Denton said, “Don’t be too rough with him here in the station, boys.”
Shayne started out. The sergeant and the patrolman got out of his way as he stalked past them with long-legged strides. He heeled the door shut behind him and went out past the desk into the open air.
Chapter four
The Angelus was a small, modern hotel on Carondolet, just the other side of Canal Street. The lobby was overfurnished and gave off an air of stiff respectability. Shayne strode across to the desk and asked, “Do you have a Mr. Drake registered?”
The clerk was young and bored. He glanced through a file of cards and nodded. “Number three-oh-nine. I don’t believe he’s in, however,” he added with a glance behind him at rows of numbered key cubicles.
Shayne moved to the end of the counter and lifted the receiver of a house telephone. He asked for 309 and listened to the ringing for a long minute without replacing the receiver. Then he hung up and strolled across the lobby to a small desk with the sign Bell Captain over it. He eased his right hip onto a corner of the desk and asked huskily, “What’s chances of a man getting shown around this burg?”
The man behind the desk was one-armed and slightly bald. He had a high, sloping forehead, sunken cheeks, and a very sharp chin. His eyes, bright and calculating, studied Shayne’s face as the bell captain reached for some printed circulars. “We can arrange various sight-seeing tours—”
Shayne shook his head and snorted, “I’m not interested in that tourist flubdubbery. I want to see the real town — the Quarter and all.”
“We can arrange for a special guide to take you through the Quarter.”
Shayne leaned closer, getting out his wallet and opening it. “You know what I mean, pal. Where a man can take it on the hip, or maybe inhale some snow if he gets the yen. The real low-down — three-ways-for-your-money stuff.” He slid a five from his wallet, watching the captain’s face, and then added another five to it.
The captain stopped shaking his head. He dropped the circulars and palmed the bills. “Off the record, I can put you onto a lad that knows the ropes. A circus or the junk — whatever you crave.”
Shayne licked his lips and nodded. He tried to make his voice drool with lewd satisfaction. “That’s what I’m willing to pay for.”
“Be around about seven-thirty. I’ve got it fixed for him to pick up another hot sport from three-oh-nine.”
Shayne crossed Canal and wandered up Royal Street under overhanging balconies of cast-iron lacework. He turned left on St. Louis, passed up Antoine’s for a small, unpretentious building near the end of the block. There was a sign on the door which read Casti’s, and underneath it the single word Eat.
Steps led down from the door into a semi-basement room set with small tables not too close together in spite of the limited capacity of the place. The only light was supplied by individual table lamps with shaggy, irregularly cut halves of coconut shells for shades. These were lit only at the occupied tables, and at this early hour only a few were lit.
Shayne took a table in a corner and waved the handwritten menu aside. His waiter was an aged Negro with a wizened face and friendly, inquiring eyes. His bony shoulders were gracefully bent at a gallant angle from years of service. He bobbed his head and asked, “What will you have this evenin’, suh?”
Shayne said, “Bring me three sidecars if you’ve got any decent cognac to put in them.”
“Yassuh. We’s got moughty fine cognac what ain’t nevah been drunk, suh.”
Shayne asked, “Does Mr. Casti still make his gumbo with crayfish tails and shrimp?”
A shadow crossed the Negro’s lined face. “Mistuh Casti ain’t heah no mo’, suh, but de gumbo am still de same ez when he wuz.”
Shayne nodded. “Pure coffee with it?”
“Yassuh — jes lak always, suh.”
The waiter returned with three cocktails, grinning broadly as he set them in a row before Shayne. “I hopes one don’t get wahm ’fo you finishes t’other, suh.”’
Shayne said, “They won’t,” and drank half of one of the sidecars. It was icy, and strong with the clean, mellow taste of good cognac.
The gumbo was as Shayne remembered it. He ate the man-sized serving while the small restaurant slowly filled with hungry patrons. By the time he topped off the gumbo with a sugarless Café Brulot, there was not a vacant table in the low-ceilinged room and a waiting line was forming outside. He had killed a lot of time with dinner, and it was nearing 7:30 when he stepped out onto St. Louis Street. He walked briskly back to Canal and crossed over to the Angelus Hotel.
A young man leaned against the desk in front of the bell captain. He was a head shorter than Shayne, with a body that looked unhealthily thick. He had smooth features and sensual lips set in a perpetual pout. The captain said something to him and he turned his head to watch Shayne stroll across the lobby.
The captain said, “This is Henri. He’ll take care of you, but good.”
“No regular stuff,” Shayne warned. “I can find my own way around to the strip-tease joints. I’m set to get plenty high tonight — and I don’t mean on liquor.”
Henri’s pout turned into a sullen sort of smile. “The places I’ll take you to, Mister, the girls don’t do any stripping because they start out naked. You can get on any kind of a jag from ether on up if you want.”
“That’s it. The works.” Shayne glanced at his watch and frowned. “Where’s your other party?”
“There he is now,” the captain said, as the elevator stopped to let out passengers.
The man from 309 was slender and about medium height. He minced across the lobby in gray spats, carrying a pearl-gray derby and with a light Malacca cane hooked over his left arm. His face was lined, but there was color in his cheeks and his lips showed a tinge of red that didn’t belong on the lips of a man of his age. He disregarded Shayne and Henri, and addressed the bell captain.
“I’m ready to go out.”
“Right on time, Mr. Drake. This is Henri, that I told you about. And this is another gentleman looking for the same sort of a time you are. I thought you wouldn’t mind if he tagged along, seeing you’ve got a lot in common.” Drake glanced at Henri and then at Shayne. He put on his derby and compressed his lips. “I understood I was engaging a personal guide.”
“I won’t be in the way,” Shayne assured him. He winked his left eye. “I guess there’ll be plenty enough for both of us.”
“Very well.” Drake nodded impatiently. “Shall we go?”
Henri said, “I’ve got a hack outside,” and led the way across the lobby. He took them to a shiny old Packard sedan that said Taxi on the side. “I don’t have a meter,” he assured them as he opened the rear door.
Drake got in and sat stiffly erect with his hands folded over the crook of his cane. When Shayne slouched down on the rear seat beside him, he turned his head slightly and said, “I suppose we should introduce ourselves. My name is Drake.”
“And mine is Shayne. Are you a stranger in New Orleans?”
“With the exception of a few business trips.”
Shayne chuckled and smacked his lips. “It’s a good town for business — monkey business, eh?” He nudged his companion in the ribs.
Drake said, “Ha-ha,” then leaned forward to warn Henri, “Remember, I want to make the rounds. The — ah — most depraved places.”
Henri nodded and started the motor. “It’s a little early for the real hotsy-totsy joints. We’ll start with a pipe dive and sort of work our way up.”
Shayne said, “I need something to give me a lift. Maybe a pipeful will be just the thing. How about you, Drake?”