“That was something I couldn’t quite understand — unless she was determined not to let it get the best of her. She was shocked, but not horrified. She said it was part of the living she had to do in order to be a successful writer. She laughed at me when I became nauseated and had to excuse myself. But maybe her stomach was stronger than mine.”
Shayne’s shaggy red brows were drawn down in a frown. He said softly, “Thanks, Lucile. And now I think I’d like to tackle Henri. Do you want to call Evalyn and see if he’s there? Or find out where we can find him?”
Lucile stretched her legs from the cramped position in which she had been sitting, got up, and went into the tiny dining-alcove and called a number.
Shayne relaxed and lit a cigarette, the frown deepening between his eyes.
Lucile waited for a time, then hung up and came back to the couch. “Evalyn doesn’t answer,” she told him, a trace of anxiety in her tone.
Before Shayne could say anything they were both startled by the shrill ringing of the telephone. She sprang up and looked at Shayne for guidance, murmuring, “Shall — I answer it?”
“Of course, but don’t mention my name, whoever it is.” She hurried to the instrument and lifted the receiver, said, “Hello. Miss Hamilton speaking.”
Shayne moved softly to stand behind her. He saw her give a start of surprise, and she glanced up at him swiftly. She said, “Oh, it’s you, Henri.” She listened a moment, then asked slowly, “What do you mean, Henri? Why should the police have been here?”
She looked again at Shayne, holding her hand over the mouthpiece. He nodded and whispered, “Keep him talking. Play dumb, but try to find out where he is.”
“No — I haven’t seen Evalyn,” Lucile said to Henri. “Not since we were at Margo’s. Why, Henri? Is something wrong?” She listened, little frowns coming and going in her smooth forehead, then said, “Why should I meet you there? What on earth could be so important at three o’clock in the morning?”