slid along it. Using both hands, he closed her knees firmly.
“Betty, you and Vince came in here and locked the door. You made yourself a drink. What did he do?”
“What do you think he did?” Little lines of tension gathered around her eyes. “Why do they have to do it? Do you know? Shoot themselves full of that crap and pull out of the human race? I get a kind of—you know”—she seemed embarrassed—“sexy feeling when he puts in the needle, and what good does it do me? I know he’s going to be nodding in thirty seconds. What could I do but get stinking?”
“When was this, Betty, about seven or eight?”
“What’s the point of all the questions? We both know what happened. They sold him a bad bag. They cut it all the way down so it didn’t give him much of a charge. He woke up sick and he had to get dressed and go out looking for somebody with five or ten bucks so he could hunt up a connection and get himself right again. You want some advice about how long to wait? You know better than that. He could walk in this minute, or he might be gone a couple of weeks. That’s what it is with a junkie.”
“There’s a watchman on duty,” Shayne said. “He says nobody’s passed him.”
“A watchman? Don’t be dense, honey. He dozed off. Get me another drink. One more, and then I’m going to eat those baked beans if they strangle me.”
“And Vince didn’t get dressed,” Shayne went on.
He went back to the closet. One section was labeled “Hers,” the other “His.” He pulled a lightweight blue blazer off a hanger. It was longer, more narrow and more rakish than Al Naples’ clothes.
Betty said, “He was sick, he didn’t wear a jacket. Now you’re going to stop being polite? I’ll pour my own drink.”
She misjudged the corner of the bed and went headlong on the crumpled blue sheets. Shayne sorted through the slacks until he found a pair that was too long for Al Naples, with tapered legs into which the older man could never have forced his heavy thighs.
“And he forgot his pants,” Shayne said. “His shoes must be here somewhere.”
Betty groaned. “Why does he do those things? He’s always been so wild—”
“No, this was fairly intelligent,” Shayne said, “and maybe somebody else thought it up for him. He cooked his shot and put it in his arm, and he probably let out a groan to make you think he was getting a jolt of the real thing. It was probably only sugar. He knew you’d knock yourself out with the Johnny Walker as soon as he closed his eyes. And that’s what happened. He hung his clothes in the closet so they wouldn’t get wrinkled. Then he went out the window.”
Shayne pulled the sliding window open as far as it would go. A narrow rope ladder was fixed to two cleats beneath the sill.
“Yeah,” Shayne continued. “He wouldn’t want to dive because somebody might hear the splash. The south shore of Normandy Isle is about an eighth of a mile away. He didn’t have to hurry. The door was locked and no one would bother you. He could swim back half an hour later, unfasten the ladder and let it go. Then he’d dry himself off, get back in bed and give himself a real shot of heroin. He’d be in the clear all the way.”
Betty stared at him, the uncapped whiskey bottle in one hand. “Where is he, then?”
“Probably still in the bay, don’t you think?” Shayne said.
“Vince?” She gave a high giggle. “You’re so wrong. He’s a marvellous swimmer. He could swim to Palm Beach and back.” Her face changed. “Unless somebody—”
“That’s what I was thinking,” Shayne said.
He took the bottle out of her hand and drank from it. He gave it back and left her on the bed, looking after him with a dazed expression.
11.
IN THE OTHER ROOM STEVE WAS on his hands and knees, loops of loose film around his neck and across his back.
“I can’t find either end!” he cried. “It’s a nightmare.”
“It has to be there somewhere,” Shayne
“Betty, you and Vince came in here and locked the door. You made yourself a drink. What did he do?”
“What do you think he did?” Little lines of tension gathered around her eyes. “Why do they have to do it? Do you know? Shoot themselves full of that crap and pull out of the human race? I get a kind of—you know”—she seemed embarrassed—“sexy feeling when he puts in the needle, and what good does it do me? I know he’s going to be nodding in thirty seconds. What could I do but get stinking?”
“When was this, Betty, about seven or eight?”
“What’s the point of all the questions? We both know what happened. They sold him a bad bag. They cut it all the way down so it didn’t give him much of a charge. He woke up sick and he had to get dressed and go out looking for somebody with five or ten bucks so he could hunt up a connection and get himself right again. You want some advice about how long to wait? You know better than that. He could walk in this minute, or he might be gone a couple of weeks. That’s what it is with a junkie.”
“There’s a watchman on duty,” Shayne said. “He says nobody’s passed him.”
“A watchman? Don’t be dense, honey. He dozed off. Get me another drink. One more, and then I’m going to eat those baked beans if they strangle me.”
“And Vince didn’t get dressed,” Shayne went on.
He went back to the closet. One section was labeled “Hers,” the other “His.” He pulled a lightweight blue blazer off a hanger. It was longer, more narrow and more rakish than Al Naples’ clothes.
Betty said, “He was sick, he didn’t wear a jacket. Now you’re going to stop being polite? I’ll pour my own drink.”
She misjudged the corner of the bed and went headlong on the crumpled blue sheets. Shayne sorted through the slacks until he found a pair that was too long for Al Naples, with tapered legs into which the older man could never have forced his heavy thighs.
“And he forgot his pants,” Shayne said. “His shoes must be here somewhere.”
Betty groaned. “Why does he do those things? He’s always been so wild—”
“No, this was fairly intelligent,” Shayne said, “and maybe somebody else thought it up for him. He cooked his shot and put it in his arm, and he probably let out a groan to make you think he was getting a jolt of the real thing. It was probably only sugar. He knew you’d knock yourself out with the Johnny Walker as soon as he closed his eyes. And that’s what happened. He hung his clothes in the closet so they wouldn’t get wrinkled. Then he went out the window.”
Shayne pulled the sliding window open as far as it would go. A narrow rope ladder was fixed to two cleats beneath the sill.
“Yeah,” Shayne continued. “He wouldn’t want to dive because somebody might hear the splash. The south shore of Normandy Isle is about an eighth of a mile away. He didn’t have to hurry. The door was locked and no one would bother you. He could swim back half an hour later, unfasten the ladder and let it go. Then he’d dry himself off, get back in bed and give himself a real shot of heroin. He’d be in the clear all the way.”
Betty stared at him, the uncapped whiskey bottle in one hand. “Where is he, then?”
“Probably still in the bay, don’t you think?” Shayne said.
“Vince?” She gave a high giggle. “You’re so wrong. He’s a marvellous swimmer. He could swim to Palm Beach and back.” Her face changed. “Unless somebody—”
“That’s what I was thinking,” Shayne said.
He took the bottle out of her hand and drank from it. He gave it back and left her on the bed, looking after him with a dazed expression.
11.
IN THE OTHER ROOM STEVE WAS on his hands and knees, loops of loose film around his neck and across his back.
“I can’t find either end!” he cried. “It’s a nightmare.”
“It has to be there somewhere,” Shayne
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