Brett Halliday - Guilty as Hell

“We don’t seem to be wanted, Mike,” Rourke said, grinning. “And I thought she’d like to hear about the series we’re running.”

“What series?” Ahlman said, alarmed.

He had sat down, but he was using only the front few inches of his chair, unable to imitate Candida’s ease of manner.

“I’m on the News,” Rourke explained. “We’re working up an expose of industrial-spy outfits that masquerade as executive employment agencies. People are always complaining that I only give one side of the story. I thought I’d give Miss Morse a chance to express her point of view.”

Candida shook her head pityingly. “What a hypocrite you are, after all, Mr. Rourke. I know the kind of hatchet job you’re capable of. I’m certainly not going to offer the back of my neck.”

The waiter appeared and said almost rudely, “Albert had to go out.”

Clark Ahlman stood up. “Candida, this isn’t anything that calls for the police. Let’s simply cancel our dinner order and go somewhere else.”

“They’d come with us, I’m afraid,” she said with a smile. “One of the things a private detective and a newspaper reporter have in common is a thick hide. Let’s assume our evening is over. I’m sorry. You go on, Clark. I’ll call you at the hotel later.”

“Are you sure it’s O.K.?” he asked, itching to leave. “I mean, I wouldn’t want to feel-”

“I’m quite sure. Don’t be concerned about me. I eat private detectives like canapes.”

Picking up a stalk of celery, she bit into it with a quick crunch of her even white teeth. She held out her hand. Ahlman shook it quickly and went off among the tables, turning to glance back at the entrance.

“Farewell, cowardly lion,” Candida said coolly. “Farewell ten-percent commission. When I call his hotel, I’m afraid I’ll be told he’s already checked out. Are you really doing a piece on us, Mr. Rourke?”

“Thinking about it,” he said, grinning. “But Mike’s been telling me that if I do it his way, I could end up with something bigger. He’s usually right.” He flicked a hand at the detective. “That gets rid of the guy, and I’ve got to take off. See you, pal.”

“Sit down,” Candida said. “This is an expense-account evening. I’ll buy you both dinner.”

“You won’t buy me dinner,” Rourke said. “I’m due on the other side of town half an hour ago and theoretically I’m supposed to have a clean shave when I get there.” He looked her over admiringly. “Baby, you’re terrific. I have the feeling I’ll see you again. Don’t let Mike scare you. He’s not as tough as he looks.”

“You’ll join me, won’t you, Mr. Shayne?” she said, giving Shayne a slanting upward look as Rourke walked away. “You can eat Mr. Ahlman’s dinner.”

Shayne moved the table and slid into the unoccupied chair. “What’s he having?”

“Crabmeat thermidor. It’s supposed to be quite good here.”

Albert loomed up at the other side of the table to find out if everything was satisfactory.

“I was told you went out,” Candida said icily.

“For a minute,” Albert told her without embarrassment “Would you care to order dinner, Mr. Shayne?”

“I’m having the crabmeat that’s already ordered,” Shayne said. “Send me a double cognac in a wine glass. Miss Morse, another martini?”

“I’ll wait for the wine.” When they were alone, she said to Shayne, “It would be stupid, wouldn’t it, after all we went through in that Pittsburgh Plate Glass business, not to use our first names?”

Shayne shrugged. “All right with me.”

“I caught a glimpse of Teddy Sparrow in my rearview mirror. I suppose that was your doing?”

“I thought you’d probably spot him.”

“That was the idea, wasn’t it, so I’d know I was being chivvied? We used Teddy for a small job once. Never again. I suppose I can look forward to the pleasure of his company for an indefinite period?”

“The client’s paying for it.”

“And who is your client, Mike?”

“Despard’s. You know that.”

“I suspected as much. Have they lost something valuable?”

Her lips moved at the corners. She was leaning toward him slightly, her eyes alive. A bracelet sparkled as she revolved her martini glass. She had set out to charm him, and she obviously thought it was going to be easy. He decided to remove her smile.

“Walter Langhorne’s dead.”

The smile went. He was looking into her eyes, and he thought the shock there was real.

“Walter.”

“Hallam shot him in the face with a twenty-gauge shotgun at pointblank range.”

The blood drained out of her face. Her eyes rolled upward, which gave her the look of falling forward. Then she actually did fall. He shot an arm in front of her to take her opposite shoulder, catching her before she was too far out of balance. From other parts of the terrace, heads swung toward them. Candida’s blonde hair partially concealed her face.

“Sir? Is anything wrong with the lady?”

It was the waiter, bringing Shayne’s cognac. Still gripping the girl’s shoulder, most of her weight on his forearm, Shayne reached over his own arm and fished an ice cube out of one of the water glasses.

“She’s out cold!” the waiter exclaimed.

“Yeah.”

Shayne pressed the ice against the soft flesh behind the lobe of Candida’s ear. As the ice melted, the cold water ran along her jawline and down her neck. She shivered. When her shoulder tightened under his hand, he let her go.

Her head continued forward a few inches, but she snapped the rest of the way out of her faint before she hit the table. Pushing back her hair, she looked from face to face, ending at Shayne’s. The intelligence was back in her eyes.

“I fainted.” She made it an accusation.

“Yeah, probably for the first time in your life,” he said. “Anybody can see you’re not the swooning type. If that was a fake, it was a good one. More cognac,” he told the waiter. “Two doubles. Here.”

He held the glass to the girl’s bloodless lips. Taking it from him, she drained it in one long pull and breathed out with a cough. Although still pale, she was nearly back to normal.

“You believe in body-punching, don’t you, Mike? That really jarred me. You must know I’ve been seeing Walter, or you wouldn’t have done it that way.”

“It’s almost the only thing I do know,” Shayne said. “Young Hallam told me somebody saw you together at an art auction in Palm Beach. I didn’t think it meant anything. If you’d wanted not to be seen, you could have fixed something.”

“Don’t forget the law of averages, Mike. It’s too small a world.” She drew another long breath. “I’m sorry about Walter.”

“Another lost commission.”

She gave him a straight look and said in a level voice, “There was no question of a commission. He’d already decided to stay where he was. You caught me off balance, but I’m beginning to ask myself a few questions. You wanted to scare me into thinking Hallam shot him because of his meetings with me. I don’t believe it. That was a typical duck-shooting weekend-whiskey and loaded shotguns. It was an accident, of course.”

“Maybe,” Shayne said briefly.

The waiter brought two more cognacs. Candida shook her head when he put one in front of her, and slid it toward Shayne. The detective drank.

He went on, “What were you talking to Langhorne about at that auction-a higher-paying job with some other company, or a new kind of paint? I thought I might find out if I sprung it on you. It hadn’t occurred to me that you might actually like him.”

“I liked him.”

“All right. You’ll hear about it from Begley as soon as he’s sober. The senior Hallam and Langhorne were alone in a two-man shooting blind. Hallam’s a big taxpayer in that part of the world. He knows the sheriff’s first name. I think it’s probably gone in as an accidental shooting. But there are a couple of odds and ends you may want to know about. Langhorne had Scotch for breakfast this morning. If his flask was full when he started out, he drank nearly a pint between four-thirty and seven. The first thing the sheriff was going to do when he got the body to town was get an alcohol count. Hallam said they’d been arguing. If I’d done a little hammering in the first five minutes, I think he would have given it to me word for word. That was another thing I didn’t think was important. He was having second thoughts when we talked later. By that time it didn’t sound much like a shooting argument. What he was really doing was rehearsing his story for the sheriff. When he talked to the sheriff, he probably stepped it down another notch.”