The Private Practice of Michael Shayne (19 page)

Shayne stopped reading and laid the paper aside. “We know all the rest of it,” he said impatiently.

“I feel terribly sorry for Helen Kincaid,” Phyllis said. “Even if you do say she didn’t deserve to keep Larry, I think she should have had a chance to prove she did.”

“Yeh. Maybe so. She’ll probably go back to her folks. She’s learned her lesson. She’ll use some sense if she gets another good man.”

Phyllis nodded, her eyes deep and serious. “It’s—too bad.”

“Getting back to Miss Marco,” Shayne said, “the point I wanted to make is that she was induced to come out of hiding when she heard the story of her death being shouted on the street. A natural and normal reaction, don’t you agree?”

“Yes, but—”

“Therefore,” Shayne went on gravely, “I think no one will deny that the person responsible for the widespread circulation of that rumor is actually responsible for her return.”

“I suppose not. But—”

“There is a sum of money in escrow in the First National Bank of Miami which will pass into my possession if and when Marsha Marco is safely returned to her home as a result of my efforts. Wouldn’t you say those escrow conditions have been more than fulfilled?”

“Oh! Then that’s why you have to prove you planned the hoax?” Phyllis exclaimed.

“Exactly. And now you know how private detectives keep the larder supplied with a fair grade of cognac.”

Phyllis’s eyes were ecstatic. “And
that’s
why you need my affidavit?”

“If legal proof becomes necessary—yes.”

“Then I
have
got you in the palm of my hand. How much money is it?”

“Too much to be thrown away by a girl’s whim. Ten thousand dollars to be exact. The buying price of approximately three thousand fifths of my favorite beverage.”

Phyllis clasped her hands, delighted. “Is that with—the two dollars deducted?”

Shayne stared at her in hurt surprise. “So, you’re going to be that way?”

“Emphatically.”

He pulled at the lobe of his left ear, gazing past Phyllis out to sea, where phosphorescence and moonlight mingled on the rippling surface.

“Don’t press me too hard, Angel.”

Phyllis pursed her lips into a disappointed circle. Shayne stood up. He went around to her and put his hand under her arm, lifted her from her chair.

“If I weren’t nuts about you, Angel, I’d defy you to hold out on me. As it is—” He bent over to kiss her.

She patted his cheek when he drew away at last. “Let’s go buy one of those fifths—on account.”

Shayne slid his arm around her and said, “Let’s.”