Brett Halliday - Counterfeit Wife

The blonde said, “Dawson?” in a low voice that was almost a whisper, then looked up to ask Gurney, who now stood scowling behind Shayne’s chair, “Any luck?”

He didn’t reply, and Shayne imagined he must have shaken his head, for Mrs. Dawson said sharply, “Go on back and keep trying.”

Gurney stepped around to face Shayne, the scowl still on his face. “That’s my chair,” he snapped.

“Scram,” said the blonde. “He’s buying me a drink.”

Shayne looked up at Gurney and saw no flicker of recognition in his sunken eyes. The man’s lips curled back from his yellowed teeth. He hesitated for a moment, then turned and went slowly back to the telephone booth.

Shayne said, “He minds well.”

She leaned toward him and asked earnestly, “Did you say Dawson sent you?”

“What makes you think he’d do that?” countered Shayne.

The lazy waiter with the greasy hair came up and stood beside the table. Shayne still had a little brandy in his snifter. He said, “I’m buying the lady a drink.”

When the waiter went away, she asked, “What do you know about Dawson? Where is the little bastard?”

Shayne said, “Let’s dance. You’ll quit worrying about him that way.”

“You go to hell,” she said thickly.

Shayne pushed his chair back and stood up with a mocking grin. “Come on, if you can still stand up.”

She put one hand on the table and rose slowly, stood for a moment to get her balance. Shayne put his long arm around her, and they moved together onto the little dance square.

There was a clean, animal smell about her, like the odor of a young calf after it has been bathed by its mother’s tongue. Her body was supple and yielding and she danced as she had walked, with a deliberate carefulness and measured rhythm. Her full red mouth, smeared at the corners, was just below his chin.

“You can give it to me straight,” she told him in a low voice that was slightly guttural.

“Hell,” said Shayne, “I thought you’d be corseted up to the hilt.” His tone was one of surprise and admiration. His knobby fingers tightened on the hard flesh at her waistline.

“I don’t wear any of that tight stuff women bind themselves up in. What about Dawson?”

“Why worry about a shrimp like him when you’re dancing with a man?”

The record ended abruptly. They were close to their table. She pushed him away from her and sat down. The waiter was standing by with a tray containing a double shot of gin, a bottle of beer, and a goblet of ice cubes. Shayne sat down and said, “Why don’t you put the lady’s drink on the table?”

“Was goin’ to,” he stammered in broken English, “w’en you pay for one you have.” Shayne looked at him in astonishment, and the man said quickly, “Don’ get sore me, mister. Thees house order. We not allow serva two drink till first one pay for.”

Shayne repressed his first impulse toward anger as he realized the punk was merely stating a house rule. He took out his wallet. “Give it to her and bring me another cognac. You can take it all out of this.” He extracted one of the bills Dawson had given him and laid it on the table. “A double shot of Hennessy in a plain glass and ice water on the side.” He drained the snifter bowl and shoved it toward the waiter.

The man picked up the bill and started away. He turned back, his forehead creased and his black eyes narrowed on the rumpled bill. “This a hunner-dolla bill,” he said excitedly, pointing to the figure in the corner of the bank note. “You mean givva me thees?”

Shayne said, “It’s the smallest I have.”

The waiter looked from the bill to Shayne, his eyes filled with doubt. “You sure you gotta no leetle money?”

“I told you I didn’t have.”

The waiter shook his head and said finally, “I must take to office.”

“Get that cognac before you go,” Shayne ordered.

The waiter thought that over and evidently decided it was a reasonable request. He nodded and went to the bar, brought the drink back to the table, then crossed the room and knocked on a closed door on the other side of the room.

Mrs. Dawson mixed and stirred her fresh drink, then said, “I’m plenty worried about him and I guess you know why.”

Shayne grinned and said, “You must at least wear a brassiere.”

Her eyes glittered. “When this business is over-”

“Boss say you see him in office,” the waiter interrupted, his frightened eyes staring at Shayne.

“What the hell? Isn’t there a hundred dollars in change in this dump?”

“Tony not know,” he answered, jabbing a forefinger against his chest to indicate that he was Tony. “Boss say you see him.” He pointed nervously toward the office door.

Shayne picked up his glass of cognac and went across to the door, which stood slightly ajar, pulled it open and went in.

A square-faced man faced him across a bare desk. The office was small, with a bright unshaded globe suspended from the ceiling. The room was shabby and dirty, with two cane-bottomed chairs placed in front of the desk.

The square-faced man had large ears that protruded at a sharp angle from his head, and a large vise-like mouth. He wore a cream-colored shirt opened at the first button, revealing a thick, ruddy neck. He waited until the detective advanced close to the desk before asking, “Mind telling me where you got hold of this bill?” His voice was rasping, but not particularly unfriendly.

Shayne frowned and took a drink from his glass before setting it on the desk. He sat down on one of the chairs and asked, “Why? Isn’t it any good?”

“I’m asking you,” said the proprietor of the Fun Club patiently, “where you got it.”

“I don’t think it’s any of your damned business.”

“I’m making it my business.” The square-faced man’s voice remained rasping, yet not particularly unfriendly but colder, and he spoke more deliberately.

Shayne shrugged and admitted, “Printed it last night myself. Thought I did a pretty good job.”

“It is a good job, pal. One hell of a sweet job. You’ll save yourself a lot of trouble by telling me where you got it.”

Shayne emptied his cognac glass and set it down with a thump. “I don’t see why you’re playing puzzles, but I’m tired of it. I cashed a check at the bank this afternoon.”

“The bank didn’t give you this bill.”

“I say it did.”

“The cops won’t believe you, pal.”

“Why don’t you call them and we’ll see?”

“I think I’ll do that little thing.” There was a smirk on his thick lips and his slate-gray eyes stared coldly at Shayne. He picked up the desk telephone with a square left hand, laid it down and dialed a number with the first blunt finger of that hand. His right hand slid from the desk into his lap.

Shayne’s eyes narrowed at him. “You didn’t dial police headquarters. The number is-”

“I know what number I’m calling, pal. Just sit tight where you are.”

The muzzle of a. 45 inched up over the edge of the desk and rested there, leveled at Shayne’s mid-section. The square-faced man lifted the telephone with his left hand and said, “Perry? Put the big shot on.”

Shayne sat very still with his hands folded in front of him. He wondered if the big blonde in the outer room had finished her drink.

He studied the bill lying on the desk between them, then reached out and picked it up by one corner. The proprietor watched him with no change of expression, the gun steady in his square right hand.

Shayne studied the bank note carefully, frowning and turning it over in his hands. It looked genuine enough to him, though he wasn’t an expert. He said so, and the man across the desk grunted something unintelligible.