He continued to give ground as Shayne stalked him with right fist still doubled and cocked, “What’s your game, Cunningham?”

“Just wanted a chance to talk to you alone,” the steward panted. “I knew Miss Hamilton lived close and figured you’d be coming back for your car after telling her good night.”

Shayne stopped and shrugged. “All you had to do was say so.”

“I’m saying so now.” Cunningham licked his lips and moved forward with squared shoulders that carried a faint swagger of insolence. “I figure you and me might make us a deal.”

“What sort of deal?” Shayne turned abruptly and walked toward his car and Cunningham hurried his shorter legs to keep pace.

“I’ll buy a drink,” he offered eagerly.

Shayne said, “Get in.” He went around to the driver’s side and slid under the wheel and Cunningham opened the other door and sat beside him. The redhead started the motor and made a U-turn back toward the brightly lighted boulevard without glancing at the man on his right. “You know something about Groat you didn’t want to tell his wife?”

“Not that exactly. I mean I still don’t know where he is tonight. But there are some things she mightn’t understand.” He was silent for a moment and Shayne was silent. He hesitated for the boulevard stop, made a left turn into the midnight traffic and drove south two blocks before turning onto a side street and pulling in to the curb in front of a lighted barroom. He switched off the ignition and got out and they went into the bar together where half a dozen men were seated on stools and three of the six booths lining the right side were occupied. The bartender was fat and bald-headed and was chewing on the end of a kitchen match. He lifted tufted gray brows at Shayne and turned to reach for a bottle of cognac on the top shelf, but the redhead walked past, saying, “We’ll rest our feet, Ernie.”