Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine Annual, No. 3, 1973

Desiree opened her bedroom door wide. The main room was dark now, but she noticed that the bedroom door at the opposite end remained ajar. All seemed quiet and normal. She repaired her broken fingernail, put a fresh coating of gold on her lips, then took the gun from its holster and snapped put the light.

Waiting until her eyes had adjusted to the darkness, she crossed the main room on silent bare feet and stood outside the other bedroom door. The telephone was on the stand near her left hand. It was inviting. All she had to do was close the door before her, pick up the receiver and dial the Washington number.

On the other hand, the dedicated man who was now snoring softly in the bedroom was also displaying a trust in her. To shatter that trust would make an enemy, and, she admitted ruefully, she didn’t want Doctor Samuel Herchenfelder an enemy. Underneath all of that science veneer he was a nice lunk. He might show a girl a good time in Washington sometime.

Desiree pushed the bedroom door wide open, stood looking on the huddled shadow in the bed for a few moments, then turned from the temptation of the telephone. She found a straight-back chair and drew it up to the couch. She put the gun on the seat of the chair, propped two pillows and stretched out on the couch.

The door to the suite was in her side vision. A bedroom was straight ahead. The gun was within a sweep of her hand. No one was going to enter the suite, by door or window, and kill Sam.

But, Desiree Fleming wondered, as she lay with her arms cradled against the back of her head, who was the adversary in their camp. Someone among them — one of the scientists, one of the military men, one of the agents, Holly — had tipped the other side. No one else had known just what hotel suite the Herchenfelders were to occupy and yet there had been a telephone call from a would-be defector in the enemy garrison.

The following morning, Desiree had coffee brought up to the suite while Sam shaved, then she had a second thought. She told the white-jacketed boy to wait and she poked her head into the bedroom. The bath door was closed tight.

“Hey,” she called out.

“What?” The bath door did not open.

“I’m going to order breakfast sent up. What’s your meat?”

“We can go down to the dining room later.”

“Sent up,” she said firmly. “I’m running this end of the show. Order.”

There was hesitation behind the door, then an order issued in clipped words. She repeated the order to the boy and added, “The same for me.” She closed the bedroom door.

Doctor Samuel Herchenfelder wanted to be peeved when he finally joined her in the main room. She was in the middle of her morning exercise. Her bare feet were spread and she was doing eagle bends, the gold tips of her right hand touching the gold tips of her left toes and vice versa, when he came from the bedroom.

Desiree looked at him from the upside down position and between her legs, and she saw the set of his jaw. He stopped. His eyes behind the black-rimmed glasses changed. She wanted to laugh, but she straightened and turned on him, taking satisfaction in the knowledge that she had been correct about the yellow Capris. They put him off balance. She wanted him that way. He would be easier to manage.

Desiree said brightly, “I exercise every morning. Don’t you?”

His eyes had found the chair at the couch, the propped pillows. He frowned. She took the gun from behind the pillows. “I hid the gun when the boy came with the coffee. I didn’t think he’d understand.”

“You slept there?”

“I repeat, Sam, my job is to keep you alive.” She took the gun into the bedroom, returned. He was pouring coffee from the pot into the two cups.

“Will you allow me to govern our day — at least, until after this afternoon’s meeting?” she asked seriously.

“It appears,” he said, “that I’ve already conceded.”

“It won’t be that bad, Sam. I promise. We can always send a boy out to buy us a Scrabble game.”

His glance scorched her. He passed her a cup on a saucer. She turned to the couch, forgetting the straight-back chair. She curved back from the chair. The coffee spilled from the cup, splashed against her thighs. Desiree cried out and danced across the room, then stood with the cup and saucer in hand, struggling to stem the oaths as she looked down on her stained legs.

Desiree went into the bedroom, slammed the door behind her. There were no more Capris in the suitcase. She removed a skirt, hesitated, knew fresh anger. She had a religion against wearing loafers with skirts, yet the only garter belt she had brought along was the special belt issued by the Bureau. The belt was a weapon.

She mumbled an oath at the thought of wearing a weapon when she was attempting to influence a man. On the other hand, he would not see the weapon.