would have to pass the double sliding glass door.
“We’d better turn off the lights,” Eda Lou suggested. “I’ll unplug the lamps. You get the chandelier.”
Shayne grinned at her. “You get the chandelier. I’ll unplug the lamps.”
“Good for you,” she said. “Let the women do the hard part. And Cal always said you were one of the toughest people around. You’ve slowed down, Shayne.”
Shayne went on grinning. “What would Cal do in a case like this?”
She glared at him fiercely. Then one of the feathers in her collar tickled her and made her nose wrinkle. She gave a short laugh.
“Just what you’re doing, boy. He played the odds, and that’s how he lived as long as he did.”
Using his elbows and the muscles of his upper thighs, Shayne wriggled forward without raising any part of his body more than an inch. He ended at the front wall beyond the big window.
“Who do you think’s out there, Barbara?” he said, lighting a cigarette.
“How would I know?” she responded irritably. “Daddy was involved in a million things. He was never afraid to make enemies.”
Eda Lou snorted. “Honey, give the man credit for some sense. You know who it is, and Mike knows you know.”
Barbara shot her an angry look. “Will you keep out of this? I don’t suppose I can ask you to leave the room, but please stop interrupting.”
“Pardon me for living,” the older woman said acidly.
Barbara pivoted to look at Shayne. There was fear in her eyes, but she made an effort to speak lightly. “As it happens, I can make a pretty good guess who it is. It’s my demented Uncle Brad. Divide a million dollars in two and it’s more money than if you divide it in three, that’s elementary. Mike, obviously you don’t want to risk your neck unless you’re paid to do it. Will you work for me? Keep me intact through Wednesday, and I’ll pay you ten thousand. That’s five thousand dollars a day.”