“Michael! Did you ever do that!” Phyllis cried, horrified.
Shayne shrugged and moodily ordered another drink. While he waited for the drink, he repeated the conversation he had overheard between Joe Meade and Christine Forbes, with Phyllis prompting him and dragging it out of him.
“Which gives us just one more headache,” he ended in disgust. “I gather that Joe is a frustrated playwright who might well think up a plot like that to give Christine her chance. On the other hand, he may be an opportunist who seized on Nora’s absence to put himself in solidly with the girl he loves.”
A waiter brought drinks for the three. Shayne seized his avidly, muttering, “I need this.”
Phyllis propped her elbows on the table and cupped her chin in her hands. “With all this dither about Nora Carson, aren’t you forgetting her father? He’s the corpse in the case. I thought you always concerned yourself with the murderer to the exclusion of everything else, Michael.”
Shayne was staring straight in front of him. He mused, “In this case, I’ll ask nothing more than to keep the murders down to one.”
Phyllis nudged him by placing her foot on his under the table. “Look — Michael!” she whispered.
Sheriff Fleming said, “Pardon me, Mr. Shayne,” lifting his broad hat from his silvery hair. “I heard there was a rumpus out here.”
Shayne turned his head slightly. “Yeh. There was, sort of, sheriff.”
Phyllis smiled up at him brightly. “Wherever there’s a rumpus, Sheriff Fleming, there you’ll find Michael Shayne.”