Evil That Men Do by Hugh Pentecost Page B

“Mr. Chambrun is with the police. Perhaps I should express our regret over the tragic death of your friend, Mr. Slade.”
    “Where is Doris?” Teague demanded, no vestige of a smile left.
    “Under house arrest,” I said.
    “I want to see her at once,” Teague said.
    “You’ll have to consult with the police officer in charge,” I said.
    He seemed to balance easily on the balls of his feet, like a trained fighter or dancer.
    “Let him alone, Emlyn,” the girl said. “He’s cute.”
    I had to look at Barbara Towers then. She might have been very pretty without the almost exaggerated stage makeup—a scarlet gash of a mouth, heavy blue-black eye shadow, eyelashes that almost certainly had to be false. She was laughing at me silently.
    “I’m all too familiar with the stupidities of the police,” Teague said. “We’re here to protect Doris and to see to it that an eye is given up for an eye. We’ll straighten things out with the police in the morning. I want a message sent to Miss Standing.”
    “I’ll do my best,” I said. “It’ll have to pass through the police.”
    “Tell her I’m here,” Teague said. “To stop worrying; that all our resources, financial and legal, are at her disposal.”
    “Ill try to get it to her,” I said.
    “I made a reservation in the Blue Lagoon for eleven o’clock. It will take us fifteen minutes to dress. Make certain our table is ready for us.”
    “It will be ready.”
    The yellowish eyes narrowed. “You may tell Chambrun that I’m displeased with his arrangements and that I know what to do about my displeasure.”
    Mike Maggio and a crew of bellhops moved toward the elevators with the baggage. Miss Towers gave me a broad wink as she turned away to follow Teague and the three dark men toward the elevator.
    Karl Nevers looked at me gravely, made a pistol out of his right hand, and went “ Ah-ah-ah-ah ah-ah .”
    It was a good hour before Teague and his friends appeared behind the velvet rope stretched across the entrance to the Blue Lagoon. Cardoza had found a small table in a corner for Shelda and me. To our left, I saw Gary Craig seated at the bar, turning a highball slowly around in his strong hands, a pipe gripped between his teeth. A kind of group sigh had risen over the music being played by a guitarist on the bandstand. It told us all that something unusual had appeared in the door.
    “Holy Christmas!” I heard Shelda whisper.
    Teague was consulting with an obsequious Cardoza. He was something to look at. His dinner jacket was a chartreuse green. His dress shirt had soft, lacy pleats, and the cuffs, billowing out, were period lace. There was a pale-yellow flower in his buttonhole, the size of a saucer. His dress tie matched the chartreuse jacket, tucked under the tabs of a widespread collar.
    Teague was certainly eye-catching, but it was the Towers girl who had brought the soft, gasping sigh from the audience. She had appeared wrapped in a sable cape, little flecks of silver dust in her hair, and dangling earrings studded with diamonds. The eye makeup had been exaggerated so that she looked almost oriental in spite of her blondness. Then, while Teague discussed something with Cardoza, she nonchalantly slipped off the sable cape and draped it over one arm. She had on a strapless black evening gown which fitted like a glove down to her knees and then flared out gracefully. A luscious figure seemed in immediate danger of popping out of the dress, in full view of New York’s most prominent night-life livers.
    “Shut your eyes and count to ten!” Shelda hissed at me. “Just bear in mind she’s a circus, not a woman.”
    Teague, it developed later, was dissatisfied with the table Cardoza had reserved for him. I suspect this was a continuous act with him. Had Cardoza been willing to change the table, the parade would have been longer and more attention getting.
    Have I mentioned the three men who brought up the rear? They were there, dinner-jacketed in the