“If you are referring to opium, I confess I’ve never experimented.”
“What is your line?”
“My — line?” Drake frowned at him.
“What do you go for? You know.” Shayne waved a bony hand.
“I’m afraid you’ve gotten the wrong impression,” said Drake. “My interest in the seamier side of New Orleans is objective — purely objective.” He hesitated, then added, “I’m looking for a girl.”
Shayne shrugged. “Sure. I can do with a babe, too. After I get high enough.”
“No, no,” said Drake with a cold smile. “I refer to a girl living in the Quarter under an assumed name.”
“Gave you the air, did she?”
“She is a — a protégé.”
Shayne chuckled and lit a cigarette. “Whatever you call her is all right by me.”
Henri pulled to the curb on Royal just beyond Orleans alley. He looked back at his passengers and said, “There’s a dump down the alley toward the old Cabildo where I can get you anything you want.”
Shayne opened the door and got out. Henri came around and joined them. It was not quite dark but the alley was shadowed in heavy twilight. Henri led the way forward with a businesslike stride.
A woman’s laughter sounded shrilly from the shadows ahead, and then two bulky figures in uniform came loitering toward the trio. They stopped and one of them said gruffly, “That you, Henri? You’re out early tonight.”
Henri said, “Sort of. Got a couple of friends.” He kept moving past the two policemen.
The other cop said, “Hold it, Henri.” He was staring at Shayne intently. Under the brim of his hat, the detective recognized him as the patrolman who had come into Captain Denton’s office with Sergeant Parks that afternoon. He averted his face and strolled on.
“What’s eating you?” Henri asked in a surly tone, half turning back. “Can’t you see I’ve got business?”
“That’s what I wondered? Where you taking those two fellows?”
Henri grated, “What the hell’s it to you?”
Shayne was half a dozen paces ahead of Henri and Drake.
He paused and looked back. One of the bulky policemen was striding toward him. Shayne ducked his chin and hunched his shoulders so the brim of his hat half concealed his gaunt face.
The cop stopped in front of him and jerked the brim of his hat up. He whirled about with an angry snarl, and told Henri, “You better watch your step. This mug is a stoolie. For the Feds maybe.”
Henri whistled and came forward slowly.
Shayne said loudly, “You’re nuts. I’m just out looking for a good time.”
The cop said, “Nuts, huh? Not me. I was in the precinct office this afternoon when Captain Denton threw you out. C’mon, Darcy,” he told his companion. “This guy’s due for a workin’ over.”
Henri stepped close to Shayne and his black eyes glittered in the dusk. “Playing me for a sucker, huh?”
“He’s mistaken,” Shayne protested. “I never saw him before.”
“Denton told us he’s a slick un,” the first policeman grunted. His companion was circling around behind. “I’d know that ugly face of his any time.”
“Making a fall guy out of me,” snarled Henri. His pouting lips flattened against his teeth. The blade of a clasp-knife made a vicious lunge at Shayne’s belly. The detective side-stepped and caught his wrist. He gave him a jerk forward and shoved him against the policeman who had recognized him, saying angrily, “You’re all crazy. I’m not any—”
The other cop’s nightstick caught him from behind. He swayed forward to his knees. Henri rushed forward and kicked him in the face. Shayne toppled sideways and lay still.
The first policeman laughed and pulled Henri back. “Let Darcy rap him with his stick again. The Cap’n said there wouldn’t be no comeback if we messed him up a little.” He gave Henri a shove while Darcy leaned over and swung his nightstick against Shayne’s head again with calculated force.
“Get along with you,” he advised Henri. “You’re lucky you didn’t get no farther showing him around.”
Drake was standing back, watching the scene with disapproval. He nodded and circled the recumbent detective when Henri said, “We might as well go on, Mister.”
“He’s out like a birthday candle,” Darcy informed his partner after shaking Shayne. He bent lower and sniffed his breath. “Got liquor in him,” he reported. “What say we run him in for d.-and-d. and resisting arrest?”
“Good enough. Drag him off the sidewalk first.” They got hold of Shayne’s arms and dragged his limp body into the gutter. Darcy went to put in the call for a wagon while the other officer lit a cigarette and sat down on the curb. Shayne lay face down in the gutter, unconscious and breathing heavily.
When the patrol wagon came, they loaded him in. The jolting ride to jail brought him back to foggy consciousness, but he gave no indication of this. By the time the wagon arrived at headquarters he was fully conscious, and his head throbbed with pain. He stumbled out of the vehicle when it stopped. His gaunt cheeks were streaked with dried blood, his suit was dirty and wrinkled, his eyes bloodshot and wild. He didn’t make a very good impression when he tried to tell his story to the desk sergeant, who was an old hand at listening to the incoherent complaints of the drunk.
Shayne was booked on a charge of drunk-and-disorderly conduct and resisting arrest when the two officers told of finding him staggering around in an alley in the Quarter molesting passers-by and putting up a fight when they tried to reason with him. He was thrown into the bullpen with the drunks and vagrants.
It took him the better part of three hours to persuade a turnkey to bother Chief McCracken with a telephone call at his home.
The chief appeared in person at the barred door. His naked-appearing face and head were highly flushed and his chins quivered with anger. “What the hell, Mike — you might’ve stayed out of trouble the first night you hit town. You used to carry your liquor like a man.”
Shayne laughed painfully and shortly. “Denton doesn’t appreciate my interest in his precinct. You know damn well I’m not drunk.”
The turnkey opened the door, and Shayne went with the chief to the sergeant’s desk for his release. He had managed to brush some of the dirt from his clothes and had combed his blood-matted hair with his knobby fingers.
The desk sergeant was very sorry for the mistake and made overtures to Chief McCracken which Shayne interrupted by saying softly, “You’ll know me the next time they bring me in.”
As they walked through the doorway and out into the clean night air, Shayne filled his lungs and exhaled rapidly several times. He said, “Thanks, John. Sorry to have bothered you.”
“Come on out to the house,” Chief McCracken urged impatiently, “and let’s talk this thing over, Mike. You’ve got to go easy—”
“On Denton?” Shayne interrupted harshly. “Sorry, John. I’ve got work to do, and I’ll make a jackass out of Denton before this is over. Thanks again for springing me. We’ll talk when this case is finished.”
Chief McCracken groaned and muttered something indistinguishable as Shayne hailed a taxi, got in, and said, tersely, “To the Hyers Hotel.”
He sank wearily against the cushioned cab seat and picked hard particles of dried blood from his cheek. His eyes were closed, but relaxation was impossible.
Arriving at his hotel he emerged from the taxi, paid the driver, and stood on the sidewalk contemplating his soiled suit. He made a detour to the back of the hotel, found a service entrance, and went into a narrow hallway leading to stairs behind the elevator. He climbed to the third floor without meeting anyone, unlocked his door, and went in.
The French doors leading onto the balcony were closed, the cream-colored shades drawn. Shayne ran a big hand over his eyes, looked again. The shades of the high double windows were drawn, also.