“Do you believe his version of the affair with Wanda?”
“Absolutely. From his viewpoint, at least. He’s actually that naïve, Mike. She could be the toughest little hooker in Miami taking Ralph for a ride all the way, but he’d still be dewy-eyed about doing the decent thing by her.”
The elevator door opened, and Shayne said, “Somehow I have a hunch we’re going to learn a lot of interesting things about Wanda Weatherby before this is over,” as they went through the lobby. “Most of it you won’t be able to print if my guess is right.”
Outside, on the sidewalk, Rourke demanded, “Why did you ask Ralph about Gurley? What’s his connection with Wanda?”
“Right now, I haven’t any idea,” Shayne admitted. “Except that he’s damned anxious to keep her letter about Ralph quiet.”
“But — why? If Ralph doesn’t even know him. And how did Gurley find out about the letter?”
“All I can say is I don’t know to both questions,” Shayne told him as they walked toward his car. When they reached it Shayne lit a cigarette and gave him a brief resume of the anonymous telephone call and his later interview with the gambler.
“How did you guess Gurley was behind this mug who called you?” Rourke asked.
“Something I ran onto at Wanda’s house before the police arrived. I won’t tell you what it was, Tim, so that you can truthfully deny knowing anything about it if Will Gentry later accuses me of holding out on him. But I wish you would beat it down to headquarters and find out if Gentry picked up the same lead. Call me if you get anything hot.”
“Sure, Mike,” Rourke promised, and strolled back to his own car, adding over his shoulder, “If you don’t hear from me sooner, I’ll be at your office at nine o’clock.”
“So will Gentry,” said Shayne, “to pick up my mail for me.”
Rourke spun around and took a couple of steps. “You’re not going to give him Wanda’s letter about Ralph?”
“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” Shayne growled. “You know as well as I do just how far I can push Will Gentry.”
He left the reporter standing on the sidewalk, got in his car, gunned the motor, and hurried away to keep his midnight appointment.
Chapter seven
THE TIME WAS a few minutes past twelve when Shayne strode into the lobby of his hotel-apartment house. The man on the desk beckoned to him as he headed toward the elevator. Shayne swung toward him with ragged brows lifted inquiringly.
“There’s a lady waiting for you upstairs, sir. I sent her up a few minutes ago,” he added apologetically. “But you always said I should use my own judgment.”
“That’s all right, Bennie,” Shayne told him with a grin. “But I’ve never known you to unlock my room for a lady before.”
Bennie licked his thin dry lips. “I don’t recall any ladies wanting in to your room before, Mr. Shayne.” The clerk grinned briefly, then added seriously, “This one is real class. She claimed she had an appointment.”
“Green eyes?” asked Shayne negligently.
“What’s that? N-No. But maybe they are, at that,” he added after thinking for a moment. “Sort of grayish-green. And there was a phone call for you about half an hour ago. Some man — wouldn’t leave his name, but wanted to know when you’d be in. I told him I didn’t know, and he said he’d come over and wait. He seemed pretty anxious.”
“Call me if he comes in,” said Shayne. “And thanks, Bennie.” He swung away and strode to the waiting elevator, got in, and went up to the second floor. He took his key out as he went down the corridor, put it back in his pocket when he saw his apartment door ajar and light streaming through the door. He pushed the door wide open when he reached it, and stood for a moment observing the woman sitting on the couch.
Her legs were crossed, and a short, expensive-looking fur jacket was thrown carelessly back from her shoulders. She wore a sheer black dress with a bright-orange scarf fluffed out at the throat, and was hatless. Her hair was long and straight, parted in the center and hanging down to her shoulders. It gleamed brightly in the overhead light, and the word “tawny” leaped into his mind. She had a high forehead and dark, thick brows and eyelashes. Her features were smooth and regular, her chin firm, her mouth wide and painted a deep shade of red that looked almost purple.
She appeared to be about thirty-five. Her head rested against the couch and her eyes were closed. She was smoking a cigarette, blowing smoke toward the ceiling, and was evidently unaware that she was being observed.
Shayne said, “Sorry to be late,” pulling off his hat and tossing it on a wall hook near the door.
She opened her eyes and her lips formed a faint, questioning smile.
Shayne moved toward her, saying, “You were supposed to be a brunette. With limpid green eyes.”
Her smile widened and the sensuous, sultry voice flowed out as it had over the telephone wire. “I hope you’re not too disappointed, Michael Shayne.”
“I hope I won’t be. Drink?”
“Please.” She leaned forward sinuously to crush out her cigarette in an ash tray beside the couch.
Shayne went past her to the liquor cabinet. “There’s rye and cognac.”
“Cognac, of course. Wouldn’t it be a sacrilege to drink anything else in Michael Shayne’s apartment at midnight?” Her tone was light, but there was a nervous tremble that told the detective she was afraid in spite of her casual manner.
“Soda or water?” he asked.
“Straight, please. With some water on the side. And I need a big one before I lose my nerve and run out of here without telling you a word of what I came to say.”
“We can’t have that,” said Shayne pleasantly. He took two four-ounce glasses from the shelf and filled one, handed it to her, adding, “I’ll be right back with some ice water.”
In the kitchen he put ice cubes in two tall glasses and filled them with water. When he turned, Sheila was standing in the doorway, watching him intently. Her glass was half-empty and spots of color flamed in her cheeks. Her eyes did look greenish, and wide and imploring.
“Are you the kind of man they say?” she asked breathlessly.
Shayne stopped in front of her with a glass in each hand. She didn’t move from the threshold. He said, “I don’t know, Sheila.”
She looked up into his eyes, lips parted and chin lifted. “Why don’t you kiss me? Don’t you know that’s what I want you to do? Hold me tight and comfort me and tell me I’m beautiful and promise to do what I’m going to ask you. Don’t you know that’s why I chose midnight? And came here to your place where we would be alone?” A pulse trembled in her rounded throat as she strained upward.
He said, “I didn’t know, but I’m glad to have you tell me.” He set the glasses aside on a kitchen table and put an arm around her. She went limp and buried her face against his chest and began to sob. The cognac glass fell from her hand and spilled liquor on the floor.
She was talking in a choked voice between sobs, but her words were not clear. He held her tightly for a moment, looking down somberly at the glistening, tawny hair against his chest. Then he sighed, picked her up in both arms, and carried her in to the couch. He put her down gently, and she huddled there with her hands over her face, sobbing convulsively.
Shayne returned for the glasses of water, retrieved her glass, and brought it back to the living-room where he refilled it and poured a drink for himself.
Sheila Martin sat erect after a while, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. Shayne set her cognac and ice water on the low table in front of her and said, “Nothing is as bad as that, darling. Relax and make yourself kissable again if you’re determined to seduce me.”