“I want to know what was in the note Joe Meade wrote to Nora Carson.”
The woman giggled. “Can’t tell you, big boy. Don’t wanna hurt Christy’s feelings. Say — I thought you were the gal with redhead. C’mon, let’s all have a drink.”
“The bar is closed — it’s morning. Come on, Miss Moore, we’ll take you to your room,” Phyllis pleaded.
“About that note,” Shayne interrupted. “What was in it?”
Miss Moore shook her head emphatically. “Won’t tell anybody that.”
“You’ll tell tomorrow,” Shayne said angrily. He put a long arm around her waist and pulled her weight from the chair, motioned to Phyllis to take her other arm. “Now walk straight,” he warned Miss Moore. “You don’t want people to think you’re drunk.”
“Got a drink, big boy?” she asked.
“What’s your room number?”
She giggled again and gave him the number, and the trio moved slowly through the rear hall and the bar, and into the lobby. As they started up the stairs, the older woman jerked away from them, caught the banister rail, and pulled herself up, carefully planting both feet on each step.
Shayne and Phyllis waited until she reached her room, then Shayne picked his wife up in his arms and carried her to their room.