Brett Halliday - At the Point of a. 38

Shayne picked up her overloaded purse. Before she could object, he spilled it on the floor. “I don’t want to find out later I made a mistake.”

“I don’t know what you think you’re going to find in there. That stuff has been piling up for years.”

She was trying, but she couldn’t conceal her anxiety. Shayne stirred the pile with one finger. The money added up to over $500. There were various pill containers, extra underwear and socks, Band-aids, earplugs, postcards, jacks. There was a library card and homework assignments, three or four keys, including one with a tag: “Nefertiti.” He swept it all up and stuffed it back.

“Can we go now?” she said. “I’m ready if you are.”

“I think I’ll have a beer while I think about it.”

“I just drank the last one. Mr. Shayne, my feet are itching. I want to be on my way! If Artie shows up, it’ll just be one big hassle. I’m not driving anywhere with him in a stolen car.”

Shayne put another cigarette in his mouth, watching her. “One minute won’t make any difference.”

“It may! If you’re going to grab Murray, don’t you think you’d better get out to the airport?”

“All I could get him on now is jumping bail. It’s not enough.”

She was on her feet, moving impatiently. When he still didn’t get up, she said, “All right, it makes me feel like a fink, and maybe it doesn’t mean anything. The St. Albans.”

“What about the St. Albans?”

“Do I have to keep telling you I don’t know? Nobody told me anything, but I’m human too, and whenever there was anything to listen to, I listened. The St. Albans kept cropping up. They had a floor-plan, a diagram. If you hurry, maybe you can catch him at it. But don’t for God’s sake tell him I told you anything.”

Shayne continued to smoke.

“I know how it sounds,” she said, “that I’m making this up because it’s really happening someplace else, but what do I care? He’s not the big thing in my life.”

To her relief, Shayne came to his feet at last. “Is there a phone here?”

“No, but there are booths downtown.”

All she took with her was her purse. She gave one last look at the sordid room.

“Parts of it were fun.”

She told him to drop her on the main road to the expressway north. He offered her a lift as far as Miami after he finished his calls, but she was in a big hurry to get out of the car.

“Not that I don’t like you!” She kissed his cheek quickly. “If you were driving west, we could have ourselves a high old time. I just don’t want you to get religion and decide it’s your duty to turn me in.”

He left her on the corner. She was still there, signalling cars, when he turned into the main shopping street and parked.

He brought in his operator and asked for police headquarters in Miami Beach. It was busy. So were the police numbers in Miami. Those switchboards were frequently overloaded when something important was happening, and Shayne had an unlisted number which would put him through directly to Will Gentry. The operator tried this number. It, too, was busy.

Shayne’s own private radar was picking up blips. He hadn’t liked the way the girl had kept sneaking peeks at her watch. It was now 10:59. Apparently he had injected himself into Gold’s schedule at an inconvenient time.

“Mike?” the operator said. “Are you still with me?”

“Get me the St. Albans, on the Beach.”

That line was open. Shayne asked for the manager, an acquaintance of his. He had to go through a secretary, who wasn’t sure Mr. Farber was free.

“Put him on right away,” Shayne said. “It’s urgent.”

In a moment, a man’s voice: “Mike? I’ve got some people in the office. Can I get back to you?”

“No. Listen to this, and take it seriously. Are there any Israeli government officials staying at your hotel?”

“What are you talking!” Farber said, alarmed. “Not that I know of. Are there supposed to be?”

“Here’s what I know. These are facts. There’s a party of Arabs around. Their leader broke out of an Israeli prison a few weeks ago. They’re carrying submachine guns, and they’ve been studying a floor-plan of the St. Albans. Do you have anybody staying there who might be a target? Or can you think of any other reason why they might be focussing on your hotel?”

“But this is fantastic! In the United States? Impossible-” He paused. “No. We’ve got a meeting of the Coordinating Committee, chairmen of all the big fund-raising outfits, in fact I’m on it myself. I have two gentlemen with me here right now. But good God, you don’t seriously-”

The phone thumped. Something was said sharply elsewhere in Farber’s office, and that was followed by confused noises, a scraping movement, a command, several voices speaking at the same time.

Then the phone was hung up decisively.

Lillian LaCroix was her real name, though people sometimes wouldn’t believe it. She didn’t consider herself a professional, and she had never been able to utter the phrase “call girl,” even in privacy. She had a circle of friends, that was all, and when one of them happened to be down, he was usually nice enough to call, and she was nice enough to come over, and he was nice enough to make her a cash present when he left, though some of her friends preferred to wait and give her something for Christmas. There were even a few who never offered her a cent. That didn’t mean that she refused to go out with them the next time, if she had nothing better to do that evening. She was completely unmercenary. All she wanted was enough to live nicely, without having to get married, the fool’s way out.

She was blonde, not because she was naturally blonde, but that was the way her friends liked her. She tanned nicely. Sexual exercise was the only exercise she got, so she was on a diet most of the time. She was thirty-one. She had an excellent sense of humor, and was a successful over-the-counter speculator, using information dropped in her ear by friends, who had no reason to lie. She didn’t drink or drug. Laziness was her only vice.

When Andrew Weinberger called, she was reading the financial page of the Times with her glasses on. She remembered him at once-an attorney from one of the big New York firms. They chatted, and then he asked if there was any possible chance that she could visit him in his room at the St. Albans.

She frowned, but kept it out of her voice. “You mean right away?”

“If you can make it. I’ve got a meeting coming up with some of the world’s leading bores, and there’s only one way I can get through it and keep my sanity.”

She suggested alternatives, but he had his wife with him this trip, which meant he was going to be tied up for meals. The meeting was likely to continue all afternoon and into the evening, perhaps most of the next day. But he thought it would be marvelous to see her. His wife was visiting family in Coral Gables.

Lillian reached his room at 10:45. He was nearly bald, with a mottled forehead, a big laugh. He was wearing flowered shorts and a loose poolside shirt. They were easy with each other at once. It was that way sometimes.

“No time to kid around,” he said. “I’m a busy, busy man.”

She saluted, and pulled her first zipper. “You’re sure your wife-”

“No problem. She just called me from there.”

She burst out of her clothes. He was delighted to see this happen, and said some nice things. Like everybody, she enjoyed getting compliments. Lying down, she kissed him seriously, and that was enough to get him up. She was glad it was easy, because the truth was, she liked to keep her mornings to herself, so she could adjust gradually to the day. But Weinberger was no trouble. She took him in her mouth for a moment, and he kissed her the same way, and when it was all over he was hardly breathing hard.