Brett Halliday: The blonde cried murder

She told Archie that. Then her eyes rounded and she turned to say, "Archie wants to know if you're the guy that was chasing her. That she was so scared of."

"Good God, no," he exclaimed impatiently. "I tell you she's my sister. That man chasing her-he's the one I'm afraid of. Tell the driver she's in danger and I must get to her before it's too late."

She gave Archie this answer over the microphone and listened again. Then she reached out and tweaked the ten-dollar bill from his hand and told him:

"Archie says he guesses it don't matter much either way whether you are the guy or not. Because he took her to see Michael Shayne, and if you feel like tangling with that redhead, he'd like to be around to see it."

"Michael Shayne? Who's he?"

"You must be a stranger here, Mister. He's that private eye that's always getting write-ups in the papers."

"A private detective?" The man bit his underlip nervously, then said, "Well, she's probably safe enough then, but I'd still like to see her. Did this Archie say where Shayne is?"

"Yeh." She gave him the address of the hotel Archie had relayed to her. He muttered, "Thanks-a lot," and ran out of the office to his car.

There was a faint moon overhead and the night air of early autumn had a sensuously somnolent feel about it. There was a strongly lingering warmth from the earth after the heat of the day's sun, rising to mingle languidly with a faint inshore breeze from the Atlantic.

Driving southward at a moderate pace on the right-hand lane of Biscayne Boulevard as it entered the city, Michael Shayne glanced sideways and downward, approvingly, at the brown head of Lucy Hamilton pressed lightly against the shoulder of his white linen jacket.

He was bare-headed, and his coarse red hair was ruffled pleasantly by the night breeze. His big hands were loosely on the wheel and a feeling of contentment and relaxation gripped him.

This was the really good time of the year in Miami, he reflected. The worst heat of the summer had passed, yet the vanguard of sun-seekers from the North had not yet arrived to take over the Magic City. He hadn't a single case in his files, and probably wouldn't have for a month or more-until the quick-money boys and the suckers arrived in droves and his particular talents would become much in demand.

Lucy rubbed her cheek unashamedly against his right bicep, and said in a muffled voice, "Wake me when we get home, Michael. I'm afraid that last glass of champagne knocked me for a loop."

He chuckled indulgently. "I like you when you're looped, angel."

"What a horrible thing to say." She lifted her head momentarily in order to be properly indignant, and then snuggled it back again.

"Not at all," he protested cheerfully. "You sort of take your hair down and forget about being the prim and proper secretary."

"As if I were ever that," she scoffed,

"Of course you are. You never make a semblance of a pass at me during office hours. I have to take you out, buy you an expensive dinner and ply you with Pol Roger before you act properly human."

"Pol Roger? You know darned well that champagne came from California."

"Anyhow, it looped you. And we'll be home pretty soon and I'm going to take advantage of your condition and kiss you."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why bother?" Her voice remained muffled and sleepy, but an underlying note of intensity crept into it.

"Why bother kissing you?" he asked in perplexity.

"Exactly."

He drove on down the Boulevard, maintaining the same steady, relaxed pace, as he pondered her question and his reply. Basically, he knew what she meant. And it was difficult to find an intelligent answer to her question. Because he liked kissing her, of course. But that wasn't enough. Not enough to really answer the question she had posed.

What she was really asking was-where did it get them?

And the only honest answer to that was-nowhere, really. She didn't ask that sort of question often. Mostly, she seemed perfectly content with "things as they were." To drift along through the days as a cheerful and most efficient secretary in his office-to accept without question as many evenings like this as he could contrive for her (or wanted to contrive for her).

He stirred uneasily and lifted one hand in an unconscious gesture to tug at the lobe of his ear. Very quietly, he asked, "Would you change things if you could, Lucy?"

She sat up then, and moved slightly away from him as though this tack in the discussion required a little more formality between them. "I don't know." Her voice was grave and honestly dubious. "I just don't know, Michael."

They were below 79th Street now, rapidly approaching the side street that led to her apartment.

He turned his head briefly to study her profile in the street lights, and she met his gaze intently. For a moment there was a queer sense of strain between them. He broke it by turning his attention back to driving and saying lightly:

"Maybe time has caught up with us, angel. I feel this is a matter for serious discussion over a drink. Any cognac at your place?"

"You know there is. Whatever was left in the bottle the last time you were there."

"I never feel sure. Can't get it out of my thick head that one of these days you'll start feeding some other guy the stuff."

"Maybe I will. One of these days."

He slowed, approaching her comer, slanting over into the left-hand lane, gauging approaching trafi amp;c to cut through it without coming to a full stop.

Neither of them said anything more until he drew up to the curb in front of her apartment building and got out. He went around to open the door for her, took her elbow to help her out, then put his other hand under her other elbow and held her a moment looking down into her lightly flushed face. She made no move to push closer or to draw back. She stood quiescent, waiting.

His fingers tightened on the soft flesh of her arms and his voice was unaccountably husky as he said, "Lucy?" i

She said, 'Tes, Michael?"

He bent to brush his lips across her forehead just below the tendrils of brown hair, then turned to tuck her arm into his and led her toward the entrance.

There was a small foyer, and Lucy unlocked the inner door with a key from her purse. He held the door for her to precede him inside and up the single flight of stairs. Following her closely, Michael Shayne's red head remained level with her slender waist.

There is something peculiarly intimate, he thought fleetingly, about a man following a woman up a flight of stairs. Something almost decisive about it. As though, somehow, a die had been irrevocably cast It was a crazy thought and he tried to brush it aside. He had often followed Lucy up these same stairs for a night-cap after spending a pleasant evening together. But unaccountably it was different tonight, and he felt a surge of gladness within him that it was different.

She turned aside at the first landing to unlock her apartment door. He waited silently until she turned on the light, and then followed her inside. She wore a semi-evening gown of very dark blue silk that had a sort of glitter to it. It was perfectly simple, cut low in front and back and with narrow straps over the shoulders that left a good portion of creamy flesh bare.

He watched her speculatively as she crossed the long pleasant room toward the kitchenette, saying over her shoulder with a faint smile, "Make yourself comfortable while I get out the makings."

It was easy to make oneself comfortable here, he conceded as he dropped into a deep chair beside the sofa and lit a cigarette. The room was uncluttered, but nicely and intelligently furnished.

He stretched his long legs in front of him, leaned his head back and closed his eyes and let smoke come out through both nostrils.