Dead Man's Diary & A Taste for Cognac (16 page)

“Come out and we’ll talk it over.”

“Where?”

“My lodge on the Keys. First dirt road to the south after you pass Homestead, and then to your right after two miles.”

Shayne said, “I know where it is.”

“I’ll expect you about ten o’clock.”

Shayne said, “Make it eleven. I’ve got to get some breakfast.”

“Eleven it is.” A click broke the connection.

Shayne dressed swiftly, jammed a wide-brimmed Panama down over his head and pulled the brim low over his face, and went out. He hesitated a moment, then went back into the living room. He flipped the pages of the telephone directory until he found the number of Renaldo’s tavern, lifted the receiver, and got a brisk “Good morning,” from a masculine voice at the switchboard downstairs. A frown knitted his forehead, and instead of asking for Renaldo’s number, he said, “Do you have the time?”

He was told, “It is eight twenty-two.”

In the lobby, Shayne went across to the desk and leaned one elbow on it. He simulated astonishment and asked the day clerk, “Where’s Mabel today?”

The clerk glanced around at the brown-suited, middle-aged man alertly handling the switchboard and said, “Mabel was ill, and the telephone company sent us a substitute.”

Shayne went out, got in his car, and drove to a drugstore on Flagler. He called Renaldo’s number and said briskly, “Mike Shayne talking.”

“Mike?” Renaldo sounded relieved. “You’re all right? God, I’m sorry about—”

Shayne laughed softly. “I’m okay. Your boys could be a little more gentle but I feel I owe them something for last night. I’ve got a line on that stuff you were after.”

“Yeah? Well, I don’t know…”

“I need some help to handle it,” Shayne went on. “I figure Blackie and Lennie are just the boys—after seeing them in action.”

“I don’t know,” Renaldo said again, more doubtfully.

“This is business,” Shayne said sharply. “Big business for you and me both. Have them meet me at your place about nine-thirty.”

He hung up and drove out to a filling station on the corner of Eighteenth and Biscayne. “Ten gallons,” he said to the youth who hurried out.

Shayne strolled around to the back of his car and asked, “Were you on duty last night?”

“Until I closed up at ten. Just missed the excitement, I guess.”

“You mean the murder?”

“Yeah. The old ship captain who lives down the street. And I was talking about the old coot just a little before that.”

“Who with?”

“A lawyer fellow who’d been down to see him and got a flat tire just as he was coming back.”

“What time was that?” asked Shayne.

“Pretty near ten. I closed up right after I finished with his tire. If that’s all—” He took the bill Shayne offered him.

The detective swung away from the filling station and stopped on First Street east of Miami Avenue. He went into the lobby of an office building mostly occupied by lawyers and insurance men. He stopped to scan the building directory, then stepped into an elevator and said, “Six.”

He got off on the sixth floor and went down the corridor to a door chastely lettered: LEROY P. GUILDFORD—ATTORNEY-AT-LAW.

There was a small reception room, and a tight-mouthed, middle-aged woman got up from a desk in the rear and came forward when Shayne entered. Her hair was pulled back from her face and tied in a tight knot at the back of her head. She wore rimless glasses and low-heeled shoes, and looked primly efficient.

“Mr. Guildford hasn’t come in yet,” she said in response to Shayne’s question. “He seldom gets down before ten.”

Shayne said, “Perhaps you can tell me a few things. I’m from the police.” He gave her a glimpse of his private badge.

She said, “From the police?” Her thin lips tightened. “I’m sure I don’t know why you’re here.” Her gaze was fixed disapprovingly on his battered face.

He said easily. “It’s about one of his clients who was murdered last night. Mr. Guildford gave us some help, but there are a few more details to be filled in.”

“Oh, yes. You mean poor Captain Samuels. I know Mr. Guildford must feel terrible about it. Such an old client and so alone and helpless.”

“Did you know him?”

“Only through seeing him here at the office. Mr. Guildford was trying to save his property, but it seemed hopeless.”

“In what particular capacity did he need a lawyer?”

“It wasn’t much,” she said vaguely. “He was one of our first clients when Mr. Guildford opened up this office after resigning his position with the firm of Leland and Parker. There was something about the collection of insurance on a ship that had been lost at sea, and later Mr. Guildford handled the purchase of a property where Captain Samuels later built his little home.”

“Do you know whether Guildford saw much of him lately?”

“Not a great deal. There was some difficulty about the mortgage and Mr. Guildford was trying to save him from foreclosure. He pitied the old man, you see, but there was little he could do.”

“And this appointment last night. Do you know anything about that?”

“Oh, yes. I took the message early yesterday morning. Captain Samuels explicitly asked him to come at nine last night, promising to make a cash payment on the mortgage. I remember Mr. Guildford seemed so relieved when he received the message, and he didn’t seem to mind the unusual hour.”

Shayne thanked her and told her she had been of great assistance. He started out, then turned back to ask, “By the way, is Guildford generally in his office throughout the day?”

“Yes. Except when he’s in court, of course.”

“Was he in court last Tuesday?”

“Tuesday? I’m sure he wasn’t.”

“That’s queer. I tried to phone him twice during the day and he was out both times.”

The woman frowned uncertainly, then her face cleared. “Tuesday! Of course. How stupid of me. He was out all day with a client.”

Shayne lifted his hat and went out. He drove north on Miami Avenue to Chunky’s place and went in. A couple of men were seated halfway down the counter. Shayne took the stool by the cash register and Chunky drifted up to him after a few moments. He leaned his elbows on the counter, selected a toothpick from a bowl, and began picking at his teeth. He murmured, “Looks like somebody prettied you up las’ night.”

“Yeah. Some of the boys got playful,” he said good-naturedly. “Look, I’m still hunting a line on John Grossman. Pug or Slim been in?”

“Ain’t seen ’em. Grossman usta have a fishin’ place south of Homestead.”

“Think he went up there after he was paroled?”

“Good place to hole up,” said Chunky. “I know he stayed in town just one night.”

Shayne got up and went out, leaving a dollar at the place where he had been sitting. There was a public telephone in the cheap hotel next door. He called Timothy Rourke’s home number and waited patiently until the ringing awoke the reporter. He said, “There’s about be a Caesarean operation.”

Rourke gurgled sleepily, “What the hell?”

“On that baby we were talking about in your morgue this morning.”

“That you, Mike?”

“Doctor Shayne. Specializing in obstetrics.”

“Hey! Is it due to break?”

“It’s coming to a head fast. Get dressed and hunt up Will Gentry if you want some headlines. Don’t, for God’s sake, tell him I tipped you, but stick to him like a leech.” Shayne hung up and drove to Renaldo’s saloon.

Blackie jumped up nervously from his seat beside Renaldo’s desk when Shayne pushed the door open. He sucked in his breath and stared with bulging eyes at the result of his work on the detective’s face, while his hand instinctively went to his hip pocket.

Behind him, Lennie leaned against the wall with his hand in his coat pocket. Lennie’s features were lax and his eyes were filmed like a dead man’s. The left side of his pallid face twitched uncontrollably as Shayne looked at him.

Seated behind the desk, chewing savagely on a cigar, Henry Renaldo looked fearfully from the boys to Shayne. He said, “I don’t know what you’re up to, Mike. The boys didn’t much like the idea—”

Shayne closed the door and laughed heartily. He said, “Hell, there’s no hard feelings. I’m still alive and kicking.”

Blackie drew in another deep breath. He essayed a nervous smile. “We thought maybe you was sore.”

Shayne said gently, “You got a pretty heavy foot, Blackie.”

“Yeah.” Blackie hung his head like a small boy being reprimanded. “But you come bustin’ in with a gun, an’ Jeez! what’d you expect?”

“That was my mistake,” Shayne admitted. “I always run into trouble when I pack a rod. That’s why I’m clean now.” He lifted his arms away from his sides. “Want to shake me down?”

“That’s all right.” Renaldo laughed with false heartiness. “No harm done, I guess. The boys’ll forget it if you will.”

“Whatcha want with us?” Lennie demanded thinly.

“I need your help,” Shayne said bluntly. “I’ve run into something too big for me to handle, and after seeing you guys in action last night I think you’re the ones I need.”

“That’s white of you,” Blackie mumbled.

“I never hold a grudge if it’s going to cost me money,” Shayne told them briskly. “Here’s the lay.” He spoke directly to Renaldo. “I can put my hands on plenty of French cognac—same as the case you bought last night. And this won’t cost us a hundred a case. It won’t cost us anything if we play it right.”

Renaldo licked his lips. “So the old captain did talk before he died?”

“Not to me. I got onto it from another angle. Interested?”

“Why are you cutting us in?” Renaldo protested. “Sounds like some kind of come-on to me.”

“I need help,” Shayne said smoothly. “There’s another mug in my way and he’s got a couple of torpedoes gunning for me. I need a couple of lads like Blackie and Lennie to handle that angle. After that’s cleared up, I still need somebody with the right connections like you, Renaldo. I haven’t any setup for handling sales. You know all the angles from ’way back. And since you put me onto it in the first place I thought you might as well have part of the gravy. Hell, there’s plenty for all of us,” he added generously. “A whole shipload of that same stuff.”

“Sounds all right,” Renaldo admitted cautiously.

“I’m the only one standing in this other guy’s way,” Shayne explained. “So he plans to put me on the spot. I’ve got a date to meet him out in the country this morning, and I know he’ll have a couple of quick-trigger boys on hand to blast me out of the picture.” He turned to Blackie. “That’s where you and Lennie come in. I’m not handing you anything on a platter. This is hot, and if you’re scared of it just say so and I’ll find someone else.”

Blackie grunted contemptuously. “Lennie and me can take care of ourselves, I reckon.”

“That’s what I thought after last night. Both of you ironed?”

“Sure. When do we start?”

“Well, that’s it,” Shayne told Renaldo. “You sit tight until the shooting’s over. If things work out right we’ll do a four-way split and there should be plenty of grands to go around. I’m guessing at five hundred cases, but there may be more,” he ended casually.

Renaldo took his cigar from his mouth and wet his lips. “Sounds plenty good to me. You boys willing to go along?”

Both of them nodded.

Shayne said briskly, “We’d better get started. I’m due south of Homestead at eleven o’clock.” He led the way out to his car and opened the back door. “Maybe both of you will feel better if you ride in back where you can keep an eye on me.”

“We ain’t worryin’ none about you,” Blackie assured him, but they both got in the back seat while Shayne settled himself under the wheel.

In the rear-view mirror he could see the pair conferring together earnestly. Both sides of Lennie’s face were getting the twitches and his hands trembled violently when he lit a cigarette. He took only a couple of drags on it, then screwed up his face in disgust and threw it out.

Shayne said sympathetically to Blackie, “Your pal doesn’t seem to feel so hot this morning.”

“He’s all right,” Blackie muttered. “Sorta got the shakes is all.”

Shayne said, “He’d better get over them before the shooting starts.”

Lennie caught Blackie’s arm and whispered something in his ear. Blackie cleared his throat and admitted uneasily, “Tell you what. He could use somethin’ to steady him all right. You know.”

Shayne said, “Sure. I know. Any place around here we could pick up a bindle?”

“Sure thing,” Lennie said, violently eager. “Couple of blocks ahead. If I had two bucks.”

Shayne drove on two blocks and pulled up to the curb. He passed four one-dollar bills back to Lennie and suggested, “Get two bindles, why don’t you? One to pick you up now and the other for just before the fun starts.”

Lennie grabbed the money and scrambled out of the car. He hurried up the street and darted into a stairway entrance.

Blackie laughed indulgently as he watched him disappear. “You hadn’t orta give him the price of two bindles,” he reproved Shayne. “He’ll be plenty high in an hour from now on one. ’Nother one on top of it will pull him tight as a fiddle string. Like he was last night,” he added darkly.

Shayne said, “I want him in shape to throw lead fast. Those boy who’ll be waiting for me may not waste much time getting acquainted.” He lit a cigarette and slouched back in the seat.

Lennie came trotting back in about five minutes. His pinched face was alive and eager and his eyes glowed like live coals. He slid in beside Blackie and breathed exultantly, “Le’s get goin’. Jeez, is my trigger finger itchin’.”

Shayne drove swiftly south on Flagler, past Coral Gables and on to the village of South Miami, then along the Key West highway through the rich truck-farming section with its acres of tomatoes and bean fields stretching in every direction as far as the eye could see.

By the time they reached the sleepy village of Homestead with its quiet, tree-shadowed streets and its air of serene dignity, Shayne began to feel as though he were the one who had sniffed a bindle instead of Lennie. There was a driving, demanding tension within him. It was always this way when he played a hunch through to the finish. He had planned the best he could and it was up to the gods now. He couldn’t turn back. He didn’t want to turn back. The approach of personal danger keyed him to a high pitch, and he exulted in the gamble he was taking. Things like this were what made life worth living to Michael Shayne.