“It’s beyond the city limits and we don’t pay much attention to what goes on there but none of it is very good. And here’s something you may want: Your Carl Meldrum hangs out at the Tally-Ho a lot.”
Shayne asked, “What else have you turned up on Meldrum?”
“Damn little. He pays his hotel bill and sleeps there once in a while. He’s got half a dozen dames on the string, including the Thrip girl. From rumors, he may be on the junk or maybe he just feeds it to his women to loosen them up. No dope on Renslow . I’ve wired Colorado and I’m still trying to get touch with the Renslow estate lawyers.”
Shayne said, “Thanks, Will. Keep on trying.” He paused, then asked throatily with a hint of anxiety telling in his voice, “You haven’t got a tail on Meldrum, have you?”
“No. I sent a man over after you left but Meldrum had gone out with some frail. Not one of his regulars, according to the hotel help , but the way she was hanging onto him they guessed she would be before the day was over.”
Shayne said, “Thanks,” again and hung up. His hand stayed on the telephone while he looked broodingly down at the unmade bed. The covers were thrown back from Phyllis’s side and her pillow still held the dent her head had made. The red pajamas were tossed over the foot of the bed. Shayne took two long steps forward and stooped to touch the pajamas with the tips of his fingers. He shook his head and laughed for his own benefit. The laugh was directed at one Michael Shayne, hard-boiled private dick who refused to let life touch him. The laugh ended in a deep gurgle in his throat.
After a while he went out of the bedroom and closed the door behind him. He got his hat and coat and slid the bottle of cognac into his pocket, then went down in the elevator, stalked through the lobby, and got in his car to drive north to Little River.
At the suburban section at Seventy-Ninth Street and Northeast Second Avenue he turned north on the avenue and drove slowly past two blocks of business buildings. Mona Tabor’s apartment house was on a side street half a block from the avenue, a neat three-story stucco building with an impregnable atmosphere of respectability, set back in the middle of a lawn. Gaily striped garden chairs in palm-shaded spots about the lawn were occupied by lounging groups of young and middle-aged women in slacks or shorts who were keeping negligent eyes on their sun-suited youngsters playing on the grass in the bright sunlight.
Shayne parked just beyond a wide concrete walk and got out stiffly. He dragged the brim of his hat down against the sun’s glare and went up the walk toward the entrance. The chattering of the women on the grounds stopped and he knew they were watching him, sizing him up with the universal interest of bored matrons.
He walked on into the coolness of a large, comfortable lobby green with potted palms, straight past the desk to an elevator in the rear. A Negro operator wearing a red pillbox hat slid the door shut behind Shayne and looked at him questioningly with black pupils swimming in white orbs.
Shayne said, “Miss Mona Tabor,” and curiosity flickered in the lad’s comical eyes, went away when Shayne stared at him with hard blankness. The boy manipulated the lever and the elevator rose smoothly to the third floor. He opened the door and gestured down a wide hall to the right. “Down yonduh , suh , at th’ee -o-six, but I don’ reckon Miss Mona done got up yit .”
Shayne got out without replying and went to the end of the hall, where he stopped in front of 306. The elevator door did not close until he knocked, but he did not look back to see the curious black and white eyes watching him. He waited for the silence in upper hall and room to be broken by footsteps coming toward the door.
The silence continued. He tried the knob and it wouldn’t turn under his hand. He knocked louder and more authoritatively and waited again. He took a drink from the cognac bottle
Shayne asked, “What else have you turned up on Meldrum?”
“Damn little. He pays his hotel bill and sleeps there once in a while. He’s got half a dozen dames on the string, including the Thrip girl. From rumors, he may be on the junk or maybe he just feeds it to his women to loosen them up. No dope on Renslow . I’ve wired Colorado and I’m still trying to get touch with the Renslow estate lawyers.”
Shayne said, “Thanks, Will. Keep on trying.” He paused, then asked throatily with a hint of anxiety telling in his voice, “You haven’t got a tail on Meldrum, have you?”
“No. I sent a man over after you left but Meldrum had gone out with some frail. Not one of his regulars, according to the hotel help , but the way she was hanging onto him they guessed she would be before the day was over.”
Shayne said, “Thanks,” again and hung up. His hand stayed on the telephone while he looked broodingly down at the unmade bed. The covers were thrown back from Phyllis’s side and her pillow still held the dent her head had made. The red pajamas were tossed over the foot of the bed. Shayne took two long steps forward and stooped to touch the pajamas with the tips of his fingers. He shook his head and laughed for his own benefit. The laugh was directed at one Michael Shayne, hard-boiled private dick who refused to let life touch him. The laugh ended in a deep gurgle in his throat.
After a while he went out of the bedroom and closed the door behind him. He got his hat and coat and slid the bottle of cognac into his pocket, then went down in the elevator, stalked through the lobby, and got in his car to drive north to Little River.
At the suburban section at Seventy-Ninth Street and Northeast Second Avenue he turned north on the avenue and drove slowly past two blocks of business buildings. Mona Tabor’s apartment house was on a side street half a block from the avenue, a neat three-story stucco building with an impregnable atmosphere of respectability, set back in the middle of a lawn. Gaily striped garden chairs in palm-shaded spots about the lawn were occupied by lounging groups of young and middle-aged women in slacks or shorts who were keeping negligent eyes on their sun-suited youngsters playing on the grass in the bright sunlight.
Shayne parked just beyond a wide concrete walk and got out stiffly. He dragged the brim of his hat down against the sun’s glare and went up the walk toward the entrance. The chattering of the women on the grounds stopped and he knew they were watching him, sizing him up with the universal interest of bored matrons.
He walked on into the coolness of a large, comfortable lobby green with potted palms, straight past the desk to an elevator in the rear. A Negro operator wearing a red pillbox hat slid the door shut behind Shayne and looked at him questioningly with black pupils swimming in white orbs.
Shayne said, “Miss Mona Tabor,” and curiosity flickered in the lad’s comical eyes, went away when Shayne stared at him with hard blankness. The boy manipulated the lever and the elevator rose smoothly to the third floor. He opened the door and gestured down a wide hall to the right. “Down yonduh , suh , at th’ee -o-six, but I don’ reckon Miss Mona done got up yit .”
Shayne got out without replying and went to the end of the hall, where he stopped in front of 306. The elevator door did not close until he knocked, but he did not look back to see the curious black and white eyes watching him. He waited for the silence in upper hall and room to be broken by footsteps coming toward the door.
The silence continued. He tried the knob and it wouldn’t turn under his hand. He knocked louder and more authoritatively and waited again. He took a drink from the cognac bottle
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