Brett Halliday: One Night with Nora

The redhead lowered him until his feet touched the floor, but he still held Nash inexorably with his left hand. “That’s just a sample,” he said with frightening calm. “I’ll knock every goddamned tooth down your throat if you don’t start talking.” He shook Nash like a rag doll. “Who paid you to switch keys on Mrs. Carrol?”

Nash’s eyes bulged with fear. His body went limp in Shayne’s grasp and, as he drooled and sputtered wildly, he denied any knowledge of what Shayne was talking about.

Giving up in disgust, the redhead tossed him across the bed where he lay in a heap. “Get into some clothes,” he ordered, stalking into the other room. He found a bottle half full of whisky, took a long drink out of it, then went back to the bedroom. Nash was trying to staunch the nosebleed with the top of his pajamas.

“You can let it bleed,” he told Nash flatly, “or you can get into the bathroom and put cold water on it. I’ll give you five minutes. Then, we’re going to headquarters whether you have any clothes on or not.”

Back in the living-room he took several sheets of the forged letterheads and stuffed them in his pocket, looked at his wrist watch, and was angrily aware of the dull, throbbing pain in his wounded head.

He returned to the bedroom on the second to find Nash wearing a blood-spotted shirt and trousers, and groping on the floor for his socks.

“You’re all right the way you are,” he growled, taking him firmly by the elbow and jerking him erect. He swung the arm up in a half nelson behind his back and shoved him out to the stairway and down to his car at the curb.

Nash huddled in the corner of the front seat, sniffling and choking, while Shayne drove to headquarters.

Parking in the police lot, he yanked Nash out and half carried him in the side entrance and back to Gentry’s office.

Timothy Rourke was with the chief when Shayne kicked the door open and tossed him inside. “There he is, Will. I hope I left him enough teeth to talk with.”

Gentry rolled his rumpled lids up and stared at the bloody, barefoot man. “Who the hell is it?” he thundered.

“ What the hell is it would be more appropriate,” Timothy Rourke said mockingly, and his nostrils flared like a bloodhound on the scent.

“The name is Bill Nash,” Shayne grated. “I had him in my office pinch-hitting for Lucy a couple of months ago. He got smart and tried to grab up all the new cases that came in while I wasn’t around. Bates’s letter was one of them.

“I got everything from him,” he went on grimly, “except the straight about mixing up my room with Carrol’s. Maybe your boys’ technique will be better than mine for that.”

Pulling the forged letterheads from his pocket, he tossed them on Gentry’s desk and started out.

Rourke sprang up and caught his arm. “Look, Mike, give me the dope. What’s new?”

Shayne stopped in his tracks. “Take a look at the forged letterheads I gave Gentry, Tim,” he said thoughtfully. “This is a good chance to clear up the thing on Lucy in the Herald extra. Say she was there in the line of duty, helping me to solve a murder.”

“You mean—”

“I mean that Lucy was trying to get hold of a letter written on one of those letterheads when she broke into Mrs. Carrol’s room.”

Rourke beamed. “A good follow-up after Granger’s confession and suicide. Will do. And don’t forget I’ve got a private date with Lucy.”

“Lucy knows your preference for blondes,” Shayne told him with a crooked grin, “so watch your step.”

Michael Shayne was comfortably relaxed in a deep chair beside the battered oak desk in his apartment. He was expecting a telephone call, and with cognac and ice water at hand, there had been pleasurable anticipation in the two hours of waiting. He had no doubt whatever that the call would come through sooner or later, and was perfectly content to wait.

It was nine o’clock when the phone rang. He lifted the receiver and said, “Hello, Nora.”

A little gasp came over the wire at his greeting. “How on earth did you know it was I?”

“I’ve been expecting your call. We have unfinished business, you know, you and I.”

She said, “Yes,” very quickly and eagerly, then paused for a long moment before continuing rapidly. “Mr. Bates has been telling me everything about the man who pretended he was you and all. And I realize I owe you an apology for having even suspected last night that you had intentionally given me the wrong key to — you know — to get me to come there and—” Her voice trailed off.

“Looking back on it now,” said Shayne pleasantly, “it doesn’t seem such a bad idea.”

Again there was a pause, a brief one. “That is sort of what I’ve been thinking, too,” she said with new warmth.

“Good. If you’re sticking around Miami for a while, why don’t we try it again some night?”

“That is what I wanted to talk about. I’m going back tonight. I’m all packed, and if you’re not doing anything special, I thought I might stop in to apologize in person.”

“I’m not doing anything special,” he assured her in a mellow tone, “except getting up right now to mix us a drink. Sidecars suit you?”

“Oh, yes. A sidecar will be wonderful.”

“You know your way and the room number,” he reminded her. “Don’t be too long.”

“I won’t. Right away.” Her voice held a sensuous lilt.

Shayne hung up, shaking his red head slowly. Women! He marveled. By God, they were wonderful. Talk about resiliency! Here was a dame, whose estranged husband and current lover had both died violent deaths, practically in her arms within the space of twelve hours, making a fast date with a new man whom she had encountered by accident.

Picking up the two glasses in one hand and the cognac bottle in the other, he carried them to the kitchenette where he squeezed a cupful of lemon juice and poured it into a cocktail shaker. He then added an equal amount of Cointreau and two cups of cognac, filled the shaker almost to the top with ice cubes, screwed the lid on, and went back to the living-room shaking it lazily.

He set the shaker on the desk, got two champagne glasses to place beside it, frowned at the arrangement of chairs, and moved his own a little. He then pushed another comfortable chair so that Nora Carrol’s knees would be practically touching his when they were seated. He turned on a floor lamp with indirect lighting, switched off the bright desk lamp, and was giving the sidecars a few extra shakes when he heard high heels coming up the hall. He went to the door and opened it.

Nora Carrol was bareheaded and wore a blue traveling-suit, simple in style, that revealed her curves. Her brown hair was brushed back from her flushed face, and she looked older than when he first saw her. Her dark eyes met his steadily and her lips parted in a diffident smile.

Shayne knew he could kiss her if he wished. This fleeting moment was the one in which the tone of their meeting would be established.

He put out one hand and touched her lightly between the shoulder blades, and a faint pressure brought her a step forward and into the curve of his arm. Her lips were cool and only slightly parted, but she made no attempt to withdraw them from the insistent and increasing pressure of his. She lifted her right hand and trailed finger tips across his cheek.

He released her then, and she stepped away from the circle of his arm at once, lowering her lashes, and saying with sharply indrawn breath, “I didn’t mean that. I don’t know what you’ll think of me.”

Shayne grinned and closed the door. “Exactly what I was thinking before you came,” he assured her. “That you’re pretty damned terrific.” He took her arm and led her to the chair facing his, unscrewed the cap from the frosted shaker, and poured the champagne glasses full. He handed one to her and held the other high. “Here’s to the wrong key,” he said buoyantly, “may you use it often.”