“Your husband works for Jack Gurley?” Shayne asked sharply.
“He’s a waiter there. And when they have these special parties he has to work overtime to serve drinks, and he will have to see the pictures with the rest of them. You can see how viciously clever she is. She figured out that way of doing it without actually going to Henry and telling him. She doesn’t have to appear in it at all. He’ll just see the picture and that will be the end of everything. But I won’t let her. I’ll kill her first.”
“Having failed twice already?” Shayne asked quietly.
“No. I haven’t done anything. I don’t know what she means in her letter. I’ve been crazy with worry, but I don’t even know where she lives. All I have is a telephone number and I’ve called her three times to beg her not to do it. She won’t even talk to me, just asks me if I’m ready to do what she wants, then hangs up when I try to plead with her.
“She’s a devil, Mr. Shayne. She doesn’t deserve to live. I don’t think a jury would convict me if I killed her, not if they knew the truth. But that would be just as bad, because the whole story would come out and Henry would know, and nothing would be gained. So what am I going to do? What are you going to do about her letter?”
Shayne said, “I don’t know yet. If you’re telling me the truth—”
“I am,” she cried huskily. “I swear I am. Do you think I wanted to tell anyone a thing like that? If I pay you a thousand dollars, can I be your client instead of her? Maybe you could get the film and destroy it — do something to keep her from letting Henry see it.” She opened her purse and took out a handful of bills. “I haven’t got all of it yet. But I can get the rest in a few days. If you’ll take this much as down payment—”
Shayne waved it aside. “First, I want to know what you did tonight after telephoning me.”
“I was out trying to raise this much money. There’s six hundred and twenty dollars here. That’s why I didn’t want to see you until midnight. I knew what I had to do as soon as I hung up, and I called a friend who lives down the street and told her I had to raise a thousand dollars by midnight. She helped me — gave me all the cash she had — sixty dollars, then drove around with me to different friends of hers and mine borrowing whatever they could spare.”
“How soon did you see your friend after phoning me?”
“Right away. Within five minutes. Henry is working, you see, and I went right over. It was just a few minutes when Betty and I started out.”
“Will this Betty corroborate that?”
“Of course she will. Betty Hornsby is my best friend. Why? Does it matter?”
“It does,” the detective told her. “Can you tell me the other friends you visited?”
“Certainly. I made a list of how much I got from each one.”
“I’ll want the list, and your friend Betty’s address. It matters a whole lot, Sheila,” he said slowly, “because Wanda Weatherby was murdered tonight between ten and ten-thirty.”
Sheila Martin was still leaning toward him with the money in her outstretched hand. She stared at him without moving for a long moment. Then she murmured, “Thank God,” and slid forward on her knees, clutched at the arm of her chair, and pressed her forehead against it.
The telephone rang. Shayne jumped up and hurried to answer it.
The desk clerk’s excited voice tumbled into Shayne’s ears. “They’re going up, Mr. Shayne. The chief of police and that reporter friend of yours. Just getting in the elevator. They didn’t even stop at the desk.”
Shayne barked, “Thanks,” and slammed the receiver down. He leaped to Sheila’s side, dragged her erect, and said swiftly, “Kiss me good — and ruffle your hair. Hurry. Finish your drink and spill a few drops down the front of your dress. The cops are on their way up here, and if we’re going to keep you out of this we’ve got to make them think they’re interrupting a necking-party.”
“Oh, God,” she breathed, and was instantly alert. She stood on tiptoe, flung her arms around his neck, and put her parted lips hard against his. Shayne kissed her back, all the while tousling her tawny hair. Her eyes were shining when she drew back and she said, “I liked that, Michael. If you can get rid of them—”
“I liked it, too.” He grinned and gave her a shove toward the couch, saying, “Drink up — and make like a loose woman.”
She said tremulously, “It won’t be hard, Michael Shayne. You make me feel like one.”
Shayne grabbed up his own drink and finished it off, snatched a bottle from the cabinet and set it on the table in front of the couch. He shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it on a chair, jerked open the neckband of his shirt and pulled his tie awry as heavy footsteps sounded in the corridor outside.
He looked at Sheila and nodded approvingly. She lolled back on the couch with her skirt well above one knee, and her long hair slid forward over one side of her face. Her lipstick was smeared, and the picture was complete.
Shayne was refilling his glass with cognac when an authoritative knock sounded on the door.
Chapter eight
SHAYNE DROPPED onto the couch beside Sheila with glass in hand. He slid one arm around her shoulders and pinched her cheek, and waited for Gentry’s knock to be repeated, muttering in her ear, “Play it up the best you can, darling. We’re both tight and plenty sore at being interrupted.”
Sheila didn’t reply, but pressed his hand hard against her cheek. She was warm and she smelled good, and Shayne wondered how much she loved her husband.
Will Gentry knocked again, and more insistently, and the deep rumble of his voice penetrated the door. “Open up, Mike. It’s Will Gentry.”
Shayne drank half his cognac, gave Sheila a final pat, and said angrily, “It’s the chief of police, honey. I’ll have to open up. You sit tight.”
He got up and started toward the door as Gentry pounded on it again. Shayne growled, “All right! Damn it. You don’t have to break the door down.” He turned the knob and opened the door about six inches, holding it firmly against Gentry’s thrust and peering out with an angry scowl.
“What in hell’s the matter, Will? You might let a man know—”
Gentry said, “Want to ask you a couple of questions.” His gaze went from the glass in the detective’s hand to his disheveled appearance and the smear of lipstick on his mouth “Sorry if I interrupted anything important,” he added gruffly, “but you do choose the damnedest time for your tomcatting. Send your floosie in the bedroom if you’re ashamed for Tim and me to see her. If she isn’t already there,” he ended.
Shayne drew himself up, pretending outraged dignity, hiccuped, and said, “She’s no floosie, and this isn’t what you think at all. It’s just your foul mind.” He threw the door open grandly as Gentry plodded through, and the redhead gave Timothy Rourke a broad wink, and continued, “Certainly don’t want you to think I’m ashamed of introducing my friends.” He closed the door and said, “Sylvia, meet Chief Will Gentry, and Mr. Rourke from the Daily News.”
She was lolling against the couch with a cigarette dangling from her mouth. Tossing her head, she giggled, “Glad to make your acquaintance, I’m sure.”
Gentry nodded curtly and asked Shayne, “Can’t she go in the other room for a few minutes? This is important.”