“Henri sounds frightened,” she told Shayne. “He wanted to know if the police had been here and if I’d seen Evalyn. He wouldn’t tell me why, and he practically ordered me to meet him at the Daphne. Said I’d regret it if I didn’t, and that he’d explain everything when I got there. And he naturally thought the worst when I told him you were here,” she went on, her words choked with laughter. “He said for us to get dressed as fast as we could and get over there.”
“You can tell him I’m your uncle from Waukegan,” Shayne suggested. He gave her a little shove toward the living-room. “I’ll call a taxi while you’re getting ready.”
Chapter ten
When Lucile called, “I’m almost ready,” he went into the living-room. She was in the bathroom rouging her lips before the lavatory mirror after changing to a green sports dress with suède shoes to match. “That is,” she admitted, “all except putting on my mask and buttoning up.”
Shayne scowled at her. “So you want me to play lady’s maid?”
“They’re simply hellish to button,” she told him, coming through the bathroom doorway and backing up to him. “There are only a few. Darn little old things — and the buttonholes aren’t big enough.”
Shayne’s big fingers fumbled with the small cloth-covered buttons. He ran out of fresh curse words as the last of the short strip of buttons at the back of the neck was fastened.
Lucile whirled to face him. Her eyes were full of laughter and she said, “If you hadn’t made me laugh so hard you’d have finished buttoning me sooner.”
Shayne took a step backward and looked at her. “You look like a kid — not like a hussy on her way to the Daphne Club.” His face suddenly became grim. “I’m afraid this isn’t going to be a lark. You’d better be prepared for anything Henri might spring on you tonight.”
The laughter went out of her eyes. “I — hadn’t thought of that,” she confessed. “Are you married, Michael?”
Shayne said, “No,” harshly. “I’m a widower, so watch your step.”
Lucile’s gay mood was gone when she went to the closet and brought out a tiny green hat. She perched it on her head without the aid of a mirror. She said, solemnly, “I keep forgetting about Margo.”
“I wish I could forget about her,” said Shayne through tight lips.
Lucile studied the bleak contours of his face for a moment. “Do you think Henri could have done it?”
“I’ll do my thinking after I meet him. Ready?”
A horn honked insistently outside. Lucile said, “You go down. I forgot about the card. Henri gave me one — that night. You’re supposed to have one to get in.” She ran to the closet and scrambled through the top drawer of a hidden highboy. Shayne was waiting when she came out. “Here it is,” she said, and handed it to him.
Shayne read Club Daphne in large letters. Supporting each end of the two words was a young, nude girl with arms outstretched and high, pointed breasts. In small letters below, For Intimate Relaxation was printed, and scrawled across the bottom of the card, in ink, was the name Henri Desmond.
Shayne pocketed the card. “Admission by card only, eh?”
“To the inner sanctum. The public room is a regular night club with a hot band and a racy floor show. It all looks perfectly harmless to any tourist who drops in, but I still have nightmares over my one experience with the ‘Intimate Relaxation.’” She essayed a flippant laugh, but it didn’t quite come off. “I guess I’m just a bourgeois at heart,” she ended with a sigh as they went down the stairs.
The cab was waiting. Shayne asked, “Know where the Club Daphne is?”
The driver grinned. “Sure thing.”
Lucile moved close to Shayne when the taxi started. Her hand found his and caught his fingers. She said, shakily, “I should be frightened, I guess.”
“Aren’t you?”
Her fingers tightened on his. “Not with you.”
“Remember, I’m the new boy friend,” Shayne cautioned. “I’m jealous as hell and refuse to let you out of my sight in that joint. He’ll want to talk to you privately, but make him stay where I can see you. And you don’t know anything about Margo’s death. You simply went home and kept a date with me after leaving Evalyn at Margo’s.”
“I understand,” she whispered tensely. “What do you think Henri wants?”
“I imagine he wants to make sure you don’t tell the police about that scene with Margo tonight. Whether he did it or not, he knows that makes him a suspect. Play him along, promise him anything and try to find out how he learned about the murder.”
“I’ll do my best.” She relaxed with her shoulder against Shayne’s, her fingers still clinging to his.
The cab slowed and turned off North Rampart onto Esplanade Avenue with its stately palm trees and live-oaks and magnolias, and with aged, shuttered homes that had once been palatial residences of the socially prominent in the French city.
Now the street was deserted and silent. The cab glided along slowly for more than two blocks, then turned under a grilled iron archway bearing a discreet neon sign, Club Daphne. A gravel drive circled between double rows of palms to the rear courtyard of one of the stately old residences which had been converted into a parking lot. More than a dozen cars were parked in the lot, though no light shone from the shuttered windows of the ancient house and no sound came through the thick walls of stone.
A single ruby light glowed at the end of a vine-covered latticework approach to the rear entrance. The driver stopped and opened the rear door. He said, “The last floor show will just about be starting,” as Shayne and Lucile got out.
Shayne gave him a dollar, took Lucile’s arm, and led her up a flagged walk under the latticework to a heavy oak door reinforced with thick strips of pounded copper.
The door swung open silently as they neared it and a young Negro boy greeted them with a white-toothed smile. “Yassuh,” he intoned, “yo’ jes in time fo’ de las’ flo’ show.”
The rhythmic beat of a boogie-woogie pulsed through a long, dark-paneled hallway leading in from the rear door. Shayne traded his hat for a check from the boy and they went along a strip of heavy carpeting to an arched doorway at the end of the hall.
A bald-headed man in a dinner jacket met them in the doorway. He lifted his brows and said, “Two?” and guided them into a large, dark room.
A raised platform in the center had an orange spotlight beating down upon two Negro girls performing mad gyrations to the beat of a concealed orchestra. The dancers were very young with sinuous yellow bodies which were nude except for loin cloths and a single red rosette for each breast.
Shayne and Lucile followed the guide between close-ranked tables which were occupied by a few indefatigable patrons. He led them to a small table in the second row from the platform and seated them just as the two quadroons finished their mad dance to a mild spattering of applause.
Concealed overhead lights glowed as the girls scampered down a runway and off the stage. The waiter was standing deferentially beside Shayne’s chair.
Shayne raised his red brows quizzically. Lucile said, “I’ll take a Tom Collins.”
“Are you sure?”
“Well — yes. I do know what a Tom Collins is,” she said, and for the first time since Shayne had met her she appeared embarrassed.
“Two Tom Collinses,” Shayne said.
The waiter nodded stiffly and turned away.
The overhead lights faded out and the yellow spot came on again as a tall, statuesque blonde glided up the runway followed by a smiling lad.