Brett Halliday - The Private Practice of Michael Shayne

His voice was lightly mocking but his eyes desperately tried to signal her to watch her step.

She didn’t notice his eyes because she was just getting a good look at his bandaged face.

She gasped, “What-what happened to you?”

Thomas was standing undecidedly in front of the open door. Shayne got in front of him, answering Phyllis, “This is just routine in the sleuthing trade.”

He put his hands on her shoulders, digging his fingers in, closing one eye in a slow wink.

Phyllis got things fast, he told himself with satisfaction. She grew tense, waiting for a further cue, which he tossed her by saying hastily, “Mr. Thomas was insisting on leaving when you came, Phyllis. Perhaps your charms will have more effect than mine. I hate to have my hospitality flouted the way he was about to do.”

Gathering that Shayne had an important reason for wishing to detain the millionaire, the girl went past the detective and held out both her hands to Thomas.

“I’m still all knocked in a heap by the unexpectedness of seeing you again-and here,” she told him gaily. “I had no idea you and Mike were acquainted.”

“A matter of business,” Thomas said. He reached for her hands gingerly. “As Mr. Shayne explained, I was on the point of leaving.”

“Oh, but you mustn’t run away just because I’ve come.” Phyllis linked an arm in his and led him toward the table. “I’m just dying for a drink and Mike has the best drinks.”

Thomas grunted, “Indeed?” permitting himself to be drawn from the door. He made it quite evident that as a connoisseur of liquor Phyllis had dropped several degrees in his estimation.

Shayne followed them, grinning at Phyllis to encourage her to continue her tactics. He explained genially to Thomas, “You would have Scotch, you know. I never drink the stuff myself so I economize by buying the cheapest I can get. But I’ve got some cognac here that’ll take the bad taste out of your mouth.”

Phyllis was still clinging tightly to Thomas’s arm, and he couldn’t graciously refuse the glass of cognac which Shayne pressed on him.

Fully conscious of the restraint between them, but not understanding it, she sipped her drink, eyes speculatively fixed on Shayne’s face, not quite sure whether he wanted her to stay or go away.

Shayne tossed his glassful of cognac off swiftly, contriving a plan to get her out of the room for a moment to speak to her privately. He thumped his glass down and said in an elaborately casual tone, “I suppose you dropped in to pick up that recipe for champagne punch I was telling you about the other night? It’s in the kitchen somewhere. Come on out and help me hunt it-if you’ll excuse us for a moment, Thomas,” he added politely.

Phyllis said, “Oh, yes, I’m dying to try that punch at a party I’m having tomorrow,” unlinked her arm from Thomas’s with a little pat, and followed the detective toward the kitchen.

Inside the door, Shayne grabbed her arm and talked low and emphatically, “Make this an excuse to beat it, Angel. And don’t let him go out with you. I’ve got to keep him here a few minutes. It’s damned important.”

“You’re cooking up something,” she whispered tensely. “Can’t I stay?”

“You cannot. Some other time when-when I don’t have so much company.” He smiled down on her, then raised his voice to add, “Oh, here’s the recipe. Stick it in your purse.”

He took her arm and led her back to the living-room. The bathroom door was just closing behind Elliot Thomas with a little slam.

Shayne’s fingers tightened on Phyllis’s arm as he took in the situation and started rushing her toward the front door.

“Here’s your chance to beat it without having him insist on going with you,” he panted. “I’ll tell him you had to rush off to keep an engagement.”

“Well,” she objected with a grin, “even so, you don’t have to throw me out bodily, do you?”

She stopped suddenly, turned to stare at the bedroom door, which had opened to frame Helen Kincaid on the threshold. Phyllis and Helen looked from Shayne to each other, and back to Shayne, bewildered.

Shayne stepped back, mopping sweat from his brow. He said, “Look, Angel. Don’t get any silly ideas. This isn’t what you think. Be sweet and get the hell out.” Phyllis laughed thinly, an angry flush crawling into her cheeks, disdainful eyes taking in the alluring figure of Helen Kincaid.

“So, that’s why you were giving me the bum’s rush!” she exclaimed. “I might have guessed. Oh, I hate you, Michael Shayne.”

He groaned.

“Not so loud, damn it. This is business.”

“Yes. I know. Monkey business. The sort you’re so good at. I suppose you’re going to tell me that isn’t a bedroom and that woman isn’t-”

Shayne lunged forward and pressed a hard palm over her mouth.

“Don’t be a fool,” he grated. “I’ll explain later.”

Helen had advanced a few steps into the room hesitantly. She was staring with round eyes at the scene in the doorway, too bewildered to say anything.

It was inevitable for Elliot Thomas to choose that precise moment to step out of the bathroom. His expression of complacent self-approval changed into one of consternation when he saw Shayne holding the squirming figure of Phyllis with one hand on her shoulder and the other pressed tightly on her mouth.

Shayne laughed hollowly and released Phyllis with a little push.

“Go on,” he said savagely. “Start screaming. I don’t care.”

He gave a shrug of resignation and walked to the table to pour himself a badly needed drink.

Thomas stepped forward, frowning, stopped short when he caught sight of Helen Kincaid. His jaw dropped laxly and he goggled at her.

“Don’t be surprised at anything that happens here,” Phyllis advised him acidly. “Mr. Shayne has his own peculiar detecting methods. He uses his bedroom for third degrees. I think you and I had better go, Elliot. Mr. Shayne does his best work in privacy.”

Helen Kincaid had not yet uttered a word. She stood quietly looking from one to another of the trio, trying desperately to get the hang of what was going on. She darted a sharp look at Thomas when Phyllis called him by his first name, realizing that he was the man Shayne wanted her to vamp. Without the slightest idea who Phyllis was or what she was doing in Shayne’s apartment, she took almost instant advantage of her presence to rail out at Shayne, “So, that’s why you pushed me off into the bedroom.-Because this-this hussy was coming.”

With her coral wrap over one arm she advanced toward the detective with her lips curling. “I suppose our little party is all off?” She swayed her hips when passing Thomas, holding her chin lifted to give her neck and throat a smooth and alluring line.

A predatory gleam came into Elliot Thomas’s eyes as he observed her covertly. He cleared his throat, smoothed his vest, and took a step forward.

“It seems to me you might introduce your charming guest, Mr. Shayne.”

Helen turned her head to regard him shyly.

“Oh, no,” she faltered. “I–I’d much rather no one knew my name. When I accepted Michael’s invitation,” she went on in pretty confusion, “I didn’t know there were going to be other-people-”

Phyllis was openly staring at Helen with speculative antagonism. Two red spots glowed high on her cheeks. She broke in rudely, “You must not know Michael Shayne very well if you expected him to be satisfied with just you for an entire evening.”

“Well, I–I don’t,” Helen admitted uncertainly. “But I certainly didn’t come here to be insulted.” She tossed her head. “And now if you’ll excuse me She started toward the door, but Thomas moved briskly in her path. He took her arm with a fatuous assumption of paternalism.