Brett Halliday: The Violent World of Michael Shayne

Shayne still didn’t hurry. He waited till the other car was close enough so he could see that it carried Texas plates. Then he came down hard on the gas and shot away.

There was a slight grin on his lips and much of the tension had left his face. So far he had been groping his way blindfolded through an enemy minefield, knowing that the only safe thing to do was nothing at all. This was something he knew how to handle. These men were amateurs. If they had wanted to find out where he went, they should have stayed out of sight. If they had wanted to pick him up, they should have jumped him the minute he came out of the house.

He inched across each major intersection, making a big point of looking at street signs. The Texans too were in a strange town, and he didn’t want them to lose him before he found out more about them. He swung into one of the city’s numerous traffic circles, holding his speed at 35. A statue of a general on horseback drifted by on his left. Having passed that same statue several times, he knew where he was: in Sheridan Circle. There was a dazzle of headlights in his mirror. He didn’t bother to sort them out; if they lost him at this speed they weren’t worth worrying about. He was looking for the right kind of bar, and found it after turning onto Wisconsin Avenue-a small place called the Bijou, with a doorman and a marquee.

He parked on a side street. Walking back he staggered slightly, as though the cognac was finally beginning to take over. He stumbled, caught himself quickly and wished the Bijou doorman a pleasant good evening. The doorman gave him a suspicious look in return, but decided that he wasn’t quite drunk enough yet to be refused admittance. Out of the corner of his eye, Shayne saw the Buick coast past. As well as he could judge, there was only one man in the front seat besides the driver.

Inside, he had a choice between sitting at the bar or going on into a poorly-lighted room to listen to a woman with a ravaged face singing Cole Porter songs, leaning against the curve of a grand piano. She hadn’t attracted much of a crowd. The headwaiter tried to steer Shayne in to a table, where he would be subject to a cover charge. Shayne waved him away. Reaching out, he caught the rim of the bar and pulled himself in against it. He grinned at the bartender.

“I see a bottle of Martell’s on the back bar. That shows good taste on somebody’s part. In a wine glass, and I’ll have a glass of ice water with it.”

He swung onto a high stool at the heel of the bar, from which he could watch the new arrivals. There weren’t many. Leaning on both elbows, he rested. They knew where he was. They had to come to him.

He heard a spattering of applause in the other room, and the singer gave her small audience an ironic bow and walked off, leaving the pianist to continue without her.

A short way down the bar, two men were arguing drunkenly about Sam Toby. Probably, Shayne thought, this was the main subject all over Washington tonight. One of the men was sure that Toby would beat this rap, as he had beaten all the others over the years. He had half the Senate membership in his pocket, because he knew their weaknesses. And Hugh Manners-there was a man. Why didn’t the goddamn politicians leave him alone? What if he did have to bribe a few people so they’d let him stay in the competition? The other drinker maintained that Toby’s days were numbered. Why would they call him to testify unless they had something on him? Shayne, too, would like to know the answer to that question, among others, but he did not think he would get it here.

A plump, fair-haired man in a black silk suit came in from the street with a blonde girl. They were bickering quietly, like husband and wife. He went on into the main room and the girl came over to the bar, where she took a stool once removed from Shayne and ordered creme de menthe. She kept looking at her watch impatiently. She lit a cigarette, which she took from a silver case in a small evening bag, and put it out again after a few puffs. When the man didn’t return, Shayne gave her a closer look.

She was in her early twenties. Most of the things that had happened to her so far had obviously been pleasant. Her features were finely cut, with a shadow of dissatisfaction at the corners of her mouth. Her white dress had a short skirt, very little back, and not much front. She wore a diamond necklace that looked authentic to Shayne. He didn’t know much about diamonds but he was an expert on girls, and he knew that this one couldn’t be picked up in this kind of bar unless she had been told to by someone with money to spend. So he decided to try.

He swayed in her direction. “People all told me back home that Washington’s a dead town after dark. Dead? It’s putrid.”

She glanced at him coolly, moved her drink a fraction of an inch farther away and went on looking at her watch. But she stayed where she was, though there were half a dozen empty stools farther down.

“You didn’t have the privilege of hearing the singer,” Shayne said loosely. “That was an experience. She got up off her deathbed to fill the engagement. Fascinating, if you like ghoulish entertainment. One number there, ‘Night and Day,’ I was giving three to one she wouldn’t make it all the way through. Rallied in the middle. What’s that in your glass?”

“Creme de menthe,” she said indifferently.

“Creme de what?” he said, almost falling off his stool. “Never heard of it. What’s it taste like?”

Without asking her permission he lurched closer, picked the glass out of her hands and tasted it. He recoiled.

“Say, that’s horrible! That’s the worst drink I ever tasted. I’d rather take cough syrup. Let me buy you something that will stir up your circulation. You’re a good-looking kid except for one thing-you’re too pale.”

“Thanks,” she said with another look at her watch. “I’ll stick with this.”

“Baby, don’t you know when your date has run out on you?” Shayne said. “Or hasn’t it ever happened to you before? He’s been gone fifteen minutes. What did he tell you? He was going to the men’s room? Don’t believe it. He left by the back door.”

She frowned. “Why would he do that?”

“I could name you any number of reasons. I’m more or less in the business myself. Maybe there’s somebody in there he didn’t want to see you together. He’s a married man, right?”

She looked at Shayne fully for the first time. “His wife is in California. Listen, would you be willing to-”

She stopped, frowning again.

“To check the men’s room for you?” Shayne said happily. “Baby, I will do that with the greatest of pleasure.”

He straightened his shoulders. Coming down too hard on his heels, he walked a straight line to the men’s room, where there was a colored attendant but no customers. Checking his appearance in the mirror, Shayne rumpled his hair and loosened the knot of his tie. His eyes were already bloodshot, from a shortage of sleep, not from too much liquor.

“Nobody there but us chickens,” he reported to the girl after returning to the bar. “Bartender! Make mine a double this time, and for the lady-” He looked at her. “Not that goo, for God’s sake.”

“What are you having?”

“Martell’s. The best cognac you can get in a creep joint like this.”

He waved at the bartender. When the drinks came he attacked his thirstily, spilling part of it. The girl didn’t like this, but Shayne no longer doubted that she was following orders.

“Honey, we’ve got to get out of here,” he told her earnestly. “I’m beginning to feel like a mummy, and that’s not what good cognac is supposed to do for you. That singer’s going to come back any minute. There has to be one livelier place than this in town.” He tightened his necktie and said, “Michael Shayne, from Miami, Florida, the greatest little city in the world. I can tell just from looking at you-” he looked at her solemnly “-that you don’t ordinarily take drinks from strangers in bars. But this is an emergency! Washington’s reputation is at stake! You don’t want me to die of boredom, do you? How would that look in the papers?”