Shayne was leaning negligently against the railing. Margo laid the cognac bottle gently in the chair, whirled around suddenly and extended her arms across the short distance separating them. She caught Shayne’s angular face between her palms, bent her body tensely forward and pressed her soft, full mouth against his. Then she danced away from him, picking up the cognac bottle and calling gaily from the doorway, “That was to seal our date for tonight — so you wouldn’t let yourself be picked up by some hussy.”
“I won’t,” he said huskily. He turned away from the gathering shadows of twilight and went into his room and turned on the lights.
His eyes held a bleak look of anger as they ranged over to the photograph on the dresser. He shrugged and muttered to himself, “You’re a hell of a detective, Mike Shayne, letting that girl get under your skin.”
He stripped off his shirt and bathed his face, put on a clean shirt and knotted a tie in the soft collar, got his hat and went out.
Downstairs, he gave the girl at the switchboard the number of Mr. Little’s Miami hotel and asked her to get Joseph P. Little as soon as possible. “I’ll take the call in one of the booths,” he told her.
“The center booth,” the operator directed.
Shayne waited near the booth. When the phone rang he went in and closed the door, lifted the receiver and heard the operator say, “Your call to Mr. Little in Miami is ready, Mr. Shayne.”
“Shayne! You are prompt. I’ve been sitting by my phone hoping you would call.”
“I’m at the Hyers Hotel in the French Quarter,” Shayne told him. “I’ve just talked to her and she’s all right.”
“Are you sure, Mr. Shayne?”