The bartender shouted, “Hey, redhead!”
Shayne reached for his glass and said, “Let’s find a place to sit down.”
Casey let Shayne’s big frame force a path into the lobby and to a room in the rear. He took Phyllis’s arm and said, “I’m not believing it yet.”
Her eyes were level with his. She smiled into them and murmured, “Confidentially, Pat Casey, I married Michael because he has such interesting friends.” They followed Shayne into a small room with tables. The windows overlooked a patio. Few of the tables were occupied at this late hour and it was comparatively quiet. Shayne drew out a chair for Phyllis and said to Casey, “So, they’re trying to make a detective out of you. I read about New York’s crime wave. Now I know the reason.”
Phyllis intervened before Casey could think of a sufficiently scathing reply. She leaned forward and whispered, “Isn’t that Nora Carson sitting alone near the window? One of the actresses, Mike. We met her a couple of days ago.”
Shayne turned to look at a girl in an orchid evening gown with a black velvet cape partly covering her bare shoulders. She was eating an ice, glancing anxiously at her wrist-watch.
He nodded affirmatively. As he turned back, he stopped to stare at an aged, whiskered face pressed against the window pane and peering into the diningroom with intent absorption.
“Get a load of that,” he muttered. “Looks like the Spirit of ’49. They certainly go in for background at these Festivals.”
A canvas coat was buttoned tightly about the old man’s neck, and a sheepskin-lined collar was turned up to frame his head. He wore a floppy felt hat, and sharp black eyes contrasted strangely with the white stubble on his face.
“Poor old man,” Phyllis whispered. “Do you suppose he’s hungry? The way he’s staring in—”