A burst of applause greeted the blonde and her youthful companion. Stringed instruments made plaintive cries as she took the boy’s hand and began crooning a song about being just a mother to Tommy.
Shayne looked at Lucile. Her head was turned from the stage and she was apparently absorbed in an intricate mosaic pattern decorating the table. She said, “I’m going to protect my stomach tonight.”
“The same act you saw before?” Shayne asked.
“With variations,” she murmured. “Last time it was an old man and a young girl.”
“Then we won’t look,” Shayne agreed.
After a long delay, the waiter came with their drinks. The orchestra hit a wailing crescendo, and Shayne turned his head to see the tall blonde running off the stage, naked except for a pair of shoes.
The waiter set tall drinks on the table. Lucile said, “I want to see Henri Desmond.”
“I’ll give him your message as soon as he can be located, Madame,” the man said.
The lights stayed on and the platform was lowered by a hidden mechanism. Another low stage rose slowly into view with a ten-piece Negro orchestra beating out a dance tune. Half a dozen scattered couples from the nearly empty dining-room got up to dance.
Four of the six couples were men past fifty, accompanied by very young girls, none of them past the age of consent. Lucile said, “Those kids are the hostesses. I wonder how they manage to do their school work after a night here.”
“What’s the rest of the layout?” Shayne tasted his drink and set it down. “It’s worse than I expected.”
“You should have ordered something else,” she murmured. “You didn’t have to—”
“Anything in this joint would have tasted the same. What else do you know about it?”
“This is the public part, of course. Over there beyond the orchestra are the restrooms. You go through those doors into halls leading to another room like this in front, only smaller.”
“And more intimate?” Shayne grinned at her.
Lucile did not smile. “The restrooms open off the halls,” she went on solemnly. “It’s fixed that way, Henri said, so the common tourists won’t notice selected customers slipping into the other room during the course of the night. They simply go to the restrooms and don’t come back.” She lifted her glass and drank half of the faintly greenish liquid, making a wry face as she set it down. “I didn’t know gin ever tasted like this stuff does,” she complained.
“You’re just used to a better grade. You don’t have to drink it, you know.”
“I held my breath to keep from tasting what I did drink,” she said.
“What’s upstairs?” Shayne asked abruptly.
“Rooms,” she told him succinctly. “For hire by the hour, or longer — if you’re interested.”
“I’m not.”
Lucile pouted and said, “I was afraid I would be perfectly safe with you.”
Shayne looked at her, his eyes twinkling. “You work awfully hard at trying to fill the role of a wild woman.”
She tossed her brown curls. “I’m not a high-school girl.”
Shayne’s grin spread. “How old are you?”
She said, “Twenty-six,” defiantly.
Shayne arched his ragged red brows. “I don’t believe you, but I’ll make a note of it.”
Lucile said, “I wonder what’s keeping Henri?”
Shayne’s finger tips drummed impatiently on the table. He muttered, “You don’t suppose Henri saw me and was scared off?”
“I shouldn’t think so.” She pushed her chair back and said, “Excuse me. You entertain Henri while I’m gone — if he comes.” Her voice was decidedly thick.
“Where are you going?” Shayne demanded.
She said, with an attempt at severity, “A gen’leman never asks a lady that ques’ion.”
He watched her cross the room and go through the door marked Ladies. He lit a cigarette and puffed on it as he moodily wondered if Lucile could be 26. She looked much younger. She was pretty swell, clear thinking and straight talking. He caught himself wishing he had met her under other circumstances.
Then his thoughts reverted to Margo. She had been pretty swell, too. He grinned, recollecting what Margo had told Lucile about him. He couldn’t repress a feeling of guilt for having approached Margo under false pretenses. Still, it hadn’t been all false — not after he met and talked with her. How would it have turned out?
He sternly swung his thoughts into another channel. Joseph Little would probably be arriving soon. It would be a lot easier to face him if he could hand over his daughter’s murderer. He went over the story Lucile had told about Evalyn and Henri. Would a man like that kill out of jealousy? Shayne didn’t think so. But Evalyn — a woman scorned was a different proposition. The brutal battering of the victim was a likely indication of furious rage. One or two blows with the death weapon in strong hands would have sufficed. In weaker hands it was different, and Barbara Little’s killer must have struck time and time again — even, perhaps, after the job was done.
Shayne came out of his meditation and looked at his wrist watch. Lucile had been gone a long time. He glanced around the room, scowling heavily. He watched the Ladies door, but it remained closed. He remembered that the door led not only to the restrooms but on to the private floor show beyond.
Had Henri seen him, recognized him as he came in with Lucile? Was Henri Barbara Little’s murderer and intent on getting rid of any evidence against him by holding Lucile — maybe murdering her, also? He clenched his fists and discovered that his palms were wet with sweat. It had been 15 minutes since Lucile left the table.
He scraped his chair back and got up, saw Lucile’s green handbag on the table, and picked it up. He circled the orchestra to the closed door leading to the ladies’ restroom.
Opening the door, he found that it led into a narrow hall about 15 feet long. A curtained doorway at his right had the word Ladies in silver letters above it. He stopped and called, “Lucile,” in a loud voice.
A Negro maid thrust her head out. She rolled her eyes and asked, “Was you callin’, Mister?”
Shayne said, “I wondered if my girl was all right. Is she sick?”
“Whut girl?”
“The one who came in here about fifteen minutes ago, wearing a green dress and green shoes to match this bag.” He held up the suède handbag.
The Negress shook her head. “Ain’ no girl in heah. Ain’ been no girl in heah wearin’ no dress lak dat.”
Shayne’s eyes glowed hotly. He swung around and started toward the end of the hall.
A burly man stepped into the hall from a side door near the end. Hulking shoulders strained the seams of a gray suit. His face was pock-marked, his jaw heavy and set, his eyes small.
He put his hands on his hips and confronted Shayne. “Whatcha doin’ here? Comin’ out the ladies’ room?”
“I’m looking for a girl. She’s wearing a green dress.”
“She ain’t here,” the man grated. “Beat it.”
The grooves in Shayne’s cheeks deepened. “Where’s Henri Desmond?”
He heard footsteps in the hall behind him as the man growled, “He ain’t here neither.”
Shayne turned to look at the man sauntering toward them. He wore a double-breasted blue suit, a black fedora, and round-toed black shoes. He might as well have worn a sign saying Plain-Clothes Dick. He looked past Shayne and asked, “Trouble, Bart?”
“This here guy,” said Bart, “claims he’s lookin’ for a dame that’s got lost.”
The dick stopped five feet from Shayne and looked him over coldly. He unbuttoned his double-breasted coat and opened it to give the redhead a flash of his city badge. “Better not start anything in here, bud.”