When the music stopped there was a spattering of good natured applause.
“You see?” the girl said triumphantly.
Her breathing was normal, though the redhead was badly winded. Powys caught his eye and waved as he came off the dance floor. Shayne waved back and continued to his own table. The girl picked up her bag.
“Presently I give my performance. You will watch me, no? And here is an idea. Only an idea!” she said, holding up one hand. “If you get the Camel’s boat, perhaps you would like a passenger?”
She came even closer to him, so she was touching him lightly at several points. “Think about it, eh?” She turned and walked quickly away.
Shayne waited, watching her thoughtfully, till she disappeared backstage. He drank his rum in one long pull without sitting down.
“Telephone?” he asked a nearby waiter.
“Yes, sah,” the man said. “Down the stairs, if you please. By the lavatory.”
Shayne glanced in at the bar. Alvarez was listening to another man who seemed to be selling him something. The detective went past and descended a badly-lighted flight of stairs. At the bottom, across from the door to the men’s room, there was a pay phone in a little niche. He looked up a number in the thin directory, sorted through his change until he found a coin that would fit one of the slots, and dropped it in. An operator answered and he gave the number.
Soon a man’s voice said gruffly, “Sergeant Brannon here.”
Someone came out of the men’s room behind him and started up the stairs. Shayne said, “Wait a minute.”
He leafed through the directory, waiting to be alone. A voice was coming out of the earphone irritably, “Are you there? Are you there?”
“Sure I’m here,” Shayne growled when the other customer had gone up the stairs. “Keep your pants on. I’ve got some information for you, and you can have it for nothing because I want to see this guy clobbered, but good. Are you listening?”
The voice said, “Who is this, please?”
“Never mind, never mind,” Shayne said. “I’m not out for publicity. If you’ve got something better to do, I don’t want to keep you.”
“Go ahead.”
“And don’t bother to have the call traced. I’m at a ginmill called the Pirate’s Roost, or something like that. The bar-man has a ring in one ear. You know the place I mean?”
“Yes. The Pirate’s Rendezvous.”
“I just saw this crumb Shayne in the bar here. If you send somebody right over you can put the bracelets on him.”
There was an instant’s pause, and the voice said more alertly, “What was that name?”
“Shayne. Mike Shayne. He’s hot right now. I hear the Florida cops want to talk to him. Don’t send one man, send two. No, on second thoughts, make it four.”
The voice started to say something, but Shayne hung up. He went back upstairs. At the top, he lit a cigarette and looked around.
The lights were down. Two male dancers were leaping around the little dance floor in the glare of two converging spotlights. The singer who had performed earlier was sitting at Powys’ table, and the Englishman’s recorder was open. Shayne drifted silently toward the entrance to the bar. Alvarez was still there, and Shayne saw that the bartender had just served him a fresh drink. The redhead circled the room, pausing at the door to the owner’s office, marked “No Admittance.” The dance became more frenzied and unrestrained. So far as Shayne could tell, no one was looking in his direction. He felt behind him for the doorknob, found it, opened the door and stepped through.
He shut the door quickly. A lamp was burning on the desk. The only pieces of furniture in the room besides the desk were several straight chairs, a couch and a large combination safe. The walls, like the walls in nightclub offices all over the world, were covered with framed pictures of obscure entertainers, most of them autographed.
Shayne reached the window in four long strides and pulled the slats of the Venetian blinds. He tried the safe. It was locked. He tugged at his earlobe, looking around, then sat down in Alvarez’ chair and began going through the desk.
He searched quickly and professionally, overlooking nothing, putting everything back in place when he was done with it. In the middle drawer he found an American. 45 automatic. He unloaded it, dropping the clip into his side pocket, and then laid the automatic on the desk-top with its muzzle pointing at the drawer. In the bottom drawer he came to a bottle of rum and a glass. He took them out, looked suspiciously at the glass and took a drink from the bottle. It was better rum than Alvarez served the public over his bar.
Finding nothing else of interest, he sat back, lifted his feet to the desk, and waited.
But something remained at the edge of his consciousness. He tried to think-had he seen something in the desk which shouldn’t have been there? He brought his feet down and started through the drawers again.
He found it almost at once: a simple listing of radio programs, torn from a newspaper. Shayne looked at the opposite side and saw an ad for a St. Albans hotel. The listings were given for a half dozen stations in the area, from Havana to Kingston. On that day’s date, a light pencil line had been drawn around 11 p.m. Shayne checked his watch. It was now 10:25.
He closed the drawer thoughtfully and put his feet back on the desk. Taking the cap off the rum, he took another long drink.
Outside, a girl was singing in French, accompanied only by an intricate beat from a hand-drum. This was probably his new friend, Shayne thought. The crowd was quiet; apparently she was wearing the kind of costume, or lack of costume, expected of French entertainers. Her voice was thin and appealing, quavering on the high notes. She was well applauded. As the clapping began to die, the door opened and Alvarez came in, looking at his wrist watch.
He stopped dead as he saw Shayne. His glance jumped from the soles of the redhead’s shoes to the gun beside them, and back at Shayne’s face.
“Come on in,” Shayne told him. He nudged the bottle of rum with one foot. “Have a drink of your own liquor. It’s not bad.”
“Who are you?” Alvarez demanded in a high voice.
“And not only that. What am I doing in your private office without an invitation? Sit down and I’ll tell you about it.” When Alvarez hesitated, Shayne said politely, “Does the gun bother you?”
Leaning forward suddenly, he picked up the. 45 and tossed it to the nightclub owner. Caught by surprise, Alvarez dropped it. He snatched it up from the floor and pointed it. The redhead was pleased to see that it wavered slightly.
“But I’ve got the clip,” Shayne said, “so don’t start giving me any orders. Your bar-man may have told you that I’m carrying a modest bankroll. I don’t know how you people operate, but I hear the town is a little warm. So I hope you won’t get any idea about taking it away from me.”
Alvarez checked the gun to see if it was actually empty. He came forward and dropped it on the desk. Then he whipped out a pair of black-rimmed glasses, put them on and stared at Shayne. The redhead grinned at him.
“I want some transportation,” he said. “I didn’t think anybody knew me on St. Albans, but it seems there’s a sheet going around with my picture on it. I want to get back to the States in a hurry. It’s a little cramped here. I’ll go as high as fifteen hundred. Dollars, not pounds.”
Alvarez thrust his glasses back in his pocket. He folded his lips primly, and poured several fingers of rum into the glass Shayne had decided not to use.
“What makes you think-”
“Come on, amigo,” Shayne said impatiently. “What do you want, references?”
Alvarez sloshed the rum around in the bottom of his glass without drinking it. “It is true, I go here and there about the island, I hear of such things being done. People have boats. I have a boat myself. But for fifteen hundred?”