IN THE BAR room of Jack & Charlie’s 21 Club, toys dangled from the ceiling. Airplanes, ships, and trucks—whimsical gifts from rich and famous patrons. First-time visitors were usually distracted by the playful clutter overhead, but Lamont Cranston was a regular, and had been since the place opened. Besides, his focus tonight was totally on his dazzling companion.
The venue had been Margo’s choice. She knew this place was Lamont’s favorite, and tonight was a very special occasion. She had hinted on the car ride that she had something special to tell him. Usually that meant a lead on an intriguing new case, but with Margo Lane, you never knew. She was full of surprises, both naughty and nice, which was one of the many, many reasons Lamont adored her. As his partner in the crime-fighting business, Margo was the only person in the world who knew all his secrets.
Except one.
Tonight, Lamont had planned a little surprise of his own. Out of all the women he had known—and there were many—no one else had impressed, challenged, and excited him like Margo. From the day he met her, he knew they were meant to be together, and the ring he was hiding in his pocket would seal it. Assuming she said yes.
As for Margo’s little secret, Lamont was very curious. But clearly she was going to make him wait just a little bit longer.
“Remember this place during Prohibition?” she asked, looking around the room. Lamont stretched his tuxedoed arm to signal a waiter for refills. His first drink had given him a pleasant buzz, and he didn’t want to lose it.
“I remember the liquor shelves would tip back whenever Jack and Charlie got wind of a raid,” he said.
“And then,” said Margo, “all the pretty bottles would slide right down into the sewer.” With her long, slender arms, she made a swooping gesture, goofy and elegant at the same time. “Such a waste!”
Margo was wearing a white Schiaparelli evening dress, with black velvet flares over her bare shoulders and a matching bow in front. In the room’s amber glow, she could not have looked more beautiful. Lamont noticed that even the bartender, no stranger to stunning women, had angled himself for a better view. A waiter appeared with two fresh drinks on a silver tray. An old-fashioned for the gentleman. Champagne for the lady.
Lamont and Margo plucked their glasses off the tray before the waiter had a chance to place them on the table. As the young man started to turn back toward the bar, Lamont put a hand up to stop him in his tracks.
“Shall we order?” he asked Margo.
“Why not?” she said, running a manicured fingernail around the rim of her glass. “But please, Lamont—nothing heavy.” She passed her other hand lightly over her belly, with its barely perceptible bump, so slight Lamont hadn’t yet noticed.
“Two lobster salads,” said Lamont, without even glancing at the menu. It was September. A good month for lobster. He put his glass to his lips and sipped, feeling the sweetness of the sugar on his tongue and the warm burn of whiskey in the back of his throat.
“Well?” he said, leaning forward. “You had something you wanted to tell me?”
Margo just smiled, her thin eyebrows slightly arched.
“Is that the Titanic?” she asked, pointing toward a corner of the ceiling, where a model of a large steamship hung between two pairs of brass opera glasses.
“I think that would be in poor taste, considering,” said Lamont, squinting into the collection overhead. “It’s probably the Queen Mary.”
“You’re probably right,” said Margo.
She looked like she was about to say something else. But before she could speak, two plates were already being set on the table. The service in this place was impeccable. On each plate, gobs of snowy-white lobster meat nestled in a tangle of chopped greens, topped with a lace of cream sauce and flecked with small croutons. Lamont and Margo each speared a morsel of lobster. They lifted their forks and tapped them together in a playful toast.
“To us,” said Lamont.
“To secrets,” whispered Margo, her eyes on his. She slid a chunk of lobster into her mouth as Lamont took his first small bite.
“You can’t hold out forever, you know,” he said, “I have my methods.”
“Maybe I’m just holding out for dessert,” said Margo. Her eyes widened. She dropped her fork. “Lamont!” Her voice was suddenly pinched and pained. At the same moment, Lamont felt a hot rush in his skull, like somebody had just set his frontal lobes on fire. His throat tightened in a sharp spasm and his hands flew up reflexively to his neck. Margo’s head rolled back as a small stream of white foam oozed from between her rose-tinted lips. Her slender body went limp.
Lamont knew instantly what had happened. But his vocal cords were tightening. He could barely squeeze out the word.
“Poison!”