Brett Halliday - The Private Practice of Michael Shayne

“See here, now-it isn’t necessary for you to be so upset. We’re all good friends, eh, Shayne? Suppose we all have a drink and convince the young lady the future isn’t nearly so black as she thinks.”

Shayne shrugged. Matters were wholly out of his control, but Helen was certainly playing up superbly. And Thomas was reacting to her histrionics just as he had expected him to. If Phyllis would only let things ride.

But Phyllis had no intention of letting things ride. She pushed past the detective to get in front of Thomas and Helen, telling him coldly, “You’ve taken the wrong cue, Elliot. It’s you and I who should clear out and leave Mr. Shayne and this dewy-eyed damsel to play their game of parlor-bedroom-and-bath.”

She put her hand persuasively on Elliot’s free arm and glared at Shayne.

He glared back at her, then muttered, “It isn’t such good taste, Thomas, to take advantage of my present condition and try to steal my date.”

“I have something to say about it,” Helen put in, “and I’m not at all sure I’m sorry things happened this way,” with an arch and big-eyed smile up at Thomas.

His chest swelled under her flattery. “There you are, Shayne.” He spoke in a man-to-man fashion. “Suppose we let Miss-ah-?”

“Just call me Helen.”

“Suppose we let Helen decide for herself.” His soft fingers pressed her arm warmly.

Shayne managed to get a crestfallen look on his face, then shrugged wide shoulders.

“That’s all right with me,” he stated flatly. “After all, I didn’t know the shape I was going to be in when I dated Helen. I’ll get some glasses and we’ll have that drink.” He went into the kitchen. Elliot Thomas was murmuring in Helen’s ear, and Phyllis jerked her hand from his arm, stalked across the room and dropped into an armchair. The spots of color had gone from her cheeks, leaving her white and drawn and a little frightened. Her lips were clamped tightly, and when Michael Shayne re-entered the room her eyes followed him with an expression of stricken doubt.

Shayne poured four drinks while Thomas officiously drew up a chair and seated Helen in it with a gallant gesture. She accepted the cognac with prim protestation.

“I usually drink champagne. This is stronger, isn’t it? Do you think I should?” She pouted at Thomas who hovered over her.

“It’s a bit strong, but it won’t hurt you,” he urged. “Just take a sip and then a quick drink of water.”

Shayne turned his back on them with a glass in each big hand. He crossed to Phyllis, his bandaged face set in grim lines. He leaned over and pressed a glass into her hand muttering, “Play up for my sake, Angel. It’s damned important.”

She accepted the glass listlessly. At the table, Helen giggled and Elliot Thomas encouraged her to take another sip.

Phyllis lifted the glass to her lips and tipped it up. Three ounces of hundred-proof liquor brought tears to her eyes and washed away the stricken look.

She looked past Shayne at the other couple, then said briskly, “You seem to be losing your sex appeal, mister. You shouldn’t have made that gal stay in your bedroom so long alone. She’s evidently not as patient as I was that night-”

Standing in front of her with his back to the others, Shayne shook his head.

“Shut up, Angel. I tell you this is-”

“You’ve already told me too many lies.” Phyllis’s voice throbbed with hurt. “I know I’m a damn fool to have expected anything different from you. If I’d used my head I would have known why you were so anxious to get rid of me when I first came.”

Shayne’s right fist doubled into a knot and corded muscles stood out on his lean jaw.

“Before God,” he muttered thickly, “I’ve never hit a woman. But-”

“Go on.”

Phyllis kept her voice as low as his in an attempt to keep the others from overhearing. Her eyes were dilated with lids drawn far back. Tears formed in them, rolled down her cheeks, and she didn’t try to blink them away.

“Beat me,” she whispered intensely. “Why don’t you go ahead? You couldn’t hurt me any worse. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters-very much-any more.” Shayne’s big fists unclasped spasmodically. He stood before her on wide-spread feet and watched the tears trickle silently down her cheeks.

He felt like hell.

“Look at my face, Angel.” He formed each word distinctly. “Can’t you see I’m not in any condition to be playing indoor games? Don’t be as dumb as Thomas. You’re spoiling everything.”

Phyllis peered around him. Thomas and Helen were engrossed with each other.

“It’s already-spoiled,” she whispered.

Shayne bent down and put his hands on the arms of her chair. His face was a foot from hers.

“It isn’t spoiled, Phil. You know it isn’t.”

Her eyes were somnambulistic. Her lips moved and the words kept pace with the tears which ran down her cheeks.

“I love you and I despise myself for saying it. Any woman would be a fool to love you.”

“Angel.”

“I won’t listen to you. Not ever again. I won’t torture myself that way. Can’t you see it would be torture, Michael? There’d always be women like her popping out of your bedroom. I couldn’t stand that. I couldn’t stand having you lie to me-telling me you had to make love to them to break a case. I believed that-once.”

“You’re going to believe it again, Angel.” Sweat stood on Shayne’s face between the bandages. “Let them go away from here together. I planned it for them to meet this way.”

He leaned closer and his bruised lips touched her hair. He drew himself back so his face was inches from hers.

A tremor went through her taut body.

“I wish I could believe you. If you’d only stop treating me like a child.”

He said, “I love you,” and there was a long silence between them.

Giggles and softly murmured words came to them from Helen and Thomas across the room. The tears were dry on Phyllis’s face. Her eyes were warmly luminous. Shayne’s lips scarcely moved as he explained:

“Helen is the wife of my best friend. She’s fighting right now for his life-and mine. You should have figured that out. If you’re going to marry a detective you’ll have to learn to keep your mouth shut and your eyes open.”

“Am I-going to marry a detective?”

“God knows.” He shook his head soberly. “It’s a fate worse than death and I’ve tried to save you from it. If you refuse to be saved, Angel-”

Phyllis’s lips were parted and her breath came unevenly.

“This isn’t a joke to me, Michael.”

“Do you think it is with me?”

Her hands came up slowly and locked behind his head. She pulled his face to her and moist parted lips were warmly upon his.

It was a long time before he straightened up, and Phyllis came up with him. They turned together to see Elliot Thomas’s arm around Helen’s waist.

They drew apart in embarrassment when Phyllis and Shayne moved toward them. Thomas started some explanation, but Shayne stopped it with a genial wave.

“Don’t bother, Thomas. You seem to have beaten my time, and I’m no dog-in-the-manger. Lord knows, I don’t feel quite up to Helen’s ideas tonight. When we planned this party I didn’t know I was going to get myself beaten to a pulp this evening. Suppose you pinch-hit for me and show her a big time?”

“Well, I-of course-”

“Why not take her out to your yacht and pour a few bottles of champagne down her? Helen dotes on champagne. Miss Brighton is about my speed tonight the way I feel.”

“Yes-I-well-”

“Did he say a yacht?” Helen beamed upon the millionaire with wonder and eagerness.

Thomas made a deprecatory gesture and laughed.