Brett Halliday - Heads You Lose

A concrete driveway led in along the side of the lawn and a polished coupe was parked under the porte cochere. The coupe carried a Washington, D.C. license plate.

Shayne parked behind the car and got out. The bay waters rippled with red and gold and deep purple, reflecting the colorful clouds obscuring the setting sun. A gentle wind from the east splashed the wider waves against a low concrete bulwark, making a musical sound. Palms and Australian pine moved whisperingly, gleaming already in the light of a full moon riding low in the eastern sky.

There was a peaceful feeling of isolation in the protection afforded by the walls sloping down on either side to the edge of the water. Shayne stood for a moment taking in the scene before circling the coupe and making his way to the door.

The exterior of the smaller dwelling was decorated to conform with the old mansions. The massive wooden door looked weatherbeaten, and the heavy wrought-iron knocker was worn.

Shayne knocked twice. The door opened almost immediately and Miss Taylor smiled up at him. She said, “Do come in, Mr. Shayne,” in a welcoming lilt.

He stepped into a low square room with heavy hand-decorated beams overhead. Two ship’s lanterns were suspended from the center beam, wired for electricity, but with dim globes which gave off the yellowish light of kerosene wicks. Bright hand-woven rugs were strategically placed on the polished oak floor, and the furniture was of a simple, massive design. A wide fireplace of native rock was laid with driftwood, and a silver cocktail shaker was gathering frost on the mantel.

Edna Taylor still wore the tailored gray suit she had worn that morning, but her hair was brushed out in soft honey-colored ringlets and she held out a firm hand to Shayne.

“I’m late,” he apologized. “Got tied up with some things at my office.”

“Only five minutes,” she said, glancing at her watch. “If you’d come earlier you’d have caught me with a dirty face.” Her hazel eyes deepened with concern when she spoke of the bruise on his cheek. “Have things been happening to you?”

“Things are always happening to me.” Shayne tossed his hat onto a stiff occasional chair and looked around the room with approval. “You certainly have an attractive place here.”

“It’s no credit to me,” she told him gaily. “It belongs to a friend who couldn’t get down this season. I’m acting in the capacity of caretaker.”

“Nice work.” Shayne gave her a cigarette and took one for himself. She came close to him and he touched a match flame to both.

She said, “Do sit down,” indicating a comfortable chair.

Dropping into a chair close by she shook her head to loosen her curls so that they softened the contour of her face. Stretching her well-formed legs out she said, “Oh… this is nice.”

Shayne grinned. “I like you here better than in an office.”

“Oh, damn the office. And call me Edna. I get so tired of being ‘Miss Taylor, head of our legal department,’” she said, mimicking Brannigan’s tone.

“It’s the price you pay for having brains. You overawe men.”

“I don’t overawe you, do I?” The yellowish light from the ship’s lanterns was soft upon her face as she turned her eyes anxiously toward him.

“Not here,” Shayne assured her.

She put out her half-smoked cigarette and stood up. “I’m glad it’s different here,” she said in a rich contralto. “Excuse me a moment.” She went out of the room with long-limbed graceful strides.

Shayne crushed his cigarette in a brass ashtray, let his head sink back against the cushioned chair, clasped his hands above it and felt relief from the pressure of the bandage.

She returned after a moment, took the shaker from the mantel and poured cocktails into round, hammered copper bowls. She said, “I had just time to shake up some sidecars before you came,” and handed one to him.

Shayne raised bushy brows and said, “Sidecars,” in a tone of pleased surprise.

“They’re your favorite, aren’t they?” She resumed her seat and lifted her bowl from the end table beside her chair.

“I know a lot of things about you, Michael Shayne.” She made three soft syllables of his first name.

“I’m flattered.” He took a sip of the drink.

“You’re not… really,” she charged gaily. “How is it?”

“As good as I ever made,” he declared.

“Meaning that’s the highest accolade?” she laughed.

“If that means what I think it does, you’re right. What else do you know about me?”

“You’re tough and ruthless and mercenary. You solve cases your own way and set your own fees and drive the police department crazy.” She chuckled deep in her throat and her eyes danced.

“Well, what do you know… and I’m just a child at heart,” he muttered.

“You intend that for sarcasm,” she told him quietly, “but it’s true. Your toughness is all on the surface.”

“Am I being psychoanalyzed?”

“It’s my legalistic mind. I spent most of the afternoon reading up on you in old newspaper files.”

“Now, I am flattered,” Shayne said musingly. He emptied his glass and set it on the table beside him.

“You needn’t be. You see, I want something from you and I merely studied the best approach.”

“Your sidecars are a good beginning.”

She got up and brought the shaker, leaned over to refill his bowl. He looked up into her eyes and surprised a faint flush on her cheeks. “I’m not going to deny that I thought they would be.” She set the shaker on the table beside him. The line of her throat was smooth and girlish and her breasts swelled the tailored coat in wholly satisfactory curves.

“Let’s not rush things,” Shayne said. “I’m afraid I’ll say no to your proposition and then you won’t pour any more cocktails and I’ll have to leave and I don’t want to. I haven’t been so relaxed for a long time.”

She went back to her chair, sat down and clasped both hands around one knee which was crossed over the other. “I don’t think you’re going to say no,” she said with deep-toned conviction, “for I’m going to advance a lot of good arguments.”

“You’re strangely direct for a lawyer,” he opinioned.

“That’s because I’ve been studying you. I believe subtleties would irritate you.”

He said, “Clever women frighten me.”

“No… they don’t. That’s just a pose, Michael. You can be as direct as I am.”

“I could if you wouldn’t sit so far away from me.”

She studied him intently for a moment. She sighed and said, “I thought we would be completely businesslike… impersonal.”

“You lie,” Shayne muttered. “You didn’t think that. You weren’t impersonal at the office this morning.”

Her breathing quickened. She did not look at him when she said, “You are a strange man.”

“I’m not,” he contradicted roughly. “We’re alone here. You arranged it that way. You wouldn’t have done that if you expected to keep our discussion impersonal.”

She blushed furiously and lowered her eyes to the copper bowl in her hands. “Now I’m afraid of you.”

“You’re afraid of yourself,” he said gruffly. “Right now you’ve got a tingle inside. You’re afraid of that.”

“Perhaps I am.”

Shayne painfully drew his taped torso erect from his comfortable position, drained his bowl for the second time. “What do you want from me?” he demanded.

She finished her drink before answering, looked levelly at him and said, “I want to talk to you about the Wilson case.”

“Go ahead.”

“How much do you actually know, Michael?”

His nostrils flared. “So you’re a stooge for Brannigan.”

“No. I’ll swear I’m not.”