“Let’s not bother about names.”
“But I have to call you something,” she insisted with a deep chuckle. “That is, if we’re going to become as well acquainted as I hope we are.”
“Some people call me Red,” he told her.
“Is it a secret — this business you have with my husband?”
“It’s private.”
She shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know whether he got in on the train or not. He hasn’t called.”
“The train has been in for more than an hour,” he reminded her.
“So it has. Will you be terribly disappointed if he wasn’t on it?” she asked.
“That depends on when the next one gets in.”
“Not until tomorrow afternoon.”
“Then I guess I’ll have to wait.”
She looked at him with limpid eyes and made a cupid’s bow of her mouth to puff out smoke. “The hotel is pretty awful.”
“I discovered that,” Shayne told her.
“We have a half-dozen guest rooms, Red.”
“Close to yours?” He quirked a bushy red brow at her.
A pulse quivered in her throat. “You’re not like the men in Cheepwee,” she said huskily.
“What in hell are you doing in a hick town like this, anyway?” he asked flatly.
“You ought to know.” She got up and moved slowly across the room and pushed a button. The aged Negro, Abe, came in silently. “Mr. Smith is an old friend of Mr. Carson’s,” she said. “He’ll use the green room tonight. See that it’s opened. And have Fandella serve some drinks in here. Martinis?” She looked at Shayne for confirmation.
He nodded.
“I like gin,” she said. “Martinis, Abe.”
“Yassum.” The Negro started away, hesitated in the doorway, and turned to ask, “How many fo’ dinnah, Mis’ Cahson?”
“Two. I don’t think Mr. Carson will be here. And tell Ben to put Mr. Smith’s car in the garage.”
The Negro bowed and went away.
Shayne asked, “Isn’t it possible that Mr. Carson went directly to the bank from the train?”
“It’s possible,” she agreed indifferently.
“To hell with this!” Shayne said angrily. “I like to know where I stand. Am I getting the run-around?”
“Not from me, darling,” she drawled, a smile of amusement on her full red lips. She sauntered toward him and sat down on the arm of his chair and ruffled his red hair.
Shayne ground out his cigarette in an ash tray on the table beside his chair. He looked up into her eyes, saw the hot glow burning in them, got up, and stepped over to one of the long embrasured windows and stood gazing out.
He didn’t know how to play this hand. He hadn’t had time to examine his cards carefully. Did she know who he was? Or did she think he was someone else? Or didn’t she give a damn? She had said he ought to know what she was doing in Cheepwee. That could mean a lot of things — or it could have merely been inane repartee on her part.
He heard movement behind him and turned to see a neat Negro maid setting a silver tray with a frosted cocktail shaker and two oversized cocktail glasses on the table beside the chair Belle Carson had been sitting in.
Belle Carson got up from the arm of his chair as the maid disappeared. She resumed her seat, filled both glasses to the brim, and said, “I never bother with olives. They take up too much room in a glass.”
Shayne walked over and picked up one of the cocktails. She put hers to her lips and watched him over the rim of the glass, her eyes half closed. “Let’s drink this one to dear Walter,” she suggested.
Shayne said, “To Walter,” and took a long drink.
She emptied her glass without removing it from her mouth. Shayne went back to his chair.
Refilling her glass, she said, “This is a good starter. After dinner I’ll mix us a real drink. My own recipe.”
“That,” said Shayne, “should be worth waiting for.” He began slowly sipping his drink.
“You’re wondering about me, aren’t you, Red?” she said archly.
He looked at her and shook his head. “You aren’t hard to figure out.”
“Is that so?” Her voice was suddenly sharp and her dark eyes blazed. “I guess you know all about women,” she added with light sarcasm.
“Plenty to know that you’re bored to hell-and-gone here in Cheepwee married to a small-town banker.”
“There are plenty of other men,” she reminded him.
He made a gesture of derision. “Sure. I saw some of them around town today — like the fat hotel-keeper and that pale-faced guy in the bank. No wonder you get a sloppy feeling inside when a man shows up.”
“Meaning you?”
“Meaning me.”
She drank her second cocktail and complained, “These things have about as much kick as a virgin’s kiss. Why do you think I stay here if I’m bored?”
“It’s a soft spot,” he said with harsh contempt. “It’s what you thought you wanted when you settled down here with Carson.”
Her eyes were aflame, but with what emotion he could not be sure. It might have been fear or anger or passion. She got up and brought the cocktail shaker over to refill his glass. She said, “You act like you know a lot of things.”
“Does that surprise you?”
“I don’t know. Why don’t you tell me who you are and what you’re doing here?” She stood before him, looking down into his face speculatively.
“I came to see Carson.”
“What about?”
“If there’s any talking to be done, I’ll let him do it.”
“You were quick enough to move in,” she blazed at him.
“I didn’t invite myself.”
She stared at him, the tip of her tongue moistening her lips. “Why do you have to be like this?”
Shayne muttered, “You started asking the questions.”
Belle Carson put the shaker down, sat down on the arm of his chair again, and asked, “Don’t you want to kiss me, Red?”
He set his glass on the table, put his arms around her, and drew her down to kiss her hard on the mouth.
The doorbell rang somewhere from the front of the house. Mrs. Carson sprang up and went back to her chair as Abe shuffled through the living-room door.
“They’s a genmum wants to see yo’, Mis’ Cahson,” he said.
She said, “Send him away. I’m not in.” Her head lolled back against the chair and her eyes were half-closed.
“Yassum.” The aged Negro shuffled away.
There was the faint sound of male voices at the front door. The Negro came back, hurried and frightened. “He say he’s de law, ma’am. Came all de way f’om N’Yorleans an’ say he ain’ goin’ till he see you. He out in de hall, ma’am.”
Belle sat up quickly and darted a worried glance at Shayne. “A cop from New Orleans?” she exclaimed. “Is he looking for you?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“You can go out on the terrace — through those French doors. I’ll get rid of him.”
Shayne picked up his glass, got his hat from a chair where he had tossed it, and moved toward the doors. Opening the one on the right side he stepped out onto a green terrace with flagstone walks. He went silently along the side of the house until he reached a spot where he was hidden from those inside the room, yet close enough to hear Captain Denton’s voice.
“Good evening, Mrs. Carson,” said Denton. “I’ve got some bad news for you.”
“What kind of bad news?” Her voice was so low Shayne could scarcely distinguish the words.
“It’s about your husband. He’s been murdered.”
“Murdered!”
“Last night in New Orleans. I’m Captain Denton of the New Orleans police. We’ve been all day getting his body identified by some laundry marks and tailor’s labels. It’s not a nice way for you to hear about it, but sometimes I think getting it straight like this is best. That is, if this is the first you’ve heard of it.”