“Not much call for cognac,” the bartender said. He was squat and solidly built, with a powerful chest and shoulders. He had a long, drooping mustache, a several-day-old beard, a bandanna knotted around his head and a gold hoop in one ear. He spoke English with a New York accent. He went on, “But the boss may have a bottle down cellar. Do you want me to-”
“No, the hell with it,” Shayne said. “Give me a triple rum. Ice water chaser.”
When the bartender set the two glasses in front of him Shayne said, “You’re not doing much business.”
“Still early,” the bartender told him. “We had a little trouble in the neighborhood, and not many walk in off the street. But we’re still getting the guided parties from the hotels and the cruises.”
“I think I know what you mean,” Shayne said. “A gay, uninhibited tour of the exotic native night spots. Price includes two drinks.”
“Also includes tips,” the bartender said sourly.
Shayne grinned. “Doesn’t that get-up make you feel a little silly?”
The bartender gave Shayne a hard look and put both hands palm down on the bar, one on either side of Shayne’s drink. “What do you think you’re trying to be, Jack? Funny?”
“Hell, no,” Shayne said. “Just wondering. Let me buy you a drink.”
After a moment the man relaxed. “I’m getting hard to get along with. Either I put a rag on my head or I don’t work here. The rest of it I don’t mind, except this goddamn earring. Toward the end of an evening I have to take plenty of cracks.”
“Anyway,” Shayne said, “they didn’t make you cut off one leg.”
The bartender wasn’t amused. He poured himself a double jigger of rum, saluted Shayne with it, and knocked it back.
Shayne ordered another drink. A party of American vacationers came in, and things began to pick up. The orchestra played another number, with better spirit, enticing two couples out on the floor. Then the drummer, a strapping native in a straw hat and a red shirt, beat out an intricate rhythm, and a dancer ran out from behind the orchestra, wearing a ruffled dress split to the waist, with a brief ruffled top.
When the performance was over, Shayne found that a girl had slid onto the next stool but one. She was dark and slender, with short tumbled hair, and was wearing a revealing white evening gown. She lit a long cigarette.
“I will have a glass of light rum, Al,” she said to the bartender, in an accent Shayne couldn’t place.
“Why not have it with me?” he suggested.
She breathed out a mouthful of smoke, and only then looked at Shayne coolly. “That is nice of you, but I am afraid I must say no.”
“I won’t bite you,” Shayne said. “What’s that nice pronunciation? Are you French?”
He took out his money-clip, squinting to keep the smoke out of his eyes, and when both the girl and the bartender had seen how much money he was carrying, he flipped a pound note onto the bar. Al picked it up and looked at her. She moved her shoulders in a slight shrug.
“Very well, if you wish. Yes, I am French. An unhappy Parisienne, at present far from the boulevards. You are American, Mr.-?”
“Michael Shayne. Sure. What brings you to St. Albans?”
“Ah, that is a long story. Not a very interesting one, I am afraid. I am an artist, you see. No,” she said, as Shayne looked at her questioningly, “not an artist with paint and brush. A dancer. I started off with a group to perform in the South American capitals and later, perhaps, if all went well, in your own country. A supper room in the exciting hotels in New York? Hollywood? Television? Such are the dreams of foolish people. Thank you, Al.”
She took the glass of rum and lifted it, without drinking. “And of course, being entertainers from the sinful city of Paris, we are expected to perform-” she made a brief gesture-“in costumes too small to be seen by the naked eye. Very well. One is realistic. Then the pig of a manager took it into his head to vanish with the leading dancer, and what is worse, the money we are owed for three weeks. Engagements cancelled. Voila-we are marooned on this island. The owner here wishes some different entertainment than the other places, so I have a job. For how long I do not know.”
She smiled. “You are not listening. I know, it is a tragedy only to me.”
“Sure I’m listening,” Shayne said. “Let’s take our drinks to a table. Hit me again, Al.”
He moved his glass toward the bartender, who filled it. Shayne picked up the three glasses, including the girl’s. She hesitated, then repeated her slight shrug and followed him to a corner table in the other room. As she sat down she said, “But there is one thing I should make clear.”
“I’m ahead of you,” Shayne said, interrupting. “Just because a girl comes from Paris and works in nightclubs, I don’t think that necessarily makes her a tramp. Was that what you were worrying about?”
She smiled. “A little. But you have not seen me work. Ninety-nine men out of a hundred-”
“Maybe I’m the hundredth,” Shayne said. “Relax.”
“You seem to be quite a-nice person, Mr. Michael Shayne.” She looked at him over her glass. “You make me feel a little better, I think. I have been sad and discouraged.”
Shayne waited a moment. “Don’t throw me any bouquets. Any other time I’d be one of those ninety-nine other guys. In fact, in that dress you almost make me forget that I’ve got my own troubles.”
“Troubles,” she said, smiling. “What kind of troubles can you have?”
“Never mind, I wouldn’t want to spoil your evening,” Shayne said. He reached for a cigarette and said casually, “But I’m as anxious to get off this island as you are.”
“Impossible.” Then she looked at him intently. “Do you happen to be serious?”
Shayne struck a match. “Is there a guy around here they call the Camel?”
Another group of Americans had arrived, noisier than the first. They were being taken to tables. Four couples were dancing, filling the little dance floor almost to capacity. A door had opened beyond the orchestra’s raised platform, and a man had come out. He was of middle height, balding, with pouches beneath his eyes. He wore a dark double-breasted suit, and as Shayne mentioned his nickname he half-turned, and Shayne saw the small hump on his back. Having made the identification, he was willing to let it drop, but the girl said softly, “Yes, Alvarez. The owner. He has a boat. But such a service, you know, is expensive.”
Shayne grinned. “You don’t mean he’d take advantage of somebody in a jam?”
She repeated her elegant little shrug. “But naturally, who would not? Still, there is this. I know only what is said about him, but it is said that when he gives a promise he will keep it, within reason. Shall I tell him your problem?”
“No, I’d better introduce myself,” Shayne said.
He signalled a passing waiter.
“None more for me,” the girl said. “But I have a sudden idea. I would like to dance with you.”
“Another triple and more ice water,” Shayne told the waiter, and said to the girclass="underline" “I can’t dance to this music.”
“Certainly you can,” she said. “It is very simple, I will show you.”
Springing to her feet, her eyes alight, she seized his hand.
5
After several extremely embarrassing minutes, he began to get the hang of it. When the music stopped, the girl waved at the orchestra leader and it started again. The musicians grinned broadly. The other dancers had backed off to make room.
“You see how easy?” she said. “Again. One-two-”
She was beginning to introduce variations. He kept on moving his feet in the same basic pattern while she circled provocatively before him, smiling demurely as though she didn’t suspect what her body was doing. It was typical of Michael Shayne that while he was watching the girl, concentrating hard on keeping to the beat the drummer was giving him, he was fully aware of everything else that was going on in the room. Luis Alvarez, carrying the little hump that had given him his nickname, had gone into the bar. More customers arrived, first a large group, then a couple, then a single man. Shayne saw with surprise that it was the Englishman from the Lodge, Cecil Powys, with his tape recorder. The head waiter gave him a table near the orchestra.