Brett Halliday - Lady, Be Bad

“And not only that,” Shayne said, “you saw me on the six-thirty news.”

She came toward him slowly. She was wearing a simple white dress with a deep slit at the neck, and she was put together like a champion. She raised one hand dreamily and touched his face.

“Extrasensory. On the six-thirty news. Talking about gambling houses in Nevada. I saw you on a black-and-white screen, so without the red hair. Michael Shayne. What are you doing here, Michael Shayne, spying on us?”

“Yeah. Sam seems to be asking for it. And what are you doing here?”

“Never mind about me. I am a hostess, the U.S. equivalent of the Japanese geisha. I am paid two hundred dollars to make a relaxed atmosphere. And at this precise point in time I have a very nice high, can you notice?”

“The light’s not too good.”

“Are you interested in what I’m called?”

“I’d better have it for the record.”

“Anne Braithwaite. And now where does my duty lie? You are clearly an enemy, not really an enemy but in the pay of the enemy. You really shouldn’t be permitted to walk around observing and taking notes. I think you and I should find an unoccupied bedroom and you should let me distract you. I promise you it would be quite jolly.”

There was a disturbance beneath them. Voices greeted Sam Rapp, coming in from another room with a lighted kerosene lamp. He put it on the poker table.

“Who wants to play some cards?”

The words were spoken with forced gaiety, as though Sam, too, wasn’t sure he was in the right role. He was a small, leathery old man, with a skeptical manner and heavily pouched eyes.

He made another effort. “Anybody wants a drink, you know where to find it. Matt, you can use a freshener.”

Matt McGranahan, a citrus senator, was orating quietly to a girl on a wicker couch near the door. Interrupting himself, he waved his drink, and spilled some of it.

“Sam, you’re a doll. Tremendous party. Lovely young ladies.”

The room was much brighter since the addition of the kerosene lamp. Shayne, above, was able to pick out several other familiar faces, including one of the senators he had testified before that morning. In the group at the makeshift bar, he recognized a lobbyist named Phil Noonan, who represented the savings and loan banks.

The girl took Shayne’s arm and pulled it against her breast. “You didn’t hear a word I was saying.”

“Something about an empty bedroom.”

“Michael Shayne, will you please pay serious attention? The party is only just now getting underway. Don’t rush it. The first edginess is beginning to wear off. Look at me.” She rose and kissed him, bringing her other hand around to the back of his head. He let it happen.

“You moron,” she said. “Someone should look out for you. If you wander downstairs and start listening in on conversations you’re bound to be sat on. Don’t you realize that?”

“By Sam?”

“By Sam and a few of his friends, who are now getting quietly squiffed in the kitchen. Then there’s the local-fuzz, do you call it? — with their guns and their whistles and their leather boots.”

She sucked once more at the fragment of cigarette, and ground it underfoot.

“I’m dreadfully mercenary. Everybody says that about me. When I agreed to come I expected to have other opportunities, above the two hundred dollars. Tips and what have you. But up to now it’s all been so low-key.”

“It does seem quiet.”

“Too quiet. Are we friends? I think we’re going to be friends. Pay me another hundred, Michael, and I’m yours. You need a number-one assistant. Tell me what you wish to know and I’ll help you.”

“Who lined you up for the party, Anne?”

“Lib Patrick, Sam’s good lady.”

“Is she here?”

“Oh, she is very much here, for in fact she’s the hostess. Charming. I’ll help you find her. Perhaps she’s in one of the bedrooms. I saw her go upstairs with Grover Kendrick, a bit ago.”

A man and a girl, staggering slightly, appeared at the top of the stairs. Anne closed with Shayne, kissing him until they had the balcony to themselves.

“To continue,” she said breathlessly, “I could tell you something interesting about Grover and his papa, I could make your hair stand on end, I won’t even insist on cash payment in advance-”

She started at another sound on the stairs. “Privacy, my dear Michael. In here.”

She whirled Shayne around and pulled him into the bedroom he had just left. Shayne went with the pull, and let her open the door. Inside, her lighter flared.

“I see a bed. Nobody in it. Perfect place for a chat.”

The flame winked out. At the same moment she poked him in the stomach, just below the belt, and said in a more businesslike voice, “I’m holding a little pistol. If you move very very slowly I’ll let you feel it. I’m a competent girl with guns, and the safety is off. Don’t twitch. It might make me twitch back.”

“I thought you were thinking about making love.”

“Another time.” She gave a low laugh and touched him lightly. “You seem very fit. I doubt if that muscle tone is good enough to stop a bullet. So swing about. Keep in close touch with me. Move backward a step at a time.”

She had a firm grip on the waistband of his pants and was pulling with that hand. At the same time she was pushing with the hand holding the gun. They went backward in unison, their legs together.

When his back hit the wall beside the single window she let go and he heard the clink of her lighter. She was holding it out to the window, to signal someone outside. He could hear Maslow breathing heavily on the floor. The girl, too, had realized that they weren’t alone in the room. He could feel her excitement. She was like a highly charged construction of transistors and wire.

He waited. The flame sprang up. Shayne expelled his breath violently and blew it out, and at the same second he clubbed her with his clenched fist.

As a continuation of the same motion, he twisted, letting the gun slide by him. She was one of those people who believe that a gun has its own magic, and she was unconscious before she could fire. He chopped the gun out of her loose grasp and let her fall.

He dragged her back from the window and switched on the flashlight for an instant. He had had to guess with the punch, but she had been well tagged. He pulled a pillow case off the bed, tore it in strips, gagged her and tied her hands and wrists.

This time he moved the key to the outside of the door and locked it, and took the key with him.

He opened the door of the next bedroom. A girl squeaked. Shayne’s flashlight picked out the face of a man he hadn’t seen before. Reproduced on election posters in its present state, it wouldn’t attract many votes, being lipstick-smeared and topped by a hairpiece that was slightly askew.

He waved at the light. “Be down in a minute. Taking a little survey here.”

The girl said calmly, “Honey, I think it’s a raid.”

“Nothing of the sort,” Shayne said. “I’m looking for Lib Patrick.”

“I haven’t seen her.”

The next room was locked. Shayne tried the key he had taken from the other door, but the keyhole was choked from inside. After turning the knob quietly, he pulled back to arm’s length, and slammed the door with its full power. It sprang open.

A candle on a tall dresser flickered in the draught. The flame steadied again as Shayne stepped into the room and closed the door.

From the looks of things, he had broken in on nothing more exciting than a business conference. Lib Patrick, fully clothed, was sitting on the bed, smoking a cigarette in a long holder. The man-Grover Kendrick, Jr.?-was some feet away, in the room’s single chair. He had been badly startled by Shayne’s entrance, but like the candle flame he recovered his composure quickly.