Shayne said to Denton, “You’re the one who’s worried.” The small room held only the desk and three chairs. There was no sign of Lucile Hamilton. Shayne drew his legs up to sit crosslegged and was pleased to find that they worked. The throbbing had stopped at the base of his ear, leaving a steady, annoying ache.
Denton said, “Start talking.”
“What do you want me to talk about?” Shayne took a cigarette from a pack and lit it.
Rudy Soule leaned back and clasped long fingers behind his head. In a silken-smooth voice, he observed, “Don’t try to hold out on us. We’ve got the girl, too. She’s still out, isn’t she, Henri?”
The sullen-faced young man nodded. “She was, the last time I looked.”
Shayne puffed thoughtfully on his cigarette. He couldn’t quite figure the setup. There was something screwy about the whole thing. If he could put his finger on that screwiness—
“I never knew what hit me downstairs,” he complained. “How’d you get wise to me?”
“I saw you come in,” Denton growled. “If you’d drunk your Tom Collins like the girl did you wouldn’t have needed a bust on the head.”
“So — that was it. I should have known from the taste of the damned thing.” He looked at Henri. “You haven’t thanked me for bringing Lucile.”
Henri Desmond was startled. He said, sullenly, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”