“I’ll be right here when you come down.” Rourke lifted a thin hand in farewell as the detective entered an elevator and went up, then he sauntered to a chair facing the elevators.
Shayne found the door to Margrave’s suite slightly ajar. He pushed the button, and a voice called, “Come in.”
A wide entrance hall opened onto a spacious living-room, luxuriously furnished, with an eastern exposure of wide windows overlooking the Atlantic. The curtains were drawn back and the morning sun streamed into the room. Shayne blinked at the brightness and at the man sitting beside the wheeled dining-table near the windows.
He was a big man with coarse black hair that looked as though it hadn’t been combed for days. He had heavy, black brows, a square face with a bulbous nose, and an aggressive jaw. He wore cerise pajama bottoms, and his naked torso basked in the warm sunlight, as he busily wolfed down a breakfast of ham, eggs, and a stack of pancakes.
“Mr. Margrave?” Shayne inquired.
He nodded, munched methodically, swallowed, then boomed, “You’re Shayne, I take it. Pull up a chair and join me.”
“I’ve had breakfast, thanks.” Shayne’s feet sank into the deep carpet as he crossed the room to a comfortable chair near the table. He sat down facing his host who speared half a fried egg and a generous portion of ham which he crammed into his big mouth.
Shayne was fishing a cigarette from the pack in his pocket when a woman’s voice spoke from his left. “Maybe you’d prefer to share my breakfast, Mr. Shayne?”
He turned his head slowly. She was curled up on a rose silk divan against the opposite wall. She was young and startlingly beautiful, with hair so black that it shone with a glossy, bluish sheen in the sunlight. By contrast, her face appeared unnaturally white, relieved only by the bright-crimson gash that was her mouth. She wore a white nylon gown beneath a sheer silk dressing-gown, belted tightly around her slender waist. Her feet were bare, and a pair of white satin slippers lay on the couch.
Propped against fluffy colorful cushions, her right arm dangled over the side of the couch, and she held a highball glass in her left hand. A bottle of whisky, and ice cubes in a silver bucket, stood on the coffee table beside her. As he stared at her in astonishment, she lazily lifted the glass to her lips, and returned his gaze with frank curiosity over the rim of it.