drink.”
After a moment the man relaxed. “I’m getting hard to get along with. Either I put a rag on my head or I don’t work here. The rest of it I don’t mind, except this goddamn earring. Toward the end of an evening I have to take plenty of cracks.”
“Anyway,” Shayne said, “they didn’t make you cut off one leg.”
The bartender wasn’t amused. He poured himself a double jigger of rum, saluted Shayne with it, and knocked it back.
Shayne ordered another drink. A party of American vacationers came in, and things began to pick up. The orchestra played another number, with better spirit, enticing two couples out on the floor. Then the drummer, a strapping native in a straw hat and a red shirt, beat out an intricate rhythm, and a dancer ran out from behind the orchestra, wearing a ruffled dress split to the waist, with a brief ruffled top.
When the performance was over, Shayne found that a girl had slid onto the next stool but one. She was dark and slender, with short tumbled hair, and was wearing a revealing white evening gown. She lit a long cigarette.
“I will have a glass of light rum, Al,” she said to the bartender, in an accent Shayne couldn’t place.
“Why not have it with me?” he suggested.
She breathed out a mouthful of smoke, and only then looked at Shayne coolly. “That is nice of you, but I am afraid I must say no.”
“I won’t bite you,” Shayne said. “What’s that nice pronunciation? Are you French?”
He took out his money-clip, squinting to keep the smoke out of his eyes, and when both the girl and the bartender had seen how much money he was carrying, he flipped a pound note onto the bar. Al picked it up and looked at her. She moved her shoulders in a slight shrug.
“Very well, if you wish. Yes, I am French. An unhappy Parisienne, at present far from the boulevards. You are American, Mr.—?”
“Michael Shayne. Sure. What brings you to St. Albans?”
“Ah, that is a long story. Not a very interesting one, I am afraid. I am an artist, you see. No,” she said, as Shayne looked at her questioningly, “not an artist with paint and brush. A dancer. I started off with a group to perform in the South American capitals and later, perhaps, if all went well, in your own country. A supper room in the exciting hotels in New York? Hollywood? Television? Such are the dreams of foolish people. Thank you, Al.”
She took the glass of rum and lifted it, without drinking. “And of course, being entertainers from the sinful city of Paris, we are expected to perform—” she made a brief gesture—“in costumes too small to be seen by the naked eye. Very well. One is realistic. Then the pig of a manager took it into his head to vanish with the leading dancer, and what is worse, the money we are owed for three weeks. Engagements cancelled. Voila—we are marooned on this island. The owner here wishes some different entertainment than the other places, so I have a job. For how long I do not know.”
She smiled. “You are not listening. I know, it is a tragedy only to me.”
“Sure I’m listening,” Shayne said. “Let’s take our drinks to a table. Hit me again, Al.”
He moved his glass toward the bartender, who filled it. Shayne picked up the three glasses, including the girl’s. She hesitated, then repeated her slight shrug and followed him to a corner table in the other room. As she sat down she said, “But there is one thing I should make clear.”
“I’m ahead of you,” Shayne said, interrupting. “Just because a girl comes from Paris and works in nightclubs, I don’t think that necessarily makes her a tramp. Was that what you were worrying about?”
She smiled. “A little. But you have not seen me work. Ninety-nine men out of a hundred—”
“Maybe I’m the hundredth,” Shayne said. “Relax.”
“You seem to be quite a—nice person, Mr. Michael Shayne.” She looked at him over her glass. “You make me feel a little better, I think. I have been
After a moment the man relaxed. “I’m getting hard to get along with. Either I put a rag on my head or I don’t work here. The rest of it I don’t mind, except this goddamn earring. Toward the end of an evening I have to take plenty of cracks.”
“Anyway,” Shayne said, “they didn’t make you cut off one leg.”
The bartender wasn’t amused. He poured himself a double jigger of rum, saluted Shayne with it, and knocked it back.
Shayne ordered another drink. A party of American vacationers came in, and things began to pick up. The orchestra played another number, with better spirit, enticing two couples out on the floor. Then the drummer, a strapping native in a straw hat and a red shirt, beat out an intricate rhythm, and a dancer ran out from behind the orchestra, wearing a ruffled dress split to the waist, with a brief ruffled top.
When the performance was over, Shayne found that a girl had slid onto the next stool but one. She was dark and slender, with short tumbled hair, and was wearing a revealing white evening gown. She lit a long cigarette.
“I will have a glass of light rum, Al,” she said to the bartender, in an accent Shayne couldn’t place.
“Why not have it with me?” he suggested.
She breathed out a mouthful of smoke, and only then looked at Shayne coolly. “That is nice of you, but I am afraid I must say no.”
“I won’t bite you,” Shayne said. “What’s that nice pronunciation? Are you French?”
He took out his money-clip, squinting to keep the smoke out of his eyes, and when both the girl and the bartender had seen how much money he was carrying, he flipped a pound note onto the bar. Al picked it up and looked at her. She moved her shoulders in a slight shrug.
“Very well, if you wish. Yes, I am French. An unhappy Parisienne, at present far from the boulevards. You are American, Mr.—?”
“Michael Shayne. Sure. What brings you to St. Albans?”
“Ah, that is a long story. Not a very interesting one, I am afraid. I am an artist, you see. No,” she said, as Shayne looked at her questioningly, “not an artist with paint and brush. A dancer. I started off with a group to perform in the South American capitals and later, perhaps, if all went well, in your own country. A supper room in the exciting hotels in New York? Hollywood? Television? Such are the dreams of foolish people. Thank you, Al.”
She took the glass of rum and lifted it, without drinking. “And of course, being entertainers from the sinful city of Paris, we are expected to perform—” she made a brief gesture—“in costumes too small to be seen by the naked eye. Very well. One is realistic. Then the pig of a manager took it into his head to vanish with the leading dancer, and what is worse, the money we are owed for three weeks. Engagements cancelled. Voila—we are marooned on this island. The owner here wishes some different entertainment than the other places, so I have a job. For how long I do not know.”
She smiled. “You are not listening. I know, it is a tragedy only to me.”
“Sure I’m listening,” Shayne said. “Let’s take our drinks to a table. Hit me again, Al.”
He moved his glass toward the bartender, who filled it. Shayne picked up the three glasses, including the girl’s. She hesitated, then repeated her slight shrug and followed him to a corner table in the other room. As she sat down she said, “But there is one thing I should make clear.”
“I’m ahead of you,” Shayne said, interrupting. “Just because a girl comes from Paris and works in nightclubs, I don’t think that necessarily makes her a tramp. Was that what you were worrying about?”
She smiled. “A little. But you have not seen me work. Ninety-nine men out of a hundred—”
“Maybe I’m the hundredth,” Shayne said. “Relax.”
“You seem to be quite a—nice person, Mr. Michael Shayne.” She looked at him over her glass. “You make me feel a little better, I think. I have been
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