The waiter said, “It’s perfectly correct, sir. The usual charge for a private room and allows you the use of it for as long as you wish it.”
“To hell with that,” Shayne growled in a murky tone of anger. “Send MacFarlane up here. I’ll settle with him.”
“Please-don’t!” Midge grabbed his arm and raised terror-stricken blue eyes to his. “Don’t make a scene. I–I couldn’t stand it.”
Shayne’s laugh was harsh. “The old gag, eh? How many of his come-on gals has MacFarlane got lined up on the highway to lure suckers in for a fleecing? Hell,” he went on with relaxed brutality, “I can rent a hotel room for a week with a woman thrown in for fifteen bucks.”
Midge’s hold on his arm grew lax. She shrank away from him, her face drained of color except for the red spots of rouge high on each cheek. “Don’t say such things,” she pleaded. “You don’t really mean them.”
“The hell I don’t,” Shayne jeered. He picked up the beer mug and drank half the cognac. “Get MacFarlane up here,” he insisted to the waiter. “I’ll tell him what I think of his gyp joint.”
The waiter nodded and went out with a stiff bow.
Midge sank back, breathing in great piteous sobs. “I don’t know what I’ll do,” she moaned. “Oh, how could you be so-so cheap!”
Shayne laughed and settled comfortably on the sofa close to her. “Don’t worry. MacFarlane doesn’t want publicity any more than you do.”
She moved closer and buried her face convulsively against his shoulder, tugging at his long arm to draw it around her waist.
Shayne had the beer mug to his lips when he felt her squirm against him. He heard the sound of ripping cloth. Then, a wild scream as she stood up and raked her finger nails across his cheek. The torn bodice of her dress came open showing one white breast. Her braids tumbled down, and in the space of a few seconds she was a disheveled and outraged young girl, clinging to him now with surprising strength.
He heard a door opening as he thrust her away. She threw herself at him, pulling his arm around her waist.
There was the flare of a flashlight bulb and Shayne looked up to see two men grinning at him from the doorway leading into the lavatory. One of them was lowering a camera and the other held an ugly short-barreled gun trained on Shayne’s belly.
Chapter Eight: A MUG WON’T LISTEN
Shayne reached for his pocket to get a handkerchief and the gunman yelled, “Keep your hands in sight,” as he caught the edge of it and flipped it out, then held it against his scratched face. He laughed shortly as the girl cringed away from him, covering her face with one hand while she pulled her dress together in front.
“That was nicely maneuvered, sister. Everybody seems in the mood for pulling old gags tonight. A nice piece of badger baiting.” He shot a sardonic look at the gunman. “I presume you’re the deacon-this gal’s properly indignant father.”
“Cut the funny stuff, pal.” The man leaned negligently against the door casing, his weasel eyes darting from Shayne to his confederate with the camera. “Go on out the door with your pic, Jake. Get it developed right away. This mug is going to sit quiet until you’re in the clear.”
Shayne grinned amiably. He asked, “What would the plate cost me?”
“It ain’t for sale. Get going, Jake.”
Jake sidled toward the outer door with his eyes warily on the detective. Midge was making little whimpering sounds. The gunman dropped his weapon into his coat pocket when Jake was safely out of the room. His thin lips curved into a sneer of triumph. “I guess you know what the score is, shamus. You’ve pulled enough fast ones yourself to recognize one when you walk into it.”
Shayne nodded agreement. He took the handkerchief away from his cheek and frowned at the spots of blood on it. He admonished Midge, “It wasn’t necessary to scar me for life. The scene would have been just as convincing without that.”
“She did just right,” the man in the doorway told him. “That’s the little angle that’ll really make it tough if you’re not smart. A sweet little gal defending her honor against a drunken brute. Boy, was that flashlight one a honey!”
“I’m not in the mood to appreciate artistry right now,” Shayne snapped. He pressed the handkerchief against his face again. “You said the plate wasn’t for sale. What do you want for it?”
“Just for you to get out of Cocopalm, mister. Get out and stay out, see? We’ve been doing all right here without any nosy dicks from the big city butting in.”
“And if I don’t get out?”
“That’s okay too. You seem to go in for publicity. We’ll see how you like this picture on the front page. It’ll show you up some different from the one in today’s Voice.”
Midge jerked herself to a strained and stiff position. “Oh-no!” she cried. “You couldn’t. They promised me-you know Gil wouldn’t print that picture.”
“Gil’s hell bent on printing the news,” the man guffawed. “You know that as well as I do. Why shouldn’t he print it?”
“Oh, God,” moaned the girl. She fell back against the couch, covering her face again, her shoulders quivering.
Shayne laughed unpleasantly and asked, “Why the hell did you think you were pulling this stunt, sister? The only value of a picture like that is the threat of publicity.”
“But they told me-they said you-that you wouldn’t-”
“That,” said Shayne harshly, “is where ‘they’ miscalculated. I’m not afraid of publicity. But when your dad, the deacon, sees it-”
The gunman snickered and slapped his thigh. “Your dad, the deacon, huh? By God, if you ain’t a card, Midge.”
She jumped to her feet and went blindly toward the door. Neither of the men made any move to stop her. When she had gone out, Shayne said, “So, MacFarlane is worried about what I’ll pick up on the counterfeiting? Tell him for me that he’d better keep right on worrying. The only way I’ll leave Cocopalm is flat on my back.”
The gunman’s eyes glistened. “Maybe that’s an idea.”
Shayne nodded. “Maybe so. But he’d better hire a couple of faster rod flashers than those two he planted in the hotel for me tonight.”
“That’s a funny thing.” The man screwed his forehead up in a perplexed frown. “I dunno why Leroy and Taylor went gunning for you. I know for a fact Mac didn’t give a damn what you did until you got so set on snooping around out here.”
“Why?” Shayne shot at him. “Are the counterfeits being printed here at the club?”
“I don’t know nothing about it,” the man grunted. Shayne glanced at his beer mug and saw a small amount of liquid in the bottom. He emptied it with relish, grinning as he set it down empty. He then took up the check for $23.50 and smoothed it out in his big hands. “I’ve still got to see MacFarlane to tell him where to stick this bill. Where will I find him?”
“I wouldn’t go looking for Mac if I was you. Listen, why don’t you wise up? If you think that picture’s a bluff, you’re crazy. Want your wife to see it?”
Shayne’s laugh was genuine. “So, that’s the angle, eh? Too bad you wasted the plate.”
“You’re talking through your hat, buddy. You know damn well you can’t laugh that picture off.” The man moved uneasily, his ugly little eyes filled with alarm.
“Don’t call me buddy,” Shayne snapped. “Print your picture and be damned.” He stood up. “I’m going to take a look over this joint before I leave.”
“You better not,” the man said desperately. “I’m telling you.” He slid his hand into the coat pocket sagging with the weight of his gun.
Shayne laughed. “MacFarlane wouldn’t want any shooting in here.” He strode toward the door leading into the hall.
The door opened as he reached for the knob.
A tall, ascetic man wearing immaculate dinner clothes confronted him. He had a long face and tired gray eyes which glanced past Shayne at the gunman. He said, “Put that gun back in your pocket, Conway, and get out.”
“Sure, boss. Sure. But this mug, he won’t listen to sense. I was just telling him-”
“I’ll do the telling,” Grant MacFarlane said. He waited until Conway went past him and out the door, then entered the room and sank down in the club chair.