An hour later he pulled himself reluctantly from the comfortable barber chair. A Negro boy who was sweeping dropped his broom and hurried toward him with a clothes brush as Shayne put on his coat.
“Do the best job you can,” Shayne admonished.
“You bet,” the boy said, and went to work.
Shayne looked at a square piece of paper which the barber handed him. He took out a bill, and when the young Negro finished, Shayne put the money and the ticket in his hand and said, “Pay the bill and keep the change.”
“Yassuh, boss,” he said. “Thank you, suh.”
Shayne went out the door, made his way to a liquor store, said to the clerk, “A bottle of your best cognac. Wrap it up. Where’s your phone?”
“Right here, sir.” The clerk shoved a telephone toward him and went to the liquor shelf.
Shayne called Lucile Hamilton’s number, whistling a low, off-key tune while he waited for her to answer. Presently he said, “Hello, there. I’ll be up in fifteen minutes. I’ll bring half the ingredients for an antidote for doped Tom Collins.”
“What on earth—” Lucile began.
“You’ll see,” Shayne said jovially, and hung up as the clerk shoved a package toward him. He paid the bill and went out with a long-legged jaunty stride.