He called from the kitchen, “Pipe down. Doctor Shayne is prescribing.”
He found a small percolator, filled it three-quarters full of hot water from the faucet and set it on the gas flame, then filled the perforated top with coffee and returned to the living-room.
Lucile thrust the newspaper impatiently aside. “I’ll go crazy if you don’t start telling me things. Was Margo really Barbara Little, living here under an assumed name? Are you honestly a private detective?”
Shayne nodded to both questions, his eyes averted. “We’ve got lots of talking to do. Let’s save it to go with our coffee.” He tore the wrapping from the bottle of cognac, held it up to the light and said, “This is the best I could find in town on short notice. It doesn’t compare with Monnet, but it’ll pass.”
“Monnet?” she asked. “What’s that?” Before he could think of an answer she shuddered and buried her face in the pillow. “Honest, Mike, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to take another drink.”
Shayne swore softly under his breath. It must have been the vivid dream while he was unconscious that confused him. It was Margo who knew about Monnet — not Lucile. He went to the breakfast nook and set the bottle down, rummaged through a drawer in the adjoining kitchenette for a corkscrew. The percolator was bubbling and he sniffed the aroma of coffee.
After wresting the cork from the cognac bottle he took two cups from small hooks in the china cabinet and filled them with hot water. When they were thoroughly warmed he poured the water out and filled them half full of cognac.
He tested the coffee and found it to his liking. He poured it into the liquor until the cups were brimming full, then asked, “Will you have your coffee royal in bed or at the table?”
“I can’t,” she wailed. “It makes me sick to even think of food.”
“This is medicine,” he said sternly. He pulled an end table up to the couch and set a cup on it. “I know what I’m talking about. Drink it as hot as you can stand it.” He brought his cup to the smoking stand.