"Mike. Have you been asleep?"
"Just dozed off, I guess."
"Well, get yourself waked up," he said impatiently. "Both of you. I'm on my way over."
"Both of us? What do you mean, Michael?"
"Miss Paulson. Is she in bed?"
"But she left, Michael."
"What? When? Goddamn it, Lucy, I sent her there for you to take care of her."
"You didn't tell me I was to lock her in, did you? How was I to keep her here if she decided not to stay?"
"When did she leave, Lucy? What did she say?"
"Fifteen or twenty minutes ago. She didn't say anything. Just thank you for the drink and I tank I go home now. And she went."
Shayne slammed the phone down to prevent himself from taking any more of his sickening anger out on Lucy. He looked up, bracing himself to meet Gentry's fierce gaze, and said unnecessarily:
"She's ducked out on us, Will. God knows where-on why."
FIFTEEN: 11:20 PM
As Lucy Hamilton put the telephone down in her apartment, she sat silently and with bowed head for a long moment, feeling the impact of her employer's anger and sensing his frustrated disappointment in her as he slammed down at his end.
The only sound in the apartment was the labored breathing of her guest standing close behind her.
Lucy fought to remain calm, lifting her head finally and forcing herself to turn and ask listlessly, "Is that what you wanted me to do?"
"You were just fine that time. If he calls back again, or anyone else, be damn sure and tell them not to come here tonight. That you're in bed or sick or something-or else you get this fast."
Lucy shuddered and closed her eyes as the ugly, short-bladed knife made a sickening arc close to her throat. She heard a pleased giggle bubble up out of the other girl's throat. There was already blood on the blade of that knife. Whose, she didn't know. The girl hadn't said whose blood it was as she calmly withdrew it from her bag and displayed it when Shayne's call came through.
But the fierce glitter in her eyes as she crisply told Lucy what to say over the phone had been proof enough that she wouldn't hesitate to use the knife again if she were thwarted in any way.
It was all so utterly incomprehensible. They had been sitting on the sofa calmly chatting away when the phone rang and Lucy had involuntarily exclaimed, "That'll be
Michael now." The other girl had been telling her an involved story about being in Shayne's apartment when some man had come looking for her and how she'd escaped down the fire escape.
Then the wild gleam in the girl's eyes and the bloodstained knife that came leaping out of the suede bagl
Now the girl backed away from her and said calmly, "Get up and move away from the telephone. You won't get hurt if you do exactly as I say. Not until I can fix things up a little better anyhow. Then we'll see. Sit in that chair across the room and don't move out of it while I use the phone."
Lucy stood up slowly, averting her gaze from the knife. She crossed to the indicated chair and sat down. She heard the girl dialing, and tried to concentrate on the clicking of the dial to try and get the number-although Shayne had often laughed at fictional detectives who were supposed to be able to accomplish that trick.
She heard the girl ask, "Is Mr. Bert Paulson there?" and say after a moment, "If he does come in soon, please give him this message. It's very important. He's to call his sister at this number." And she read Lucy's number from the telephone.
Then she hung up and sat quietly for a moment, biting her under-lip broodingly and frowning across the room with eyes that seemed not quite to focus.
She nodded her blonde head slowly after thinking for a moment, dialed another number and repeated exactly the same instructions she had given on the first call.
After hanging up the second time, she got up from the chair and moved back a few feet, gesturing to Lucy with her knife. "Sit down here by the phone and do exactly as I tell you if you ever want to see your precious Michael Shayne again. Wait a minute though," she said rapidly as Lucy dragged herself up. "Go into the bedroom first and get a sheet and bring it out. I'll be right behind you all the time."
Lucy went into the bedroom and got a sheet from her linen closet. Her mind was working desperately to think of some ruse to escape or overcome her visitor, but even years of close association with Michael Shayne had not fitted her to cope with exactly this situation. She was bitterly certain he could think of all sorts of clever things to do under the same circumstances, but why, oh I why, had he sent this insane girl to take refuge in her apartment with a bloody knife in her handbag?
"Drop the sheet on the floor," she was directed, "and then sit in that chair beside the telephone. If any calls come, you'll have to answer them in case it isn't Lanny calling for me. And everything will be a lot easier if I just tie you up so you won't get any funny ideas. Don't think I care whether you keep on living or not," the voice went on coldly as the girl picked up the sheet and slit strips in it which she ripped all the way across.
"It's just that you're my insurance, see? I've got to get that call from Lanny, and I figure this is just about the safest place to stay until it comes." She giggled happily again as she came up behind Lucy with three long strips of sheeting trailing behind her.
"Who'd think of looking for me holed up cozily with the great detective's girl-friend? Put your feet back solid against the legs of the chair. And lay your right forearm on the arm of it. I'll leave your left hand free to manage the phone."
Lucy sat tense and strained in the chair, biting her under-lip hard as the other knelt beside her and started winding a strip of cloth around each ankle and the chair-legs.
Now? Was this the moment? If she twisted quickly and tried to throw herself and the chair on top of the girl?
No. Her instinct for self-preservatioji was too strong. Something would happen. Something would have to hap pen. Michael would certainly come. He had sounded so terribly outraged and angry when she told him the girl had already left. Certainly he would be arriving in a few minutes to question her more closely.
It had all happened so fast. She'd had no chance to adjust her thoughts and think of something to say over the telephone that would indicate to him that she was talking under duress. But she had tried desperately to be flip about it and not even apologize for letting the girl go. That should be a clue he would understand.
But suppose he didn't? Suppose he thought she was just being jealous and irritated because he had gone off at the summons of an unknown blonde instead of staying with her? She hadn't tried to conceal her feelings earlier when he had dashed off, leaving his drink untouched behind him.
Now her legs and right arm were bound tightly to the chair and she was helpless. It was too late now to make any attempt. If Michael would only come or telephone againl She began thinking desperately of something she might say to him if he did call that would not arouse the girl's suspicions but would tell him what she wanted to convey.
Her captor stepped back coolly to survey her work, and she nodded with a smile that held more venom than humor. She walked across to the sofa to drop the knife into her open bag and sat down, saying, "Now we're real comfy. Just so you don't try to say the wrong thing over the phone if it rings. If it's someone asking for Nellie or Miss Paulson, just say I'm here and I'll take it from there. But if it's anyone else, you be damn careful to stall them off. No matter what you scream over the phone or how fast they can get here-it'll be too late to do you any good." She leaned forward to pick up her drink, and smacked her lips with relish as she sipped it.
"I just don't understand," faltered Lucy. "Why did Michael send you here? Why did you come when-when-?"
"When the police are looking for me for murder?" The question came equably and with frightening calm. "You are perfectly right, darling. That is blood you saw on my little knife." The words came out purringly with hidden, deadly menace. It rose suddenly on a note of shrill derision: