Shayne twisted the cork out and matched her casual tone. “Half and half on the rocks with tomato juice will be just right.” He handed the open bottle to her and turned back into the living room to light a cigarette. He sat down and stretched out his long legs and thought about Jim Wallace and Myra Wallace and the woman who was clanking ice cubes into glasses in the kitchen. It was very easy to envision Wallace going overboard for the bundle of sex who occupied the apartment. Far enough overboard to steal a million dollars and buy a pair of airplane tickets for South America?
Shayne didn’t know. He hadn’t known Wallace at all well. If the pair had planned to go away together on a plane that morning, she was giving no indication of it now.
She reentered the room carrying the same tray in front of her with both hands, holding two tall glasses filled to the brim with ice cubes and tomato juice. The red quilted robe fell away from her body as she walked, showing a trim waistline and lush hips. She paused in front of him and moved the tray suggestively, so he would take the right-hand glass, saying, “That’s half and half. Four to one suits my taste better on a morning like this.”
Shayne leaned back with his glass and watched her lower her buttocks onto the sofa. She lifted her glass avidly and gulped from it, lowering the level a full third before setting it down. Shayne sipped from his glass and asked her,
“Did you see Jim Wallace last night?”
“Who’s Jim Wallace?” She took another deep swallow and leaned her head back against the sofa. “God, I feel lousy.”
Shayne said, “You know who Jim Wallace is.”
“Do I?” She sounded wholly disinterested. She turned slightly and brushed the stringy locks of black hair away from her face. The sallow look was going away from her cheeks, and the dark eyes were beginning to sparkle. She said, “I think I’ll live. What’s your name?”
“Mike. What’s yours?”
She narrowed her eyes. Not with actual hostility, but with her first show of real displeasure at his presence. “You’re a hell of a guy. Barging in like this when you don’t even know who I am. What’s the racket?”
Shayne said, “I’m a friend of Jim Wallace’s.”
“So what?” She took another deep drink from her glass, practically draining it. If it had been a four-to-one combination, Shayne calculated she had put away about eight ounces of gin. He asked again, “Did you see Jim last night?”
“Look,” she said calmly, “right off when I caught you peeking in my keyhole I liked what I saw. I always did go for redheads and I liked the way you didn’t mess things up with a lot of explanations and questions. I knew right off you were a guy I could feel easy with, if you know what I mean. So let’s leave it like that.” There was a glow in her eyes now, and color in her cheeks. “Let’s have another drink and get in bed together.”
Shayne said, “I haven’t finished this one yet.”
She swayed a little as she got to her feet and Shayne said practically, “Better make yours a little weaker this time. I’m funny about liking my women to be conscious when I go to bed with them.”
She said, “Don’t you worry, Mike. I like it best that way, too.” She leaned over him, putting her forehead against his, and her gown hung open so he could look down the length of her torso between her breasts. She stayed like that a long moment and said in a deep, unhurried voice, “God, I feel good, Mike.”
He said honestly, “I do, too,” and twisted his head farther back so her face pressed against his and her mouth met his lips. Her lips and her tongue were hot and wet and pulsing with desire. She pulled away from him after a time and stood in front of him looking down at his upturned face with naked passion making her as beautiful as Bob Pearce had described her. She said in a thick voice, “I’ll make it a lot weaker this time. Don’t you worry, Mike. We’re really going to have ourselves a ball.”
She went back into the kitchen and Shayne drank half his Bloody Mary and wondered, irrationally, why he didn’t seize the opportunity to get out of the apartment fast. He was still working on a case, and this interview seemed definitely stalemated. It was inconceivable that this woman was even aware that Jim Wallace was dead. Yet there remained the possibility that she had been the person for whom Wallace had bought the extra plane ticket and that someone who knew of the broker’s plan to steal the money and fly to South America with her was Wallace’s murderer.
So he told himself that he would not be doing his full duty if he left before making every effort to extract whatever information she possessed. He didn’t know how much of this decision was a rationalization of his wish to stay with her and finish his drink, and he didn’t really care.
She came out of the kitchen carrying her glass half-full of ice cubes and a clear liquid and held it up for him to see. “Just like I promised, Mike. No tomato juice at all this time. That stuff makes you drunk.”
Shayne shook his head and said, “If that’s straight gin, lay off it until we talk a little bit.”
“Talk about what, Mike?” She lowered herself carefully onto the sofa and set the glass down on the table.
“Jim Wallace,” said Shayne. “The stock broker you’ve been playing games with while his wife was away.”
“Stockbroker, huh?” Her voice was becoming increasingly furry and a glaze was creeping over her eyes. “Didn’ know he had a wife. Didn’ act like it.” She closed her fingers very carefully around her glass and lifted it to her lips.
Shayne sighed as he watched her drink from it. He was getting into a rut, the way his women were passing out on him these days. First Kitty last night, and now this one. And he hadn’t even learned her name yet.
He said urgently, “I told you my name, but you never did tell me yours.”
She set the glass down and leaned back to stretch her body indolently, watching him out of the side of her eyes. “You’re a funny one, all right. You sure are, Mike. Soon’s I saw you, peeking in the keyhole, I said to myself, ‘Now here comes a real ball. Here’s a redheaded hunk of man a girl can get drunk with and like it.’ But you’re not gettin’ drunk. You keep talkin’ and talkin’ and don’t do anything.”
She closed her eyes and let her head loll back and belched happily.
Shayne didn’t hear the key in the lock. He wasn’t conscious of any sound that caused him to turn his head and see the man standing in the doorway. He was tall and young and slightly built, and he wore a snap-brim hat pulled low over smouldering eyes and he carried a battered Gladstone bag in his right hand.
He set the bag on the floor and closed the door behind him with one heel, while his hot gaze fastened itself on Shayne’s face. His thin, bloodless lips moved as though they tasted something good, and bubbles of spittle came out between them.
He said, “Hi-yuh, tramp,” and his voice was thin and high, trembling with youthful bravado and inner anguish. He stood where he was, leaning forward from the waist, both hands on his hips.
Shayne got to his feet slowly and heard a low gasp from the girl on the sofa behind him. He said soothingly, “Take it easy, guy. Don’t get any wrong ideas.”
“Sure, I’ll take it easy. Why should I get any wrong ideas? Maybe we could pour me a drink and make it a nice cozy threesome, huh?”
Behind Shayne, he heard the girl moan, “Gene, honey. I don’t even know this square. He just barged in, see? Woke me up outa bed and pushed right on in. I swear to God, Gene. You gotta believe me.”
“Sure, I believe you.” The young man straightened and slid one hand into the side-pocket of pleated slacks. It came out with a six-inch switch-blade which snapped open in his hand. His voice came out cold, and it had ceased to tremble. “So maybe I better cut him up a little so he won’t make the same mistake and get in the wrong apartment another time.” He spread his legs a little and his sharp chin jutted forward. His eyes were as hotly venomous as a snake’s.