Police chief Will Gentry had been Shayne’s friend and antagonist for many years, and a frequent visitor to the detective’s second-floor suite. He entered the room stolidly and glanced with interest at the glass of ice water and empty cognac glass on the desk.
“So you’re up, too,” he pointed out mildly. “Bad conscience keep you awake?”
Shayne closed the door and followed him to the center of the room while Gentry settled himself in the chair Nora Carrol had just vacated.
“Too hot to sleep,” the redhead replied. “My conscience is as pure as a lily right now.” He seated himself, picked up the cognac bottle, and said, “Drink?”
Will Gentry shook his graying head and took a thin black cigar from his breast pocket. “Too hot for drinking, too,” rumbled Gentry. He bit off the end of the cigar and lit it, then asked, “What do you know about Ralph Carrol?”
Shayne’s glass was against his lips. He held it very still, arched ragged red brows meditatively, and didn’t reply for at least twenty seconds. He set the glass down and asked, “Who was that again?”
“Carrol. Ralph Carrol.”
“Oh, yeh, Carrol. I thought that was what you said. What’s your interest?”
Gentry’s slightly protuberant eyes met Shayne’s in a level gaze. “I’m asking the questions right now, Mike. How well do you know Carrol?”
“I don’t,” said Shayne promptly.