Counterfeit Wife by Brett Halliday

bony ankles and his feet clad only in a pair of socks. He nodded with a sober man-to-man air and murmured, “One might deduce the lady’s husband is not as tall as you, Mr. Shayne, and a trifle bulkier in build.”
    Shayne grinned and said, “That’s a fair job of deduction, Henry. Do you suppose Mr. Slocum would mind if I took my suitcase up to his apartment and borrowed the bathroom and put on some clothes that fit me a little better?”
    “I don’t see how he would ever know about it. But I’m afraid he has the only key. You didn’t turn yours in when you checked out.”
    Shayne frowned. “Force of habit, I suppose, from carrying that key in my pocket for so many years. But don’t worry about that—But wait a minute,” he added sharply. “I left my key ring behind with my clothes. You must have more than one extra key.”
    “We’ve a master key, of course.”
    “Of course,” Shayne repeated. He reached for the large brass ring Henry lifted from a hook behind the desk. “Now if you’ll get my bag—”
    “It’s right here.” The clerk opened a wooden gate and slid the suitcase out. “Joe is probably asleep on the top floor,” he added as they went toward the elevators. “He has a cot up there in the corridor.” He put his finger on the signal button and held it there.
    “One more favor,” Shayne said as they waited for the buzzer to waken Joe. “I need a drink, Henry. You know how it is when a man needs a drink.”
    Henry said, “I can imagine,” in a tone that told Shayne he couldn’t imagine at all.
    “And I’m broke. There’s an all-night restaurant around the corner where they keep a few bottles under the counter for emergencies like this. Just mention my name.”
    Henry nodded wisely. There was a clanking overhead, indicating that the elevator was coming down.
    “How about slipping around there and getting a bottle for me while Joe takes me up? I’ll send him right down to watch the desk.”
    Henry’s pale eyes twinkled. “I can do better than that, I believe. I have a small stock in the safe for emergencies. As I recall, you prefer cognac.”
    Shayne looked at the neat little man in utter amazement. “After all these years,” he murmured. “One does live and learn. Yes, Henry, I do indeed prefer cognac. Send it up by Joe right away,” he added as the elevator stopped and the doors slid open to reveal a yawning Negro boy in a blue uniform.
    Joe said, “Howdy, Mistuh Shayne. Yo’all back again?” with a sleepy grin, and took him up to the third floor.
    Shayne got out and said, “Henry has something for me downstairs, Joe. Bring it up, and then you can take this key ring back to him.”
    The lad nodded sleepily and closed the doors.
    Shayne strode down the corridor to the familiar door and put the master key in the lock. It opened easily, and he padded inside with suitcase in hand. He set it down and turned on the light. The living-room was just as he had left it more than twelve hours earlier.
    He felt an odd restlessness and realized that he hadn’t had a cigarette since his incarceration in the men’s room of the underground garage. He hurried to the telephone, asked Henry to send some up with the bottle, and then gave a deep sigh of relief as he hung up and began unfastening the metal buttons on the coveralls.
    He let them drop from his body in the middle of the living-room, kicked off his socks, and went into the kitchenette where he turned on the cold water faucet and inspected the ice trays in the small refrigerator. They were full of cubes. He pulled one out, set it in the sink under the stream of water and got two glasses from the cupboard. He put four cubes in one glass, filled it with water, and went back into the living-room just as Joe knocked on the door.
    Setting the glasses on the center table, he went to the door to get the bottle and two packs of cigarettes from Joe.
    The cognac was Martell. Shayne’s nostrils flared as he got the bottle open and poured a