Shayne said, “That’s it.”
“Who pays for the job if you burn?”
Shayne chuckled and hung up. He mopped sweat from his face and riffled through the directory again, turning to the H’s and frowning at the long column of Hamiltons. Near the top was a Becky Lucile on Chartres Street. He dialed the number, and a female voice said, “Hello,” after the fifth ring.
“Lucile Hamilton?”
“Uh — yes. Who’s calling?”
“This is a friend of Margo’s.”
“I’m sort of friendly, too.” The voice was cooing, fencing with him. “I’m all undressed. Would you like to see me?”
Shayne said, “Some other time. When you are dressed.” He hung up and ran his finger down the column of names, stopped at a Lucile Hamilton on North Rampart.
He tried that number and waited a long time while the ringing went on monotonously at the other end.
His persistence was finally rewarded by a sleepy voice saying, “Miss Hamilton speaking.”