Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 8, No. 6, May 1961

On the thirteenth day of March, Evangeline Ashley sold her car. She had inserted an advertisement in a newspaper and a buyer had eventuated. The buyer got a good buy. He paid $3200 for a “used” car which had been purchased four months prior for $5200, the “use” of which had entailed the driving of 2800 miles. The car, in fact, was brand new, but Evangeline Ashley was jubilant. She had asked $3200 and had received $3200.

“Oz,” she said, “tonight we really do the town.”

“Great by me,” said Oscar Blinney.

“On me,” said Evangeline Ashley.

“Pardon?” said Blinney.

“On me,” said Evangeline Ashley. “Oz, you’ve been a brick, just wonderful to me. I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone as considerate and kind. And it’s been costing you, pal. Well, tonight, the party’s on me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about two hundred dollars. I’m putting three thousand in my Savings Bank, which shall give me a grand total of eight thousand, but the remaining two hundred bucks — tonight we blow it. The party’s on me, and I don’t want to hear another word out of you.”

“I think that’s silly.”

“That’s the trouble with you. You won’t ever be silly. You’re just too damned serious. Now just listen, and listen carefully. Me? I’m going to the bank, and then I’m going to the beauty parlor, and I don’t want to see you for the rest of the day. Rest, lounge, swim, do as you like. At ten o’clock this evening, you’ll call for me, like a boy-friend, you know?

“You won’t have a long way to go, but, very formal, you’ll call for me. You will have a beautiful orchid for me, and you’ll be wearing dinner clothes. You’re a real handsome guy, but you’re going to look your handsomest. And then we’ll go out and we’ll really turn this town over, but we’ll turn it over, pal. We’ll burn that two hundred bucks, but all of it, and not in one place.”

He called for her at ten o’clock. He was now deeply tanned and the gleaming white dinner jacket provided handsome contrast. The grey eyes seemed greyer. The thick blond crew-cut hair, burnished by sun and freshly brushed, seemed thicker, blonder, and very youthful. He smelled of health and masculine perfume.

She was ravishing in her silver strapless Parisian evening gown (no underwear) and her high-heeled silver pumps (no stockings). In ten days the scars of Pedro Orgaz’s fingernails had disappeared as had the scars (if any) of her affair with Pedro Orgaz. The beauty parlor had added additional tints to the gold-blonde hair and had swung it up into an intricate hair-do that revealed the tiny, close-set, inviting ears. Blue eyes were wide and clear and white teeth flashed in the sensuous sheen of smiling, full-curved, magenta-glistening lips.

It was a night to remember. They drank and drank again in all the clubs, big and little, and ate and drank again, and listened to music and watched entertainment and danced, and she was terribly beautiful, and all the men looked upon her.

And then as they sat at table at the Strain Of Melody and listened to the music and sipped their highballs and looked out through the blue haze upon the dancers, he saw his old friend Ken Burns and he waved and Ken Burns waved in return and Evangeline Ashley waved.

“Do you know Kenny?” said Oscar Blinney.

“Who’s Kenny?”

“The fellow who’s waving.”

“I’m not waving at him. I’m waving at Miss Moore.”

“Who is Miss Moore?”

“The gal who’s dancing with the fellow who’s waving.”

“Oh,” said Blinney and through the churning blur of alcohol it all sounded very reasonable.

Ken Bums worked at the bank with him. Ken Bums had taken his vacation at the same time he had. Ken Bums had gone to visit relatives at Coral Gables. And now Ken Burns was at the Strain Of Melody dancing with a beautiful willowy brunette and Ken was waving and he was waving back and Evangeline was waving at the girl with Ken and it all seemed normal and reasonable. And then Ken and the girl came to them at the table and sat down.

“Hello, Miss Moore,” Evangeline said.

“How are you, Miss Ashley?” said Miss Moore in a cool voice.

“Small world,” said Ken Bums. “You two know each other?”

“We went to school together,” said Miss Moore.

“Not quite,” said Evangeline. “You were a senior when I was a freshman.”

“Well, naturally,” said Miss Moore, undisturbed. “I’m three years older than you.”

Everybody laughed and Ken Bums said, “Adrienne Moore. Oscar Blinney.”

“About time,” said Miss Moore.

“You girls don’t give a guy a chance,” said Ken Burns.

“How do you do?” said Miss Moore.

“How do you do?” said Blinney and even through the spinning jollity of the alcohol he realized that she was a most attractive lady, poised and dark and serious, with black shining tumbled short-cut hair, and wondrously deep, luminous black eyes.

“Do you live in Coral Gables?” said Blinney to Miss Moore.

“No. I live and work in New York now. I just came down to visit my parents. I’ll be going back some time in April”

“Miss Moore is a painter,” said Ken Bums.

“Are you that Adrienne Moore?” said Blinney.