Free Tickets for Death by Brett Halliday Page A

learning the facts of life here than by observing bees and flowers.”
    Midge’s laugh was constrained, as though she didn’t quite know whether to take him seriously. She dropped onto the couch and took a compact from her purse, examined her face in the tiny mirror.
    Shayne saw that she was older than she appeared in the moonlight and by the faint light on the instrument board. At least twenty-five. She was tall, and had extremely nice legs. The heels of her black suede slippers were run down, and the backs of her hands showed clearly that they were used for hard work.
    When a discreet knock sounded on the door, Shayne swung around and opened it. A middle-aged waiter entered bearing a menu, but Shayne waved him aside. He asked the girl, “Would you like champagne?” and she clasped her hands to breathe, “Oh—yes.”
    “Domestic,” Shayne ordered grimly. “Thirty-four or thirty-five—and bring me a triple slug of cognac in a beer mug. Martell, if you have it.”
    The waiter bowed and withdrew. Midge patted the couch beside her. “Sit here beside me. He’ll pull a table up for us when he brings the drinks.”
    Shayne sat down, leaving a foot of space between them. He glanced past the table to a closed inner door and growled, “Where does that lead to?”
    Midge followed his glance. Color crimsoned her cheeks. “I think that’s a—a lavatory.”
    “You seem to know a hell of a lot about the setup,” Shayne commented in a thoroughly disagreeable tone. “For a girl who knows her way around like you do, I can’t quite feature you walking home from the buggy ride.”
    Her eyes lowered swiftly to her tightly clasped fingers. She drew her breath in with a little gasp and said sharply, “Just because I know about things is no reason for you to think I’m—bad.”
    Shayne laughed aloud at her naïve choice of the word. As yet he had no idea why he had been steered to the private room, but he was evidently going to have a few laughs finding out. He stopped laughing and assured Midge, “On the contrary, I think you’re pretty damned nice.”
    He got up and wandered to the closed inner door, turned the knob without result. Midge watched him with eyes clearly frightened now. She murmured. “It’s—I think it’s connected with the next room too. They’ve locked it from the other side.”
    Shayne’s eyes narrowed but he said nothing. He returned to sit beside the girl and called, “Come in,” when a knock sounded on the outer door.
    The waiter had a split of domestic champagne in a silver bucket of crushed ice, and a beer mug a third full of cognac on a tray. He deftly slid the table over in front of them, pulled the cork from the champagne bottle with a gratifying plop, then poured a tall glass of the cold bubbling liquid for Midge.
    He laid a check face up before Shayne and waited stiffly. Shayne glanced at the total and whistled. The amount was $23.50—115.00 was marked opposite the word Service.
    Shayne shook his head angrily and pushed the bill aside. “That’s highway robbery. I want to see the manager.”
    The waiter said, “It’s perfectly correct, sir. The usual charge for a private room and allows you the use of it for as long as you wish it.”
    “To hell with that,” Shayne growled in a murky tone of anger. “Send MacFarlane up here. I’ll settle with him.”
    “Please—don’t!” Midge grabbed his arm and raised terror-stricken blue eyes to his. “Don’t make a scene. I—I couldn’t stand it.”
    Shayne’s laugh was harsh. “The old gag, eh? How many of his come-on gals has MacFarlane got lined up on the highway to lure suckers in for a fleecing? Hell,” he went on with relaxed brutality, “I can rent a hotel room for a week with a woman thrown in for fifteen bucks.”
    Midge’s hold on his arm grew lax. She shrank away from him, her face drained of color except for the red spots of rouge high on each cheek. “Don’t say such things,” she pleaded. “You don’t really