"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 288 - Merry Mrs.MacBeth" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

"It was three thirty when Joy phoned," recalled Alan, bitterly. "She said she was going somewhere for the
cocktail hour." Turning his too handsome face toward the mantel, Alan glared at Harthorne's best clock.
"Now it's after seven thirty. A fine cocktail hour that lasts four hours!"

"They last till the drinks run out," returned Bodelle, "and by then you've forgotten what time it is.
Say--maybe they've gone back to the theater!"

"Who, Joy?" sneered Alan. "She'd shrink at the thought. Maybe Harthorne would go there though on
account of his investment."

"I'll call the back-stage phone."

After fumbling with the dial, Bodelle made the call and finally gained a reply. He reported the results of a
brief conversation.

"It was Vera," said Bodelle. "She's rehearsing those lines from the second act, the long ones. Looks like
she's counting on being Lady Macbeth."

"Good luck to her," grunted Alan. "What do you say, Guylan?"

The playwright gave a timid nod.

"Stick to it then, both of you." Alan included Bodelle in his glance. "I'm going to throw the same argument
straight at Joy when she gets here--if ever--"

Alan hadn't long to wait. A key clicked in the lock and the door opened to admit a wavering Joy
Trevose, propelled by Howard Harthorne. Reeling in from the hallway, Joy reached a chair on the far
side of the ample living room and landed with a half-flounce.

"What time's it?" Joy demanded. "Dinner's at eight, you know. We told them so at the Club Fiesta."

Alan was giving Joy a highly dramatic glare which she returned very prettily, quite out of keeping with
Lady Macbeth.

A definite blonde, Joy had a face as babyish as her pretty blue eyes, and she looked as though she
wouldn't know which end of a dagger was the handle. Her smile was winsome, but it changed into a pout
when she saw Alan's frown.
"Told who?" demanded Alan. "Some of those thinly disguised thugs who hang around there?"

"The Fiesta is very nice," insisted Joy, "and so are the people."

"Which people?" sneered Alan.

"I used to do a single at those luxury dumps. I know what's behind some of those fancy false fronts."

Joy's lips compressed tightly and her eyes turned away. She remembered that she wasn't on speaking
terms with Alan. Planting a hand on the girl's shoulder, Alan started to draw her to her feet when
Harthorne intervened.

He was a big man, Harthorne, with a spreading sag to the big jaws of his blunt face. His eyes had an