that Phyllis would not have deserted the Irishman.
He caught a waiter’s eye and beckoned. “Where besides the bar could a man buy a drink without a tux or tails?”
“There’s a garden terrace,” the waiter suggested. “You can go through the rear door there and down the hallway.”
Shayne found a small terrace roofed by stars and dimly lit by a few bulbs strung on wires. It was comparatively quiet in contrast to the din in the night club and barroom, with a dozen or more couples in informal dress seated at the small tables.
He caught the familiar sound of lilting laughter across the patio and strode toward it. Phyllis turned a flushed face and sparkling eyes toward him when he stopped beside her chair. Her dark, head was snuggled against the turned-up collar of her white fur chubby and she was disconcertingly lovely in the dim light.
“Pat has been entertaining me with some of the adventures you and he had together while you were with the World-Wide Agency in New York. You’re interrupting the one about the nude corpse in the penthouse bathtub.” She reached up and caught his knobby fingers before they hopelessly mussed her hair.
“That story,” said Shayne severely, “can stand a lot of interrupting.” He sighed and dropped into a chair, crooked his finger at a hurrying waiter. “A double Martel Cognac.”
Phyllis put a cool hand on his wrist. “Have you found Nora Carson?”
“No. She must have ridden a broomstick out the hotel window. I can’t find a trace of her since she was in her room.”
“Maybe she disguised herself to hide from you,” Casey suggested, his round eyes owlish.
Phyllis laughed and wrinkled her nose at Casey, then asked, “Hasn’t anybody seen her? Can’t you find out anything, Mike?”
Shayne’s drink came and he downed half of it. “I’m at a dead end,” he confessed. “I’m off my beat in this country. Hell, she may be on the other side of the Continental Divide by now.” He settled back and morosely sipped his cognac.
Phyllis patted his arm. “You’ll find her. You always do.” Then, she giggled. “There comes that Moore woman again with the man whose Indian blankets you insulted this afternoon. I believe she has made a conquest.”
“Or he has,” Shayne amended drily. He told Casey, “That’s the fellow Bryant got me in trouble with today. Jasper Windrow. Two-Deck tried to fix it so the two of us would tangle—and I fell for it.”
Pat Casey craned his short neck around to look at Celia Moore’s escort. He pursed his lips into an appreciative whistle. “’Twould have been some tangle, I’m thinking, if yon piano mover had tied into you. By the looks of him he was nurtured on the milk of a wild ass and cut his teeth on a manhole cover.”
Shayne shrugged and rumpled his red hair irritably. “Yet he clerks behind a ribbon counter,” he burst out. “I’m a total loss out here. Now, take Two-Deck Bryant—”
“You take him,” Casey muttered.
“I know what makes a guy like Bryant tick,” Shayne went on. “And the members of the opera cast—they’re human beings, too. You can figure how one of them will react, but these Westerners are a different breed. Take an old guy who is half nuts. He goes out and locates a million dollar mine. Windrow looks as though he could tear a mountain apart with his bare hands, and he’s a storekeeper. You’d take the sheriff for a retired minister, and I just saw him take a gun from a burly drunk as easily as you or I would take candy from a baby’s hands. These people don’t make sense. You don’t know where you stand.”
“It’s such an isolated community,” Phyllis argued.
“By God, the city people aren’t much different here than in any other city,” Shayne snorted. “Look at Mrs. Mattson. She’s a cultured dame with all the earmarks of respectability. But scratch the surface and you’ll find a primitive female.”
“Who on earth is Mrs. Mattson?” Phyllis demanded.
“She’s an
He caught a waiter’s eye and beckoned. “Where besides the bar could a man buy a drink without a tux or tails?”
“There’s a garden terrace,” the waiter suggested. “You can go through the rear door there and down the hallway.”
Shayne found a small terrace roofed by stars and dimly lit by a few bulbs strung on wires. It was comparatively quiet in contrast to the din in the night club and barroom, with a dozen or more couples in informal dress seated at the small tables.
He caught the familiar sound of lilting laughter across the patio and strode toward it. Phyllis turned a flushed face and sparkling eyes toward him when he stopped beside her chair. Her dark, head was snuggled against the turned-up collar of her white fur chubby and she was disconcertingly lovely in the dim light.
“Pat has been entertaining me with some of the adventures you and he had together while you were with the World-Wide Agency in New York. You’re interrupting the one about the nude corpse in the penthouse bathtub.” She reached up and caught his knobby fingers before they hopelessly mussed her hair.
“That story,” said Shayne severely, “can stand a lot of interrupting.” He sighed and dropped into a chair, crooked his finger at a hurrying waiter. “A double Martel Cognac.”
Phyllis put a cool hand on his wrist. “Have you found Nora Carson?”
“No. She must have ridden a broomstick out the hotel window. I can’t find a trace of her since she was in her room.”
“Maybe she disguised herself to hide from you,” Casey suggested, his round eyes owlish.
Phyllis laughed and wrinkled her nose at Casey, then asked, “Hasn’t anybody seen her? Can’t you find out anything, Mike?”
Shayne’s drink came and he downed half of it. “I’m at a dead end,” he confessed. “I’m off my beat in this country. Hell, she may be on the other side of the Continental Divide by now.” He settled back and morosely sipped his cognac.
Phyllis patted his arm. “You’ll find her. You always do.” Then, she giggled. “There comes that Moore woman again with the man whose Indian blankets you insulted this afternoon. I believe she has made a conquest.”
“Or he has,” Shayne amended drily. He told Casey, “That’s the fellow Bryant got me in trouble with today. Jasper Windrow. Two-Deck tried to fix it so the two of us would tangle—and I fell for it.”
Pat Casey craned his short neck around to look at Celia Moore’s escort. He pursed his lips into an appreciative whistle. “’Twould have been some tangle, I’m thinking, if yon piano mover had tied into you. By the looks of him he was nurtured on the milk of a wild ass and cut his teeth on a manhole cover.”
Shayne shrugged and rumpled his red hair irritably. “Yet he clerks behind a ribbon counter,” he burst out. “I’m a total loss out here. Now, take Two-Deck Bryant—”
“You take him,” Casey muttered.
“I know what makes a guy like Bryant tick,” Shayne went on. “And the members of the opera cast—they’re human beings, too. You can figure how one of them will react, but these Westerners are a different breed. Take an old guy who is half nuts. He goes out and locates a million dollar mine. Windrow looks as though he could tear a mountain apart with his bare hands, and he’s a storekeeper. You’d take the sheriff for a retired minister, and I just saw him take a gun from a burly drunk as easily as you or I would take candy from a baby’s hands. These people don’t make sense. You don’t know where you stand.”
“It’s such an isolated community,” Phyllis argued.
“By God, the city people aren’t much different here than in any other city,” Shayne snorted. “Look at Mrs. Mattson. She’s a cultured dame with all the earmarks of respectability. But scratch the surface and you’ll find a primitive female.”
“Who on earth is Mrs. Mattson?” Phyllis demanded.
“She’s an
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