“What, for instance?” Shayne growled. “I don’t know the Rocky Mountains like I do Flagler Street and Biscayne Boulevard.” He stepped backward into the hall and said, “If you expect me to start crawling on my belly through Cousin-Jack mine tunnels hunting for her, you’re nuts. All we can do is keep asking questions until we get a lead.”
Carson shuddered beside him as they started down the corridor. Suddenly he dropped to his knees and exclaimed:
“Look here! Do you see what I see — not more than ten feet from our room door?” He pointed a shaking finger to a damp spot on the floor. “It’s blood! Fresh blood!”
Shayne stopped and looked, nodded casually and said, “When I was up here before I had to remonstrate with a pansy who should have known better. One of Two-Deck Bryant’s hoods.”
He watched Carson closely, but the name didn’t appear to register. The actor shuddered weakly and stood up. “When I saw that blood — my God!”
They descended the stairs and Shayne left him in the lobby and went to the night club in the rear. A name orchestra was cluttering up the acoustics with the latest hit tune and the dance floor was so packed that couples could do little more than sway together with the rhythm.
As he searched from the doorway for Phyllis and Casey, he suddenly recalled that evening attire was required for both the opera and the night club on opening night. This ruled out Casey with his rumpled blue suit and straw hat, and Shayne was reasonably certain 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.