Her eyes widened and the pleasant expression on her face changed slowly to one of dismay, and then to fear or anger, or both. She drew in a sharp breath and exclaimed, “I know who you are now. I’ve seen your pictures in the paper. You’re that private dick, Mike Shayne. Get out! Haven’t you caused Jack enough trouble already?”
“Not half as much trouble,” Shayne told her grimly, “as I’m going to cause if you don’t tell me where he is.”
“I don’t know.” Her eyes blazed with angry defiance. “And I wouldn’t tell you if I did.”
“You’re making a mistake,” he said gravely. “Don’t you know he’s mixed up in a murder?”
“If he is, you got him into it. Get out!”
Shayne said mildly, “All right. But tell your boss the longer he hides out the worse it’ll be for him.” He turned, went down the hallway to the studio and across it in firm strides that echoed loudly. The bell tinkled when he opened the door, and he marked time for a couple of steps, then closed it quietly. He waited a moment, listening, before tiptoeing back through the studio.
He reached the office doorway just as the blonde seated herself at the desk with her back to him and lifted the telephone. Watching over her shoulder, Shayne memorized the number she dialed.
After a moment she said sharply, “Three-one-nine, please.” Her breathing was audible, and beads of perspiration glistened on her plump neck.
“But I know he must be in,” she said impatiently. “Ring him again.”
Then, as though a sixth sense warned her, she turned her head and glanced toward the door. Her eyes rounded, and her mouth sagged open, when she stared up into Shayne’s face. She slammed the phone down and sprang up with her hands clawed.