“Dead?” Marsh retreated a step. “Good Lord, Mike!”
“The girl,” said Shayne tonelessly, “was Helen Stallings. Her body disappeared from my room and I don’t know where it is. It’s going to be tough on me if you’ve told anybody you sent her to me.”
“I haven’t told a soul. But — dead?” Jim Marsh shuddered. “Let’s drop it, Mike. Everything. The election. I’m beaten anyway. I haven’t a chance.”
Shayne shook his head angrily. “To hell with that. We’re not whipped yet.” He stepped past Marsh and pushed the door open and nodded curtly to a large, hook-nosed man who sat across the room. He asked, “How are things shaping up, Naylor?”
Jim Marsh’s campaign manager shifted a cigar to the other side of his mouth and assured him with false heartiness, “Fine. Swell. It’s in the bag, Shayne.”
A curious silence followed his words. Naylor glanced past Shayne at Marsh, arching oddly bushed brows which crowded his eyelids. He then lifted a highball glass and drank from it, studiously avoiding Shayne’s gaze.
Jim Marsh closed the door and asked, “What happened to your face, Mike?”
“Campaign argument.” Shayne stalked to an overstuffed sofa and carefully lowered his lanky body. “I could do with a drink.”
“Sure. I’ll get it.” Marsh spoke quickly and effusively. “No cognac, though.”
“Rye will do. Lots of rye and not much soda.”