She took a sip and grimaced, then took a big swallow. “I can feel it spreading all through me.”
Shayne nodded. “When you’ve drunk half of it you’ll be ready for a cigarette.”
There was a short silence during which they sipped from the steaming cups. Shayne lit a cigarette and offered her one.
“Thanks,” she said, “I believe I can smoke one. Bring your cup over here.” She made a place for him.
“I’ll get a refill first,” he said. “Want a second?”
“Not after this. I don’t want to push my luck.” She smiled. The color was coming back to her cheeks.
Shayne returned with a fresh, steaming cup and made room on the small table to set it, then eased his lanky frame down on the edge of the couch.
Lucile said, “I feel warm and glowy. I feel like what-does-anything-matter — my job—”
“I had forgotten about your job,” he said. “What about it?”
She nestled her head against the pillows, “I don’t know. The phone has rung several times since I’ve been here, but I didn’t answer it at first. I must be psychic — when you called was the only time I answered.”
“You took a hell of a long time.”
She laughed. “I was afraid it was the office manager and I wouldn’t know what to tell him. How does one explain spending the night in a honky-tonk with a man — and doped at that?” Her lashes were curled up from her closed eyelids and her cheeks flamed.
“Don’t worry too much about that. There needn’t be any publicity.”
“But — we gave our right names to the clerk. And that picture—”
“The raid won’t be reported in the normal course of newspaper routine. The picture is nothing but blackmail. Denton won’t use it unless I force his hand.”
She propped her cheek on one elbow and reached for her cup. “You were going to tell me. Remember?”
“You’ve let your coffee royal get cold,” he said solemnly, as though she had failed in a sacred ritual.
She sipped the lukewarm drink. “I like it better this way. I always put cold water in my coffee.”
Shayne groaned and asked, “How much do you remember about last night?”
“Nothing — not after I drank half my drink. I was sort of nauseated when I went to the restroom, and felt woozy. I must have passed out.”
“Your Tom Collins was doped. I didn’t drink mine, but I was a fool not to notice the taste when I took a sip. I thought it was just the rotten gin they used.”
“What happened — after I passed out?”
“I don’t know what they did with you, but when I went to find you I walked into a blackjack. None of it was Henri’s doing,” Shayne went on honestly. “He asked you there in good faith. That is, he was frightened because your testimony and Evalyn’s might point to him as the murderer and he wanted to bribe you to keep it quiet. But he never had a chance to talk to you. Captain Denton spotted me and thought I was sticking my nose in where he didn’t want it stuck.”
“Oh,” she said, “Captain Denton,” and wrinkled her forehead.
“Denton has hated me for a long time,” Shayne explained. “I’ll tell you about it sometime. Yesterday he got the idea that I was back in New Orleans to stir up trouble for him because of his connection with Rudy Soule and the dope racket.”
“Do you mean that an officer of the law — a captain is mixed up in the dope racket?” Lucile’s eyes were round with wonder.
Shayne stared at her for a long time before he said, “Are you trying to kid me?”
Lucile’s brown eyes misted. She said, “Maybe you won’t believe me, but I’ve never come in contact with the police before. I’ve always thought they were people who protected the public.”
Shayne laughed harshly, but he laid a big hand gently on her covered shoulder. “You’re learning.”
“You don’t mean that Denton had me doped — and had you knocked out?”
“Yeh, that’s right,” Shayne told her. “Then when he learned that you were a witness in the Little case — against Henri — he was still more worried. It’s my guess that Denton owns a piece of the Daphne Club. When something like that gets tangled up in a murder investigation a lot of dirty linen is likely to get washed out.”
“Why did he — think up such an awful thing?”
“Because it was the smart thing to do,” Shayne told her with a scowl. “It cuts all the ground out from under us. In the first place, he’ll hold that picture as a whip to keep me in line. If I should choose to disregard it, let him publish it and let your reputation be damned, I’d still not be much better off. It would knock your testimony against Henri into a cocked hat. No one would believe a woman like that, and there’d be the added suspicion that I had connived with you to get you to testify that way. That’s why Denton had us caught in that raid together — that’s why he checked up and forced you to give your right name.”
Lucile said, “It must be terribly funny to you — remembering that I told you I learned the facts of life a long time ago.”
Shayne said softly, “No. It isn’t funny. I knew what you meant.”
Wriggling to a sitting position, she said, “You can forget about me and my reputation — if that will help.”
“It won’t,” Shayne muttered. “With Evalyn dead, there’s no one to corroborate your story. And even if it should be believed, what of it? It points to Evalyn as well as to Henri, and Evalyn has confessed.”
“Do you think she did it? I can’t believe it.”
“Denton got a deathbed confession,” he said. “That closed the case as far as I can see.” He went to the breakfast table and took a long drink from the cognac bottle.
When Shayne returned, Lucile was sitting rigidly upright on the couch. Her young face was tense with thought. “I’ve been thinking. From what you’ve told me, Captain Denton is thoroughly dishonest. Do you suppose he made up that story about Evalyn confessing?” She picked up the newspaper. “It says here that he was the only witness. No one else heard her confession. If he walked in and found her dying—”
“Or dead,” Shayne supplemented harshly. “Sure. Denton’s an opportunist. It would have been too perfect to pass up. But we haven’t any proof.”
Shayne paced the length of the room and came back to sink into the comfortable chair opposite the couch. He closed his eyes and massaged his left earlobe gently.
Lucile watched him, but said nothing. Perfect quiet was in the room until Shayne hunched forward and said, “I’m going to use your telephone.”
“You know where it is,” she said.
Shayne stalked to the instrument and called Harry Veigle. When a voice answered, he said, “Mike Shayne, Harry.”
“Mike — where the hell have you been hiding? Wherever it is, I hope you’re well hidden.”
“Is it that bad?”
“It is, Mike. Your prints are all over the bottle.”
“And?”
“The girl’s, too. But there’s one thing, Mike — all the prints on the neck of the bottle are blurred. A smart lawyer might do something with that in court. Looks as if the killer wore gloves when he swung it.”
“No other prints?”
“Well — I did bring out another partial set,” Veigle said cautiously. “Enough for identification, maybe.”
“Can you bring them out clear enough to do any good?”
“Hell, you know how this experting goes. For a goodly fee I could point out reasons for believing the murderer made them. But I’m fairly certain they’re not a woman’s prints, Mike. According to the morning paper—”
“Yeh. I know. Get hold of Evalyn Jordan’s prints, Harry. Check them and call me back.” He gave Veigle Lucile Hamilton’s telephone number.
“You sure you don’t want me to ditch this bottle? A smart D. A. could make an awful lot out of it. I’ll smash it—”