Read Online The Private Practice of Michael Shayne by Brett Halliday - Free Book Online
Authors: Brett Halliday
Ads: Link
the door a few inches and peered into the living-room.
It was empty. He hastily negotiated the few steps to his bedroom door, and closed it behind him. Five minutes later he emerged wearing gray flannels and a white shirt open at the throat. His red hair was plastered to his head. He whistled an off-tune version of “Mother Machree” as he stepped out into the living-room.
There was an unopened bottle of cognac in the wall cabinet. He went to the kitchen carrying it by the neck.
Phyllis smiled at him from her position in front of the electric stove where she bent anxiously over an aluminum pot half full of water that was about to boil. She was wearing a yellow linen suit badly rumpled from her slumber, but the dark eyes that looked into Shayne’s were clear and purposeful.
Shayne stopped behind her and said, “Last time, I made the coffee. Remember?”
She nodded. “After harboring me for the night.”
“It’s getting to be a habit,” Shayne complained, “sleeping in my apartment. One would think you didn’t have a bed of your own to sleep in.”
“A habit?” Phyllis scoffed. “I’ll bet it’s a record.”
The water began to boil. She started to pour it into the top of an earthenware dripolator, but Shayne put out his hand to stop her.
“Let me see how much coffee you’ve got in there,” he growled. “Most women treat coffee as though it was more precious than diamonds.”
He lifted the top with its tiny drip holes and nodded with surprised pleasure at sight of the middle container heaped high with drip-ground coffee.
“It’s unbelievable,” he exclaimed in a tone of high praise. “You’re actually making coffee a man can drink. You’ll make some man a swell wife when you grow up.”
She said, “I’m nineteen,” and grimaced charmingly, poured the water with a steady hand, though a deep flush came into her cheeks.
“Uh-huh. One month older than you were last month—”
“When you pushed me out of the door and told me to grow up.”
She put the empty pot down and faced him, her eyes wide and probing.
“Lord, you’re slow growing up,” he told her in a light, complaining voice, but his eyes were deep, serious.
“Maybe,” she said gravely, “you’d be surprised.”
He touched her cheek, then turned away abruptly to reach for a corkscrew.
“Want a drink?”
She said, “Of course,” behind him, and bent zestfully over the dripolator to see if the water had all passed through.
He paused, with the screw just biting into the cork. “Like that, huh? Before breakfast and everything? And when I first met you, you choked over the smell of the vile stuff.”
“It’s your fault,” she told him serenely. “It’s up to you to save me from a drunkard’s death.”
He twisted the corkscrew carefully, slid the bottle down and gripped it between his thighs and pulled steadily and with infinite patience.
“How did you get into my apartment?”
“The night clerk let me in with a pass-key. I told him I was your sister.”
Shayne chuckled. “Did he believe you?”
The cork was reluctantly letting go. Shayne eased it out cautiously.
“I don’t think so.” Her eyes twinkled. “He mumbled something about you having a hell of a lot of sisters—and all with funny visiting habits.”
“Swearing too, eh?” Shayne swung around, pointing the cork, impaled on the screw, at her accusingly.
She wrinkled up her nose and laughed at him.
“That was just quoting. I’m not very good at it yet. Hell and damn are really as far as I’ve gotten with any degree of sophistication. But I know lots more. Like—”
“Skip it,” Shayne snapped. His eyes had a hungry, yearning glint in them. “I’ll take you like you are, Angel. Don’t go getting your face dirty.”
She took a quick step forward, put her hands on his biceps.
“Why don’t you?”
“Why don’t I what?”
“Take me,” she cried, “like I am.”
Shayne’s tongue licked out to taste the witch-hazel on his
It was empty. He hastily negotiated the few steps to his bedroom door, and closed it behind him. Five minutes later he emerged wearing gray flannels and a white shirt open at the throat. His red hair was plastered to his head. He whistled an off-tune version of “Mother Machree” as he stepped out into the living-room.
There was an unopened bottle of cognac in the wall cabinet. He went to the kitchen carrying it by the neck.
Phyllis smiled at him from her position in front of the electric stove where she bent anxiously over an aluminum pot half full of water that was about to boil. She was wearing a yellow linen suit badly rumpled from her slumber, but the dark eyes that looked into Shayne’s were clear and purposeful.
Shayne stopped behind her and said, “Last time, I made the coffee. Remember?”
She nodded. “After harboring me for the night.”
“It’s getting to be a habit,” Shayne complained, “sleeping in my apartment. One would think you didn’t have a bed of your own to sleep in.”
“A habit?” Phyllis scoffed. “I’ll bet it’s a record.”
The water began to boil. She started to pour it into the top of an earthenware dripolator, but Shayne put out his hand to stop her.
“Let me see how much coffee you’ve got in there,” he growled. “Most women treat coffee as though it was more precious than diamonds.”
He lifted the top with its tiny drip holes and nodded with surprised pleasure at sight of the middle container heaped high with drip-ground coffee.
“It’s unbelievable,” he exclaimed in a tone of high praise. “You’re actually making coffee a man can drink. You’ll make some man a swell wife when you grow up.”
She said, “I’m nineteen,” and grimaced charmingly, poured the water with a steady hand, though a deep flush came into her cheeks.
“Uh-huh. One month older than you were last month—”
“When you pushed me out of the door and told me to grow up.”
She put the empty pot down and faced him, her eyes wide and probing.
“Lord, you’re slow growing up,” he told her in a light, complaining voice, but his eyes were deep, serious.
“Maybe,” she said gravely, “you’d be surprised.”
He touched her cheek, then turned away abruptly to reach for a corkscrew.
“Want a drink?”
She said, “Of course,” behind him, and bent zestfully over the dripolator to see if the water had all passed through.
He paused, with the screw just biting into the cork. “Like that, huh? Before breakfast and everything? And when I first met you, you choked over the smell of the vile stuff.”
“It’s your fault,” she told him serenely. “It’s up to you to save me from a drunkard’s death.”
He twisted the corkscrew carefully, slid the bottle down and gripped it between his thighs and pulled steadily and with infinite patience.
“How did you get into my apartment?”
“The night clerk let me in with a pass-key. I told him I was your sister.”
Shayne chuckled. “Did he believe you?”
The cork was reluctantly letting go. Shayne eased it out cautiously.
“I don’t think so.” Her eyes twinkled. “He mumbled something about you having a hell of a lot of sisters—and all with funny visiting habits.”
“Swearing too, eh?” Shayne swung around, pointing the cork, impaled on the screw, at her accusingly.
She wrinkled up her nose and laughed at him.
“That was just quoting. I’m not very good at it yet. Hell and damn are really as far as I’ve gotten with any degree of sophistication. But I know lots more. Like—”
“Skip it,” Shayne snapped. His eyes had a hungry, yearning glint in them. “I’ll take you like you are, Angel. Don’t go getting your face dirty.”
She took a quick step forward, put her hands on his biceps.
“Why don’t you?”
“Why don’t I what?”
“Take me,” she cried, “like I am.”
Shayne’s tongue licked out to taste the witch-hazel on his
Similar Books
