Heads You Lose (10 page)

“I don’t know… a pistol. Not a very big one,” she answered vaguely.

“What kind of car did he buy?”

“It’s a Chevrolet sedan… nineteen forty-one model. It’s black,” she ended breathlessly, straining toward him with stricken eyes, “and the
Herald
said…”

“There are ten thousand black sedans in Miami,” Shayne told her gently. “What happened last night to make you suspect that Eddie committed the murder?”

Mrs. Seeney wrung her hands together. “Well, he was gone all afternoon and evening. When he came home he’d been drinking… almost drunk… and there was lipstick on his mouth and face.” She began to cry silently and fumbled with the zipper of her purse to get a handkerchief. She wiped her eyes and blew her nose gently, then huddled back in the chair. Her skirt crept up over her knees, showing thighs no larger than Shayne’s forearms, but she did not notice it now.

Shayne swore softly, got up and went to the liquor cabinet, took down a square bottle of Cointreau which he kept for mixing sidecars, poured a jigger into the bottom of a wine glass and carried it back to her. He touched her shoulder and said, “Try sipping this. You can’t go to pieces now.”

She turned her tear-streaked face away, but her fingers reached for the glass. As she lifted it obediently to her lips, Shayne went back to the cabinet and poured a drink of cognac.

She had stopped crying when he returned and had shifted her position to one of comfort by drawing one leg under her and leaning her elbow on the upholstered arm of the chair. The liquor had brought some color to her pale cheeks and she began to speak rapidly:

“Eddie was drunk, as I said. Drunker than I ever saw him. He was so disgusting… vomiting on the bathroom floor and I had to take off his clothes and get him to bed. It was about two o’clock when he got home.” She stopped and chewed on her underlip, twisting her thin fingers together. Her eyes were flooded with tears, but she didn’t cry again.

Shayne waited for her to go on. He was certain, now, that she was on the level.

“That was more than I could stand,” she went on after a little while. “I decided to leave him. I had threatened to before, and he always got mad and said he’d beat me if I did. It was the draft, you see. I stayed on because I felt guilty too, but after we got in the war I didn’t feel the way I did before. But Eddie figured he was safe as long as he had a wife and baby. If I left him he was afraid they’d put him in one-A.

“Well, after I got him to bed last night I was determined to find out what I could, so I went through his pockets. He had a lot of money… over two hundred dollars. I took exactly half. There wasn’t any gun in his pockets, but I found a list of names written on a typewriter.” She paused, shivered violently, and looked at Shayne.

Shayne’s gray eyes were soft and sympathetic. He asked, “Would you like another sip of wine?”

“Could I? Just a little. It makes me feel… stronger.”

Shayne took her glass and poured a small portion of the sweet liquor into it. He sat down as he handed it to her, asked, “What about the list of names?”

“I don’t know anything about business, of course,” she said. “Some of the names had a checkmark in pencil and some weren’t marked at all. Two of them had a pencil line drawn through them.” Her voice trembled and slid into silence. She took a sip from her glass. She lowered her eyes to her lap, but no tears came out.

“Then you’ve left Eddie… left home?” Shayne prompted.

“No… well, I didn’t leave then. The baby was sick and I didn’t want to take her out at night. But… I hid my half of Eddie’s money and I wired my folks I’d be home today. They live up at Sebring.”

Shayne looked at his watch when she stopped talking. It was five-thirty. He took the jar from his pocket and rubbed some more salve on his lips. His upper lip was feeling almost normal again.

Mrs. Seeney roused and said, “I couldn’t sleep all night. Jessica… that’s the baby… kept waking up and crying. She had a little fever and I was busy with her. When the
Herald
came I read about the murder last night and I remembered that one of the names crossed out on Eddie’s list was the same as the man who was murdered… Clem Wilson.” She had drunk the small portion of Cointreau Shayne had poured. The glass sagged in her right hand, resting against the cushion of the chair. She stared at him with big dark eyes that seemed empty of emotion.

Shayne frowned. “Now let’s get this straight. You saw a typewritten list of names with two of them crossed out. One of those was Clem Wilson.”

She nodded mutely.

“What was the other name?”

“I don’t know. I can’t remember. As soon as I read about the rationing racket and all I began remembering all those things about Eddie’s new job… the amount of gas he has and his new tires. I remembered the gun… and then that list.” She shuddered and slumped in the chair.

Shayne stood up and caught her bony shoulders in his big hands. “All this is very important,” he said. “What did you do then?”

She wriggled, pulled her foot from under her and planted it solidly on the floor beside the other. She appeared to have gained control of her fear and her emotions. She said, “I didn’t know what to do. I kept thinking about the baby. I couldn’t stand to think of calling the police and telling them about Eddie.” Her voice broke, but she straightened her shoulders and went on:

“The more I thought about it the more I knew I had to see you. It was bad enough for me having a slacker for a husband, but thinking of Jessica having a father who was a murderer… a traitor… like the paper said, and I couldn’t stand that. So I packed up and got ready to go. I left the baby with a friend and came over here to see you.”

Shayne looked at his watch again and asked, “When does your train leave?”

“At six-thirty. Do you think…?”

“You’ve done the right thing,” Shayne interrupted hastily, “and your husband has a lot of explaining to do.” Shayne got up and took a pencil and a sheet of paper from a drawer. “Give me a description of your husband… everything about him.” He had the pencil poised, ready to write.

“Well… Eddie is twenty-four years old. His hair is brown like his eyes, and he is dark. Sort of good-looking. He’s not very tall…”

“Know of any places he might go nights when he doesn’t come home?” Shayne asked.

“He goes to the Heigh-Ho club sometimes… somewhere on Seventy-ninth… beyond Little River.”

“Have you got a picture of him?”

“Oh, yes. It’s hanging on the wall in our apartment.” She gave him the number of an apartment in the northwest section.

“What’s his license number on the Chevrolet?”

“I never noticed,” she admitted.

Shayne jotted down the information, then said, “The best thing for you is to take Jessica and go home to your mother. Give me your address there and I’ll let you know how things turn out.”

She gave him the address of her parents in Sebring and stood up shakily.

Shayne went to the door with her and asked, “Do you have to go back to your apartment? Where’s your baby?”

“I’ve got my things checked at the depot,” she told him. “And Mrs. Jones… the friend I left the baby with… lives in an apartment here in town.”

Shayne said, “That’s fine.” He patted her shoulder and said, “Try not to worry about things. A clean break with Eddie will be the best thing that can happen to you.”

She appeared to have matured in the short time during which she had poured out her troubles to Shayne. She looked up at him with dry eyes and said, “I think you’re right, Mr. Shayne, and I’m thankful to you.”

Shayne went back into his apartment and telephoned Will Gentry. He gave the chief of detectives a succinct resume of Mrs. Seeney’s damning information against her husband, a complete description of Eddie and the address of the apartment. “His car was bought here about a month ago, Will,” he said, “and you can look up the number. I’d put a man at his apartment if I were you, and get out a pick-up on Eddie.”

“You think he’s the one, Mike? Does he fit with the dope you got from Wilson?”

“I’m pretty sure Seeney can tell us a lot of things we need,” Shayne told him grimly. “I’d like to know the minute you pick him up and have a chance to sit in while he’s being grilled.”

“Damn it, Mike,” Gentry complained, “I don’t believe you know a hell of a lot more than I do about this case. Sounds to me like you’re fumbling in the dark.”

“I’m finding things out,” Shayne reminded him. “That’s more than you’re doing.” He hung up and grinned.

It was almost six o’clock.

Shayne went into the bathroom and inspected his lips, washed them carefully with soap to get the salve off, then took a quick shave before keeping his cocktail date with Edna Taylor, vice-president of the Motorist Protective Association.

CHAPTER

THE ADDRESS EDNA TAYLOR HAD GIVEN HIM TOOK him to a winding street on the bayfront east of Brickwell Avenue, a section taken over, for the most part, by rambling estates of the very wealthy. Miss Taylor’s bungalow was a small house of weathered rock tucked in between forbidding walled-in estates on either side, charmingly rustic and appealing in its setting of green lawns and cocopalms.

The cottage was situated on the edge of the bay at the end of a hundred-foot strip of ground leading down from the street. Red and purple bougainvillea intermingled with bright orange flamevine, having outgrown the slender trellises, ran rampant over the south side and upward to partially cover the roof.

A concrete driveway led in along the side of the lawn and a polished coupé was parked under the porte cochere. The coupé carried a Washington, D.C. license plate.

Shayne parked behind the car and got out. The bay waters rippled with red and gold and deep purple, reflecting the colorful clouds obscuring the setting sun. A gentle wind from the east splashed the wider waves against a low concrete bulwark, making a musical sound. Palms and Australian pine moved whisperingly, gleaming already in the light of a full moon riding low in the eastern sky.

There was a peaceful feeling of isolation in the protection afforded by the walls sloping down on either side to the edge of the water. Shayne stood for a moment taking in the scene before circling the coupé and making his way to the door.

The exterior of the smaller dwelling was decorated to conform with the old mansions. The massive wooden door looked weatherbeaten, and the heavy wrought-iron knocker was worn.

Shayne knocked twice. The door opened almost immediately and Miss Taylor smiled up at him. She said, “Do come in, Mr. Shayne,” in a welcoming lilt.

He stepped into a low square room with heavy hand-decorated beams overhead. Two ship’s lanterns were suspended from the center beam, wired for electricity, but with dim globes which gave off the yellowish light of kerosene wicks. Bright hand-woven rugs were strategically placed on the polished oak floor, and the furniture was of a simple, massive design. A wide fireplace of native rock was laid with driftwood, and a silver cocktail shaker was gathering frost on the mantel.

Edna Taylor still wore the tailored gray suit she had worn that morning, but her hair was brushed out in soft honey-colored ringlets and she held out a firm hand to Shayne.

“I’m late,” he apologized. “Got tied up with some things at my office.”

“Only five minutes,” she said, glancing at her watch. “If you’d come earlier you’d have caught me with a dirty face.” Her hazel eyes deepened with concern when she spoke of the bruise on his cheek. “Have things been happening to you?”

“Things are always happening to me.” Shayne tossed his hat onto a stiff occasional chair and looked around the room with approval. “You certainly have an attractive place here.”

“It’s no credit to me,” she told him gaily. “It belongs to a friend who couldn’t get down this season. I’m acting in the capacity of caretaker.”

“Nice work.” Shayne gave her a cigarette and took one for himself. She came close to him and he touched a match flame to both.

She said, “Do sit down,” indicating a comfortable chair.

Dropping into a chair close by she shook her head to loosen her curls so that they softened the contour of her face. Stretching her well-formed legs out she said, “Oh… this is nice.”

Shayne grinned. “I like you here better than in an office.”

“Oh, damn the office. And call me Edna. I get so tired of being ‘Miss Taylor, head of our legal department,’” she said, mimicking Brannigan’s tone.

“It’s the price you pay for having brains. You overawe men.”

“I don’t overawe you, do I?” The yellowish light from the ship’s lanterns was soft upon her face as she turned her eyes anxiously toward him.

“Not here,” Shayne assured her.

She put out her half-smoked cigarette and stood up. “I’m glad it’s different here,” she said in a rich contralto. “Excuse me a moment.” She went out of the room with long-limbed graceful strides.

Shayne crushed his cigarette in a brass ashtray, let his head sink back against the cushioned chair, clasped his hands above it and felt relief from the pressure of the bandage.

She returned after a moment, took the shaker from the mantel and poured cocktails into round, hammered copper bowls. She said, “I had just time to shake up some sidecars before you came,” and handed one to him.

Shayne raised bushy brows and said, “Sidecars,” in a tone of pleased surprise.

“They’re your favorite, aren’t they?” She resumed her seat and lifted her bowl from the end table beside her chair.

“I know a lot of things about you, Michael Shayne.” She made three soft syllables of his first name.

“I’m flattered.” He took a sip of the drink.

“You’re not… really,” she charged gaily. “How is it?”

“As good as I ever made,” he declared.

“Meaning that’s the highest accolade?” she laughed.

“If that means what I think it does, you’re right. What else do you know about me?”

“You’re tough and ruthless and mercenary. You solve cases your own way and set your own fees and drive the police department crazy.” She chuckled deep in her throat and her eyes danced.

“Well, what do you know… and I’m just a child at heart,” he muttered.