Denton said, “Don’t be too rough with him here in the station, boys.”
Shayne started out. The sergeant and the patrolman got out of his way as he stalked past them with long-legged strides. He heeled the door shut behind him and went out past the desk into the open air.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE ANGELUS was a small, modern hotel on Carondolet, just the other side of Canal Street. The lobby was overfurnished and gave off an air of stiff respectability. Shayne strode across to the desk and asked, “Do you have a Mr. Drake registered?”
The clerk was young and bored. He glanced through a file of cards and nodded. “Number three-oh-nine. I don’t believe he’s in, however,” he added with a glance behind him at rows of numbered key cubicles.
Shayne moved to the end of the counter and lifted the receiver of a house telephone. He asked for 309 and listened to the ringing for a long minute without replacing the receiver. Then he hung up and strolled across the lobby to a small desk with the sign Bell Captain over it. He eased his right hip onto a corner of the desk and asked huskily, “What’s chances of a man getting shown around this burg?”
The man behind the desk was one-armed and slightly bald. He had a high, sloping forehead, sunken cheeks, and a very sharp chin. His eyes, bright and calculating, studied Shayne’s face as the bell captain reached for some printed circulars. “We can arrange various sight-seeing tours—”
Shayne shook his head and snorted, “I’m not interested in that tourist flubdubbery. I want to see the real town—the Quarter and all.”
“We can arrange for a special guide to take you through the Quarter.”
Shayne leaned closer, getting out his wallet and opening it. “You know what I mean, pal. Where a man can take it on the hip, or maybe inhale some snow if he gets the yen. The real low-down—three-ways-for-your-money stuff.” He slid a five from his wallet, watching the captain’s face, and then added another five to it.
The captain stopped shaking his head. He dropped the circulars and palmed the bills. “Off the record, I can put you onto a lad that knows the ropes. A circus or the junk—whatever you crave.”
Shayne licked his lips and nodded. He tried to make his voice drool with lewd satisfaction. “That’s what I’m willing to pay for.”
“Be around about seven-thirty. I’ve got it fixed for him to pick up another hot sport from three-oh-nine.”
Shayne crossed Canal and wandered up Royal Street under overhanging balconies of cast-iron lacework. He turned left on St. Louis, passed up Antoine’s for a small, unpretentious building near the end of the block. There was a sign on the door which read Casti’s, and underneath it the single word Eat.
Steps led down from the door into a semi-basement room set with small tables not too close together in spite of the limited capacity of the place. The only light was supplied by individual table lamps with shaggy, irregularly cut halves of coconut shells for shades. These were lit only at the occupied tables, and at this early hour only a few were lit.
Shayne took a table in a corner and waved the handwritten menu aside. His waiter was an aged Negro with a wizened face and friendly, inquiring eyes. His bony shoulders were gracefully bent at a gallant angle from years of service. He bobbed his head and asked, “What will you have this evenin’, suh?”
Shayne said, “Bring me three sidecars if you’ve got any decent cognac to put in them.”
“Yassuh. We’s got moughty fine cognac what ain’t nevah been drunk, suh.”
Shayne asked, “Does Mr. Casti still make his gumbo with crayfish tails and shrimp?”
A shadow crossed the Negro’s lined face. “Mistuh Casti ain’t heah no mo’, suh, but de gumbo am still de same ez when he wuz.”
Shayne nodded. “Pure coffee with it?”
“Yassuh—jes lak always, suh.”
The waiter returned with three cocktails, grinning broadly as he set them in a row before Shayne. “I hopes one don’t get wahm ’fo you finishes t’other, suh.”’
Shayne said, “They won’t,” and drank half of one of the sidecars. It was icy, and strong with the clean, mellow taste of good cognac.
The gumbo was as Shayne remembered it. He ate the man-sized serving while the small restaurant slowly filled with hungry patrons. By the time he topped off the gumbo with a sugarless Café Brulot, there was not a vacant table in the low-ceilinged room and a waiting line was forming outside. He had killed a lot of time with dinner, and it was nearing 7:30 when he stepped out onto St. Louis Street. He walked briskly back to Canal and crossed over to the Angelus Hotel.
A young man leaned against the desk in front of the bell captain. He was a head shorter than Shayne, with a body that looked unhealthily thick. He had smooth features and sensual lips set in a perpetual pout. The captain said something to him and he turned his head to watch Shayne stroll across the lobby.
The captain said, “This is Henri. He’ll take care of you, but good.”
“No regular stuff,” Shayne warned. “I can find my own way around to the strip-tease joints. I’m set to get plenty high tonight—and I don’t mean on liquor.”
Henri’s pout turned into a sullen sort of smile. “The places I’ll take you to, Mister, the girls don’t do any stripping because they start out naked. You can get on any kind of a jag from ether on up if you want.”
“That’s it. The works.” Shayne glanced at his watch and frowned. “Where’s your other party?”
“There he is now,” the captain said, as the elevator stopped to let out passengers.
The man from 309 was slender and about medium height. He minced across the lobby in gray spats, carrying a pearl-gray derby and with a light Malacca cane hooked over his left arm. His face was lined, but there was color in his cheeks and his lips showed a tinge of red that didn’t belong on the lips of a man of his age. He disregarded Shayne and Henri, and addressed the bell captain.
“I’m ready to go out.”
“Right on time, Mr. Drake. This is Henri, that I told you about. And this is another gentleman looking for the same sort of a time you are. I thought you wouldn’t mind if he tagged along, seeing you’ve got a lot in common.” Drake glanced at Henri and then at Shayne. He put on his derby and compressed his lips. “I understood I was engaging a personal guide.”
“I won’t be in the way,” Shayne assured him. He winked his left eye. “I guess there’ll be plenty enough for both of us.”
“Very well.” Drake nodded impatiently. “Shall we go?”
Henri said, “I’ve got a hack outside,” and led the way across the lobby. He took them to a shiny old Packard sedan that said Taxi on the side. “I don’t have a meter,” he assured them as he opened the rear door.
Drake got in and sat stiffly erect with his hands folded over the crook of his cane. When Shayne slouched down on the rear seat beside him, he turned his head slightly and said, “I suppose we should introduce ourselves. My name is Drake.”
“And mine is Shayne. Are you a stranger in New Orleans?”
“With the exception of a few business trips.”
Shayne chuckled and smacked his lips. “It’s a good town for business—monkey business, eh?” He nudged his companion in the ribs.
Drake said, “Ha-ha,” then leaned forward to warn Henri, “Remember, I want to make the rounds. The—ah—most depraved places.”
Henri nodded and started the motor. “It’s a little early for the real hotsy-totsy joints. We’ll start with a pipe dive and sort of work our way up.”
Shayne said, “I need something to give me a lift. Maybe a pipeful will be just the thing. How about you, Drake?”
“If you are referring to opium, I confess I’ve never experimented.”
“What is your line?”
“My—line?” Drake frowned at him.
“What do you go for? You know.” Shayne waved a bony hand.
“I’m afraid you’ve gotten the wrong impression,” said Drake. “My interest in the seamier side of New Orleans is
objective—purely objective.” He hesitated, then added, “I’m looking for a girl.”
Shayne shrugged. “Sure. I can do with a babe, too. After I get high enough.”
“No, no,” said Drake with a cold smile. “I refer to a girl living in the Quarter under an assumed name.”
“Gave you the air, did she?”
“She is a—a protégé.”
Shayne chuckled and lit a cigarette. “Whatever you call her is all right by me.”
Henri pulled to the curb on Royal just beyond Orleans alley. He looked back at his passengers and said, “There’s a dump down the alley toward the old Cabildo where I can get you anything you want.”
Shayne opened the door and got out. Henri came around and joined them. It was not quite dark but the alley was shadowed in heavy twilight. Henri led the way forward with a businesslike stride.
A woman’s laughter sounded shrilly from the shadows ahead, and then two bulky figures in uniform came loitering toward the trio. They stopped and one of them said gruffly, “That you, Henri? You’re out early tonight.”
Henri said, “Sort of. Got a couple of friends.” He kept moving past the two policemen.
The other cop said, “Hold it, Henri.” He was staring at Shayne intently. Under the brim of his hat, the detective recognized him as the patrolman who had come into Captain Denton’s office with Sergeant Parks that afternoon. He averted his face and strolled on.
“What’s eating you?” Henri asked in a surly tone, half turning back. “Can’t you see I’ve got business?”
“That’s what I wondered? Where you taking those two fellows?”
Henri grated, “What the hell’s it to you?”
Shayne was half a dozen paces ahead of Henri and Drake.
He paused and looked back. One of the bulky policemen was striding toward him. Shayne ducked his chin and hunched his shoulders so the brim of his hat half concealed his gaunt face.
The cop stopped in front of him and jerked the brim of his hat up. He whirled about with an angry snarl, and told Henri, “You better watch your step. This mug is a stoolie. For the Feds maybe.”
Henri whistled and came forward slowly.
Shayne said loudly, “You’re nuts. I’m just out looking for a good time.”
The cop said, “Nuts, huh? Not me. I was in the precinct office this afternoon when Captain Denton threw you out. C’mon, Darcy,” he told his companion. “This guy’s due for a workin’ over.”
Henri stepped close to Shayne and his black eyes glittered in the dusk. “Playing me for a sucker, huh?”
“He’s mistaken,” Shayne protested. “I never saw him before.”
“Denton told us he’s a slick un,” the first policeman grunted. His companion was circling around behind. “I’d know that ugly face of his any time.”
“Making a fall guy out of me,” snarled Henri. His pouting lips flattened against his teeth. The blade of a clasp-knife made a vicious lunge at Shayne’s belly. The detective side-stepped and caught his wrist. He gave him a jerk forward and shoved him against the policeman who had recognized him, saying angrily, “You’re all crazy. I’m not any—”
The other cop’s nightstick caught him from behind. He swayed forward to his knees. Henri rushed forward and kicked him in the face. Shayne toppled sideways and lay still.
The first policeman laughed and pulled Henri back. “Let Darcy rap him with his stick again. The Cap’n said there wouldn’t be no comeback if we messed him up a little.” He gave Henri a shove while Darcy leaned over and swung his nightstick against Shayne’s head again with calculated force.
“Get along with you,” he advised Henri. “You’re lucky you didn’t get no farther showing him around.”
Drake was standing back, watching the scene with disapproval. He nodded and circled the recumbent detective when Henri said, “We might as well go on, Mister.”
“He’s out like a birthday candle,” Darcy informed his partner after shaking Shayne. He bent lower and sniffed his breath. “Got liquor in him,” he reported. “What say we run him in for d.-and-d. and resisting arrest?”
“Good enough. Drag him off the sidewalk first.” They got hold of Shayne’s arms and dragged his limp body into the gutter. Darcy went to put in the call for a wagon while the other officer lit a cigarette and sat down on the curb. Shayne lay face down in the gutter, unconscious and breathing heavily.
When the patrol wagon came, they loaded him in. The jolting ride to jail brought him back to foggy consciousness, but he gave no indication of this. By the time the wagon arrived at headquarters he was fully conscious, and his head throbbed with pain. He stumbled out of the vehicle when it stopped. His gaunt cheeks were streaked with dried blood, his suit was dirty and wrinkled, his eyes bloodshot and wild. He didn’t make a very good impression when he tried to tell his story to the desk sergeant, who was an old hand at listening to the incoherent complaints of the drunk.
Shayne was booked on a charge of drunk-and-disorderly conduct and resisting arrest when the two officers told of finding him staggering around in an alley in the Quarter molesting passers-by and putting up a fight when they tried to reason with him. He was thrown into the bullpen with the drunks and vagrants.
It took him the better part of three hours to persuade a turnkey to bother Chief McCracken with a telephone call at his home.
The chief appeared in person at the barred door. His naked-appearing face and head were highly flushed and his chins quivered with anger. “What the hell, Mike—you might’ve stayed out of trouble the first night you hit town. You used to carry your liquor like a man.”
Shayne laughed painfully and shortly. “Denton doesn’t appreciate my interest in his precinct. You know damn well I’m not drunk.”
The turnkey opened the door, and Shayne went with the chief to the sergeant’s desk for his release. He had managed to brush some of the dirt from his clothes and had combed his blood-matted hair with his knobby fingers.
The desk sergeant was very sorry for the mistake and made overtures to Chief McCracken which Shayne interrupted by saying softly, “You’ll know me the next time they bring me in.”
As they walked through the doorway and out into the clean night air, Shayne filled his lungs and exhaled rapidly several times. He said, “Thanks, John. Sorry to have bothered you.”
“Come on out to the house,” Chief McCracken urged impatiently, “and let’s talk this thing over, Mike. You’ve got to go easy—”
“On Denton?” Shayne interrupted harshly. “Sorry, John. I’ve got work to do, and I’ll make a jackass out of fDenton before this is over. Thanks again for springing me. We’ll talk when this case is finished.”
Chief McCracken groaned and muttered something indistinguishable as Shayne hailed a taxi, got in, and said, tersely, “To the Hyers Hotel.”
He sank wearily against the cushioned cab seat and picked hard particles of dried blood from his cheek. His eyes were closed, but relaxation was impossible.
Arriving at his hotel he emerged from the taxi, paid the driver, and stood on the sidewalk contemplating his soiled suit. He made a detour to the back of the hotel, found a service entrance, and went into a narrow hallway leading to stairs behind the elevator. He climbed to the third floor without meeting anyone, unlocked his door, and went in.
The French doors leading onto the balcony were closed, the cream-colored shades drawn. Shayne ran a big hand over his eyes, looked again. The shades of the high double windows were drawn, also.
He was positive he had left the French doors open, but he couldn’t remember about the windows.
Then his roving eyes focused on the dresser. He winced with more than physical pain. The photograph of Barbara Little, alias Margo Macon, was gone.
He went hastily to the French doors, flung them open and looked out. The windows of Apartment 303 were dark. He scowled, turned and hurried into the bathroom and grimaced at his sorry reflection in the mirror above the lavatory. There was an ugly cut in the cente
r of the bump over his left eye, and the shaggy brow was matted with blood.
He stripped off his coat and shirt, bathed his face in cold water, and went in to get a fresh shirt and tie from his suitcase. He unbuttoned the fresh shirt slowly, staring at the dresser. There was no doubt that he had left the photograph there. He couldn’t be mistaken.
Margo—Barbara herself must have sneaked in and taken it. So she did believe him when he said he was a detective. He muttered aloud, “Damn a snooping dame.”
He hurriedly slid his arms into the shirt sleeves and rammed the tail into his trousers, buttoned his trousers and fastened his belt. He groped for a fresh tie without looking and went to the dresser to tie it.
He remembered Margo Macon’s kiss—her slim body dancing away from him—her gay retort, “That’s to seal our date tonight—so you won’t let some hussy pick you up.” Why the hell was her apartment dark if she was expecting him?
He drew his tie into a tight knot and turned to the long windows leading onto the balcony. Faint light from a street lamp shone upon the narrow slit between the two buildings. He could vaguely discern the outline of the deck chair on the larger and opposite balcony where the girl had been curled up in the afternoon.
He stared somberly across the gap. This messed up his plans. If she had the photograph, his plan for pretending to be taken in by her imposture was out.
As he stared and meditated upon just how to meet this new situation, his eyes slowly focused upon a curious blotch of whiteness protruding from her door leading out onto the balcony. Wall shadows darkened the door, but he finally perceived that it was open.
He studied the odd object for a moment, then leaned forward to catch the opposite railing and vaulted across.
The protruding object was a woman’s bare foot.
Shayne struck a match, but he knew before the light flared that Barbara Little was dead.
CHAPTER FIVE
SHAYNE HASTILY KILLED THE MATCH FLAME, pushed the screen door back and stepped over the body into her apartment. The room was faintly lighted by a glow from his own hotel room directly opposite.
Michael Shayne's Long Chance Page 4