Free Murder by Proxy by Brett Halliday

paused, swallowing hard in embarrassment, and Merrill said softly, “Yeh. You told me that, Bill. But you didn’t tell me anything about midnight. What about that?”
    “Well, I didn’t think it was important, and I didn’t want to… but maybe it is important now she’s missing and all,” he stumbled on. “I was on my way out the door when she came up close behind me and asked when I got off duty, and I told her at midnight that night. And then she kind of whispered in my ear that she was going to be lonesome and for me to stop up for a nightcap with her at midnight.”
    “All right, Bill.” Merrill’s voice was cutting and hard. “What happened at midnight?”
    “Nothing. I did go up and knock on her door. I know it’s against the rules and I’ll get fired for it, but I can’t help it. And I’d do it again, I guess, anyhow if it was someone like Mrs. Harris. But her room was dark and she didn’t answer, and… and that’s all there is to it.”
    “You didn’t see her after that?”
    “I swear I didn’t see her after that. I didn’t hear another thing about her until this morning when you asked me. Later, I heard around the hotel that she hadn’t been back in her room since that Monday evening.”
    Merrill said, “All right, Thompson. Get back on the floor.”
    When the lad had gone, he looked at Shayne and raised his shoulders. “Beginning to get the picture?”
    “Too well,” growled Shayne. “Harris told me there was one other angle here. That she signed a bar bill about seven o’clock.”
    “That’s the last thing we’ve got on her, Mike. It’s a chit for two daiquiris and two bourbon highballs.” He looked at his watch and got to his feet and picked up the picture. “The bartender who was on duty Monday evening has just come on in the lounge. I haven’t talked to him about her yet. Come along, you and your friend, and the house will buy you a drink and prove to you that the Beachhaven isn’t keeping anything up its sleeve.” He circled around his desk and led the way out of the room.

 
8.
     
    The cocktail lounge was dimly lighted and cool and practically deserted. Tiny was polishing glasses with his back to the bar. He turned about as the three men climbed onto stools, flicked a glance at Merrill and nodded briefly, then his big face spread into a wide grin when he recognized the redhead. “Mike Shayne, by all that’s holy! How are you, my lad?” He thrust out a hand as big as a ham and crushed Shayne’s in a warm grip, then turned and searched along the top shelf for a very special bottle of Cordon Bleu which he uncorked and set in front of Shayne with a flourish. When he set a four-ounce wine glass beside it, Merrill said dryly, “Go easy on that stuff, Tiny. I promised Shayne a drink on the house.”
    “If it wasn’t on the house, it’d be on me,” Tiny assured him, filling the glass to the brim. He transferred his attention to Rourke and asked, “What’ll it be for you?” then paused, staring at him. “Aren’t you Tim Rourke, now? So it’ll be bourbon and water. You can see I read all those books about you, Mike. But what’s with this lousy T-V show on NBC Friday nights?” He scowled as he poured whisky for Rourke. “Where’d they dig up that bird that plays you, Mike? Why in hell aren’t you out there playing the part your ownself? Drink, Mr. Merrill?” he added in an aside.
    “A small beer, Tiny.” Merrill had Ellen’s photograph in his hands and he tapped it on the bar, but Tiny was giving his full attention to Shayne. “Take that show last night now. I turn it on every Friday night here just for laughs. My God, Mike! The way that actor got pushed around by everybody last night. How can you stand to watch it?”
    Shayne said, “I don’t.” He sipped the fine cognac appreciatively. “I haven’t tuned it in since the first two shows. Richard Denning is supposed to be a very fine actor.”
    “He the guy that plays you?” Tiny snorted his