It was a smart trick, he conceded grimly. Had he not turned his head leftward and lowered it a little he would probably still be lying in the front seat of his car with a bullet hole through his brain. As it was, the shot had barely grazed the bone, but the impact had rendered him unconscious.
Again he swore at his stupidity, certain, now, that there had been no other man in the deal.
He got in the car, opened the glove compartment, and took out a pint bottle half filled with cognac. He drew the cork and drank deeply. The warmth of the liquor cleared his mind. He started the motor and drove to the boulevard to join a stream of city-bound cars.
He stopped at the first drive-in he came to, and he went into a small foyer, where a rack of morning papers caught his eye. A Herald extra was inked across the front page in huge letters, and beneath it a headline in bold black type read:
Mike Shayne’s Girl Friday Jailed.
Shayne glared at the headline, picked up the extra, and went into the restaurant with it tucked under his arm.
He was spreading the paper out on the table when a shapely blonde clad in a yellow halter and sky-blue shorts came to his booth.
“A pot of coffee to start with,” said Shayne tersely.
“Coming up,” she said, and whirled away.
It was air-conditioned in the roadside restaurant, but beads of sweat stood on Shayne’s forehead and trickled into the trenches of his cheeks as he began to read.