Free Tickets for Death by Brett Halliday Page B

mean them.”
    “The hell I don’t,” Shayne jeered. He picked up the beer mug and drank half the cognac. “Get MacFarlane up here,” he insisted to the waiter. “I’ll tell him what I think of his gyp joint.”
    The waiter nodded and went out with a stiff bow.
    Midge sank back, breathing in great piteous sobs. “I don’t know what I’ll do,” she moaned. “Oh, how could you be so—so cheap!”
    Shayne laughed and settled comfortably on the sofa close to her. “Don’t worry. MacFarlane doesn’t want publicity any more than you do.”
    She moved closer and buried her face convulsively against his shoulder, tugging at his long arm to draw it around her waist.
    Shayne had the beer mug to his lips when he felt her squirm against him. He heard the sound of ripping cloth. Then, a wild scream as she stood up and raked her finger nails across his cheek. The torn bodice of her dress came open showing one white breast. Her braids tumbled down, and in the space of a few seconds she was a disheveled and outraged young girl, clinging to him now with surprising strength.
    He heard a door opening as he thrust her away. She threw herself at him, pulling his arm around her waist.
    There was the flare of a flashlight bulb and Shayne looked up to see two men grinning at him from the doorway leading into the lavatory. One of them was lowering a camera and the other held an ugly short-barreled gun trained on Shayne’s belly.

Chapter Eight: A MUG WON’T LISTEN
     
    SHAYNE REACHED FOR HIS POCKET to get a handkerchief and the gunman yelled, “Keep your hands in sight,” as he caught the edge of it and flipped it out, then held it against his scratched face. He laughed shortly as the girl cringed away from him, covering her face with one hand while she pulled her dress together in front.
    “That was nicely maneuvered, sister. Everybody seems in the mood for pulling old gags tonight. A nice piece of badger baiting.” He shot a sardonic look at the gunman. “I presume you’re the deacon—this gal’s properly indignant father.”
    “Cut the funny stuff, pal.” The man leaned negligently against the door casing, his weasel eyes darting from Shayne to his confederate with the camera. “Go on out the door with your pic, Jake. Get it developed right away. This mug is going to sit quiet until you’re in the clear.”
    Shayne grinned amiably. He asked, “What would the plate cost me?”
    “It ain’t for sale. Get going, Jake.”
    Jake sidled toward the outer door with his eyes warily on the detective. Midge was making little whimpering sounds. The gunman dropped his weapon into his coat pocket when Jake was safely out of the room. His thin lips curved into a sneer of triumph. “I guess you know what the score is, shamus. You’ve pulled enough fast ones yourself to recognize one when you walk into it.”
    Shayne nodded agreement. He took the handkerchief away from his cheek and frowned at the spots of blood on it. He admonished Midge, “It wasn’t necessary to scar me for life. The scene would have been just as convincing without that.”
    “She did just right,” the man in the doorway told him. “That’s the little angle that’ll really make it tough if you’re not smart. A sweet little gal defending her honor against a drunken brute. Boy, was that flashlight one a honey!”
    “I’m not in the mood to appreciate artistry right now,” Shayne snapped. He pressed the handkerchief against his face again. “You said the plate wasn’t for sale. What do you want for it?”
    “Just for you to get out of Cocopalm, mister. Get out and stay out, see? We’ve been doing all right here without any nosy dicks from the big city butting in.”
    “And if I don’t get out?”
    “That’s okay too. You seem to go in for publicity. We’ll see how you like this picture on the front page. It’ll show you up some different from the one in today’s Voice.”
    Midge jerked herself to a strained and stiff position. “Oh—no!”