Heads You Lose (3 page)

“You won’t do no such thing,” she responded with spirit. “Sarah’s got Joe’s pistol and I’d be proud of a chance to use it on whoever killed Clem.”

Shayne studied her thin face in the dim light. “Well, promise me one thing,” he said earnestly. “If you notice the least thing… anyone hanging around or following you… anything of a suspicious nature… call the police at once. Don’t go out by yourself at night, and above all, don’t let yourself be lured away by any fake telephone calls or messages.”

“Don’t you worry about me. You go right out and get them crooks.” She got out and Shayne lifted her suitcase from the rear of the car and went up the walk with her. There was no electric button, so he knocked loudly on the door.

A light came on and after a moment the door opened. The young girl standing in the opening was quite obviously and proudly pregnant. She exclaimed, “Why… Mother! What on earth…?”

Shayne slid the suitcase inside the door and went back to his car. He had a sour taste in his mouth as he drove away. He slumped low under the wheel. He had inured himself against hurt. Sorrow and grief were for lesser men than he, but as he drove toward Miami in the bright moonlight an acute pain gripped him. Sarah Wilson, the widow of Joe Wilson, carrying his child so proudly within her slender body, and Shayne suffered the agony of the damned, remembering his own slender, dark-eyed wife who had not been so fortunate as the humble wife of Joe Wilson.

With all his strength he pulled himself erect. He was nearing the outskirts of the business section of Miami. He squinted at the numbers on buildings and realized that the one he sought was in the next block.

CHAPTER

HE STOPPED IN FRONT OF A DOWNTOWN OFFICE building and went in. A night light burned in the foyer, but the elevators were not running after midnight. He walked up two flights of stairs and down the corridor to an office door with only a number on it.

He rapped, then turned the knob. It opened and he stepped inside a large room containing two big flat-topped desks, several armchairs, and a number of filing cabinets.

A tall man with alert blue eyes sat in a swivel chair behind one of the desks. He wore the uniform of a United States Army Captain, with the blouse unbuttoned and his tie askew. He took a cigar from his mouth and waved a hearty greeting.

“Hello there, Shayne. Come in.”

Shayne grinned and asked, “Don’t you ever sleep, Captain?”

Captain Ott yawned. “The Military Intelligence never sleeps. Bad conscience keeping you awake, Mike?”

“A conscience is a luxury no private dick can afford.” He unbuttoned his trench coat and shrugged it off. He took the bottle of cognac from a pocket before throwing the coat over the back of a chair. Arching bushy red brows quizzically, he invited, “Join me in a nip?”

“Sorry,” the captain said regretfully. “Not while I’m on duty.” He opened the center drawer of the desk and took out a paper cup which he tossed to Shayne. “Go ahead. Don’t mind me. They tell me you drink your clues out of a bottle.”

Shayne said, “I’ve got a clue, so I’ll wait till I catch you off duty,” as he returned the bottle to the pocket. He sat down across from the captain.

“What’s on your mind?” Ott asked. “Got something for us?”

Shayne tugged at his earlobe, frowned, and said, “I’m not sure. I hope maybe you’ve got something for me. That is… maybe I hope you haven’t.”

“Now I’ll tell one,” Captain Ott said approvingly. “Riddles are a swell way to pass the time on night duty.”

Shayne leaned forward and said, “Let’s take a hypothetical case.”

“Shoot.”

“Suppose a soldier whose home is in Miami gets into some sort of trouble with the Army. As a routine matter, would your office get a report on that soldier?”

Captain Ott’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully, then he said, “What sort of hypothetical trouble would you have in mind?”

“I’m not sure. Something rather serious.”

“It isn’t likely we’d know about it. There isn’t any reason why we should receive a report on it.”

Shayne scowled at his knobby fingers. “I was afraid of that.”

“If you have a reason to check on some soldier,” the captain offered with brisk interest, “I can get in touch with his commanding officer and get the details. Is that what you have in mind?”

“That might be difficult. This man is presumed to have been shipped overseas a couple of weeks ago.”

“There are always ways of contacting him, of course. But I would want to know how serious the necessity before sending a request through official channels.”

“What about desertion?” Shayne asked.

“In a case of desertion we would be notified at once if his home is here. It’s routine to interview the family and associates of a deserter… keep some sort of surveillance on his home in case he tries to contact them.”

Shayne massaged his angular chin and said, “U-m-m.” He lit a cigarette, tossed the match toward a wastebasket. “My hypothetical soldier is named Robert Wilson.”

“Wilson?” Captain Ott swung around in the swivel chair and reached for one of the files behind him. He pulled a drawer half-way out, lifted a large folder from the front, and turned back. “I don’t have to look that one up. I made the investigation myself a few days ago.”

Shayne looked at the closed folder. “Then it is desertion?”

“A bad case,” Captain Ott told him. “Wilson deserted his outfit on the eve of their embarkation for foreign service. That places his action in the same class as desertion on the field of battle.”

Shayne leaned back in his chair and said, “That’s what I thought you might have on Wilson.”

“See here, if you’ve got anything on this deserter, give it to me,” the captain warned sternly. “He’s nineteen years of age, and…”

“I know.” Shayne held up a big hand. “I know Bob Wilson and his parents.”

“That’s a pitiable case, Shayne. As I say, I made the investigation and had to inform his parents. It would have been more merciful to shoot them. Particularly the father. He impressed me as being a fine man. Runs a little filling station out on the Trail.”

Shayne said, “Clem Wilson was a fine man. I can imagine how it hit him.”

Captain Ott did not notice his use of the past tense. “They have another son who was killed in a naval action recently,” the captain said. “Damn these thoughtless youngsters. If they could know the heartbreak they bring to parents they might think twice before doing some of the things they do.”

“Have you been keeping watch on the home?”

“Only in a cursory way. I’ve kept in touch with Mr. Wilson. If I’m any judge of character he can be trusted to turn his son in if he comes home. Wilson gave me his word of honor he’d let me know if he heard from the boy. I felt that I could trust him to handle the situation.”

“That’s too bad,” Shayne muttered, his gray eyes morose and his voice glum.

Captain Ott’s keen eyes snapped. “Why? Don’t tell me I was mistaken in the old man,” he grated. “If he has crossed me up I’ll never trust another human being to play fair.”

Shayne squinted at him through smoke roiling from flared nostrils. “You weren’t mistaken in Clem Wilson,” he said. “He hasn’t crossed you up.” He crushed his cigarette out viciously. “If you had had a guard over the house you might have prevented murder tonight.”

“Murder? Who?”

“Clem Wilson. He was shot down in his filling station at midnight.”

Captain Ott sprang up and paced the floor, came back to the desk and demanded, “Did the boy have anything to do with it? What do you know about it?”

Shayne crossed his knobby knees, leaned back in his chair and calmly gave a detailed recital of all that had happened, beginning with the urgent telephone call from Clem Wilson.

“I’m explaining this to you,” he ended with a rueful grin, “because I don’t want the Army on my neck when the morning paper comes out. Actually, that telephone conversation told me nothing. But as long as I can make the murderer think it did…” His broad shoulders lifted in a significant shrug.

Captain Ott resumed his seat after listening to Shayne with intense interest. He nodded approvingly and said, “Using yourself for killer-bait, eh? It might smoke them out at that. But what’s this about Bob Wilson? Why did you come here to inquire about him?”

“Two or three small things that added up into a hunch. In the first place, I know Bob. He’s weak. I pulled him out of a jam about a year ago. And tonight Mrs. Wilson seemed to be suffering from something more than grief over her husband’s death. She was deeply troubled and anxious. Then… there was a photograph of the boys taken together. Bob’s picture had been cut away. After talking with her, I made up my mind that Bob…”

“I remember that picture,” Captain Ott broke in soberly. “Mr. Wilson showed it to me when I first started discussing the boys… before I had told him the truth. His pride in them was extraordinary.”

“That’s what started me thinking,” Shayne admitted. “I couldn’t conceive of Clem destroying the picture of Bob unless he had brought some drastic disgrace on the family. Mrs. Wilson seemed afraid of something Clem might have told me over the telephone, and when I asked for Bob’s present address, she pretended she didn’t know.”

Captain Ott emerged from deep and furrowed contemplation to ask, “Do you think the son might have murdered his father?”

“I’m pretty sure Mrs. Wilson thinks he may have,” Shayne admitted heavily.

The captain stood up and began buttoning the neck of his blouse and straightening his tie. “I’d better see Mrs. Wilson at once. If that boy is in Miami…”

“Wait a minute,” Shayne said swiftly. “Will you let me handle it?”

Captain Ott looked at Shayne in astonishment. “You should know the Military Intelligence handles its own cases, Shayne. You work on your murder case. The Army is after a deserter.” He spoke bluntly and with authority.

Shayne stood up. “I appreciate all that fully,” he said placatingly, “but hear me out before you see Mrs. Wilson. You see, Ott, I know Miami. And I know Mrs. Wilson. I’ll grant you this… she’s a mother and would probably do everything in her power to protect a deserting son, but she wouldn’t protect her husband’s murderer. I don’t believe any of this necessarily means that Bob is here,” he went on slowly. “Bob’s desertion is preying on her mind, of course. It may be that she just fears he
might
have returned and gone to his father… had an argument with him and shot him.”

Captain Ott sat down on the edge of the desk and lighted a cigar. He asked, “What do you propose to do?”

“If I tie Bob up to the murder or make Mrs. Wilson think he’s mixed in it, then she’ll spill everything.”

“You’re still solving a murder, and I’ve…”

“You won’t get anything out of her,” Shayne cut in warningly, “as long as she believes Bob is innocent.”

Captain Ott was silently thoughtful for a long moment, then said, “Your treatment is pretty rough for an old lady who’s trying to protect her son.”

“You want him for desertion, don’t you?”

The captain’s expression hardened. “We do. All right, I’ll let you handle it. We haven’t forgot your cooperation on the Nicholson case. Any time you want a commission, Shayne…”

Shayne’s gaunt features contorted in a wry grin. “Thanks. But I’m not cut out for a uniform, and certain of your regulations might cramp my style. I think I’m worth more on the outside.”

“There’s something in what you say.” Captain Ott lifted himself from the table and Shayne put on his trench coat.

They shook hands and Shayne promised, “I’ll notify you the moment I get anything definite.”

Shayne went swiftly and purposefully down the two flights of stairs, through the foyer, and outside. The un-blackened side of a few street lights shone dimly through the before-daylight mist and the streets were tomblike with utter silence. His trench coat felt snug and warm against the damp chill in the air, for in spite of the resort’s slogan of “June in Miami the year around” early spring nights were chilly in the semi-tropics.

His big shoes made a loud tramping sound on the pavement as he made his way to police headquarters. He went directly back to the file room and spoke cheerfully to a gray-haired man in uniform drowsing in a cushioned chair. “Hi, Pop,” he called, and closed the door. “Brought you something to keep you awake.”

The old man’s ruddy, seamed face broke into pleasurable wrinkles when Shayne pulled out his bottle. “’Tis a fine lad you are, Mike, to be thinkin’ of old Pop Gans on a night like this.”

He took the bottle and tilted it to his lips, let a generous portion of the liquor trickle down his throat. His red-rimmed eyes beamed when he handed the depleted bottle back to Shayne. “And what was that bribe for?”

“Just want you to look up an old case for me, Pop. Or maybe you’ll remember. About a year ago… three punks robbing a drugstore on the corner of Miami Avenue and Sixth.”

Pop Gans squinted at him with rheumy eyes. “About a year ago, you say?”

“Yeh.” Shayne frowned. “One of the men was named Willie Garson. And there was…”

“The others were Red Axtell and Peewee Dimoff. Sure, I’ve got it now. What is it you’re wantin’ to know, Mike?”

“What disposition was made of the case. What came out at the trial… whether anyone was back of them… any mob.”

“The three of them took a guilty plea,” Pop told him. “There wasn’t any trial. But here’s something for you to chew on, Mike. Manny Markle appeared for them.”

“Manny Markle? Where’d those three amateurs get the money for Manny’s fee?”

The old man cackled loudly. “That’s the morsel you’re to chew on.”

“I get it,” Shayne said slowly. “If Manny was fronting for them they must have had the right sort of connections. Thanks, Pop. That’s what I needed. Know what they drew?”

“Five to eight years.”

Shayne said, “I don’t see why the hell they keep any files in here,” and went out to his car.

CHAPTER

FROM THE POLICE DEPARTMENT SHAYNE DROVE to the garage of his apartment hotel, got out wearily and went around to the front door and into the lobby.

Tommy was alone, dozing behind the desk. His head jerked up and his eyes popped open when Shayne’s heels thudded across the tiled floor. He jumped up and asked eagerly, “What happened, Mr. Shayne? Did everything turn out all right?”

“Everything turned out lousy, Tommy,” Shayne said. He leaned both elbows on the desk and morosely tugged at the lobe of his left ear. “I’m sort of on the spot. You’ve got to keep your eyes open and help me.”

“You bet I will.” The clerk’s blue eyes sparkled.

“Certain people are going to have a yen to wipe me out,” Shayne explained. “They’re liable to come around here. You’ll have to be on your toes to warn me of anybody or anything that looks a bit off-color.”

“You bet, Mr. Shayne. Say!” Tommy lowered his voice to a confidential pitch. “You reckon they could be after you already?”

“I doubt it. Not quite so soon. Why?”

“Well, couple of fellows came in about twenty minutes ago. Real toughies they looked like. They asked about rooms and apartments, then asked if you stayed here. I told them you did.” Tommy paused to catch his breath.

“And?” Shayne prompted.

“And they wanted to know the number of your apartment. To tell the truth, Mr. Shayne, I guess I was sort of sleepy, and I gave them the number of your upstairs apartment. The one you haven’t used much since…”

“Yeh,” Shayne said roughly. “What else?”

“Well, they said they were friends of yours and asked if I had a vacancy near to it. So I rented them the one right across the hall. Said they wanted to surprise you and gave me a five-spot to not mention them to you.”

Shayne kept on tugging at his earlobe. “What names did they give?”

The young clerk went over and took a card from the file. “Here it is. L. J. Martin and John Anderson. City.”

Shayne said, “Thanks, Tommy. That may be it, though I don’t see…” His voice trailed off. “Anyway, it won’t take long to find out.” He took a bill from his wallet and shoved it across to the clerk. “Maybe you won’t be getting in any naps at night for a while.” He started toward the elevator.

Tommy called out, “You want me to do anything, Mr. Shayne? Should I call the police?”

Shayne grinned reassuringly over his shoulder. “We’ll keep the police out of this.” He stepped into the elevator and went up to his office-apartment on the second floor.

Everything was as it had been when he had left hastily after Clem Wilson’s telephone call. Shayne hung his hat up after looking carefully around, then took the cognac bottle from his pocket and set it on the center table. He shucked off his coat and dropped it on a chair, went into the kitchenette whistling a tuneless air.

He put ice cubes in a tall goblet, filled it with water, and got a wine glass from a shelf above the sink. Back in the living room he filled the wine glass with cognac and stood on widespread legs while he drank half of it slowly. He washed it down with ice water, yawned and rumpled his red hair, then drank the rest of the liquor.

Going to a drawer, he took out a .38 revolver, spun the cylinder to make certain it was fully loaded, tucked it into the waistband of his trousers and went out.

Shayne climbed one flight of stairs and went down the hallway to the corner apartment, which he had not entered since his wife’s death. There was no light in the apartment across the way, but the transom was open and the door stood ajar a crack. A sardonic grin flitted across his gaunt features as he got out a keyring and jingled it loudly, pushing each key around until he came to the one which fitted the lock. Inserting the key, he turned it, glancing over his shoulder as he stepped inside.

He saw the opposite door edge open a trifle wider.

Closing his door, he turned on the lights and stood looking about the beautifully appointed and restful living room with an expression of acute sorrow tightening his face. Everything reminded him of Phyllis. Never would there be a wife like her again. She had selected the rugs and the furniture, had sewed the bright curtains herself. There was the deep chair she had loved to sit in, facing east, to watch the colors on Biscayne Bay flashed back by the setting sun. There was the hassock she dragged close to his own chair and curled up on like a little girl…

Shayne set his teeth and turned his back on the room. He dropped to his knees and peered through the keyhole at the door across the hall.

It was tightly closed, and light showed around the transom. He stayed on his knees, watching through the keyhole for a long time. The door stayed shut and the light stayed on.

He got to his feet and removed the .38 from under his belt, cocked the double-action weapon, and opened his door very softly.

With the cocked gun in his hand he took one long step across the carpeted hall and knocked lightly on the door, standing back against the wall in order not to be seen unless the door was opened wide. His eyes were very bright and a muscle quivered in the hollows of his cheeks as he waited.

He heard a chair being pushed back inside the room, then a gruff voice asked, “Who’s there… what do you want?”

Shayne muttered something that could be heard through the closed door without forming any definite words. There was a moment’s hesitation before the door started to open.

He hit it with his shoulder low and his legs driving him into the room. The man who had hold of the knob was flung violently backward, and another man in shirtsleeves sitting at a card-littered table looked up with a grunt of surprise.

Shayne plowed to a stop in a low crouch with his gun covering both men. He straightened slowly and said, “Well, I’ll be damned,” when he recognized two members of the Miami detective force. “Playing games, huh? For chrissake, McNulty, is this all you and Peterson have got to do?”

The man who had stumbled to the floor was long and gangling, with a bushy black mustache adorning his horse-shaped face. He got to his feet with a look of injured dignity, and Peterson growled, “Is that the way you always come into a room?”

“It’s God’s mercy you haven’t got lead in your guts,” Shayne snorted, heeling the door shut. “What the devil…”

“Can we help it if the chief has a crazy idea the world would be better off with you alive?” McNulty complained from the table. He scratched a four-finger area of his bald head. His square face was wholly expressionless. “We didn’t pick the job.”

“’Tain’t my idea of a good time,” Peterson grumbled. He stalked to the table and sat down opposite his partner.

Shayne uncocked his gun and dropped it in his pocket. He muttered, “You’d think, by God, I was still in rompers.”

“What’s it all about, Mike?” McNulty rolled a frayed cheap cigar around in his mouth, squinting through the smoke. “You been playing around in the wrong bedroom?”

“Nothing like that,” Shayne said ironically. “Hadn’t you heard? I just inherited a million dollars and the bad old kidnappers are after me.”

“How’d you know we was here, anyhow?” Peterson demanded. “Gentry told us to keep out of sight or you might try to shake us.”

“Will Gentry is a damned fool,” Shayne muttered. “With you two birds hanging around my neck I’ll never get a nibble. How’s for beating it and leaving me to hatch my own eggs?”

“We can’t do it, Mike,” McNulty said, shaking his bald head sadly. “It’s back to the beat for us if we let you out of our sight. Gentry didn’t stutter when he handed us this job.”

“C’mon, Mike, and make it three-handed,” Peterson urged. “You’re stuck with us whether you like it or not.”

“No thanks. You two go ahead and cut each other’s throats. I’m going to get some sleep.”

He went out and closed the door, re-entered his apartment and slammed the door loudly. Striding to a wall mirror, he swung it out, took a bottle of cognac and a glass from the built-in liquor cabinet on the reverse side. He poured a drink and set the bottle back, wandered into the bathroom and flushed the toilet. He came back and finished his drink, puffed on a cigarette for a few minutes, then turned out the lights and went into the kitchen.

Unlatching a rear door leading out onto a fire escape, he went out and down one flight to the kitchen door of his office-apartment. He unlocked the door with a key from his ring, went through the kitchen to the living room and lifted the receiver of the wall telephone. When Tommy answered, Shayne said:

“That was a false alarm, Tommy. Those boys are a couple of cops sent here to prevent something I don’t want prevented. They think I’m still in the apartment opposite them, but I sneaked down here. Now listen carefully, Tommy. I’m going to stay here, and I don’t want those bird dogs to be pointing at this door. But if anyone else comes, shoot them up here. But call me first, see? If you go off duty before anything breaks, tell the day clerk what the deal is.”

“Sure, Mr. Shayne,” Tommy breathed into the phone. “You don’t want the cops to know about the other apartment?”

“No. Let them amuse themselves up there. That’ll keep them busy and out of the way.”

Tommy chuckled. “And I’ll call you if anything happens.”

Shayne hung up and put his revolver on the center table. He looked at his watch. The time was a quarter to three. The ice cubes were melted in the water glass. After replenishing the ice cubes and pouring another drink, he settled himself in a chair and lit a cigarette, moving the gun so that the butt was in a position to be grabbed without fumbling. He stretched his legs out and relaxed, his head lolling comfortably against the cushion, lighting one cigarette from the glowing butt of another and sipping, alternately, cognac and ice water.

The procedure kept him awake. He did a lot of thinking without reaching any definite conclusions. There wasn’t much to go on. The facts and the theory of Clem Wilson’s death pointed to some kind of gasoline racket. Approached with any sort of proposition, Clem wouldn’t have left any doubt about his position.

It was a cinch his murderers weren’t professional killers. Men who lived by killing didn’t employ a .32 for their work. There wasn’t anything else to put your finger on. They must have suspected Clem was reporting them, and they had no way of knowing how much he had told over the phone before a bullet silenced him.

That was his only trump card.

Blurred, grayish light pressed against the living-room windows. Shayne’s half-closed eyes stared as objects in the room swam into cloudy view out of the darkness. There was the desk near the door, the filing case for which he had no use. Sleepily he recalled that a man had died on the floor just inside the threshold, and at his left was the studio couch on which he had slept that first night while he hid Phyllis from arrest in his bedroom.

That was a long time ago.

The strident ringing of the telephone brought him to his feet. He reached it in two long strides.

Tommy said, “There’s a messenger boy on his way up, Mr. Shayne. He acted funny. Said he had a letter to deliver to you personally and wouldn’t leave it at the desk. I gave Joe the wink to stall him in the elevator while I called you.”

Shayne said, “Good work, Tommy,” and hung up.

He took his gun and went to the door, unlatched it, and left it open a crack. The elevator doors clanged in the hall as he pressed back against the wall beside the door. He held the cocked gun in his right hand.

Footsteps approached his door and stopped. There was a light, hesitant knock.

Shayne said, “Come in.”

Nothing happened for a moment. The immediate response appeared to have startled the messenger. Then the door was cautiously pushed open and a peaked face peered in.

Shayne gave a snort of disgust and lowered his gun. The boy was about nineteen, thin and ill clad, with a limp cap pulled low on his pimpled forehead. His teeth chattered when he saw Shayne’s grim visage and the gun in his hand. He gave a violent start and almost dropped a white envelope clutched in one grimy hand.

Pocketing the gun, Shayne said, “Come on in,” and closed the door.

“Gee, Mister,” the lad whined, “what was you pointin’ that gun at me for? I ain’t done nothin’.”

“I was expecting someone else,” Shayne explained, and held out his hand for the letter. “That for me?”

“Is your name Shayne?” The boy looked around the room with bulging eyes and ejaculated, “Gee, looks like you been settin’ up all night.”

Shayne took the envelope from his lax fingers. “Where’d you get this?”

“Feller give it to me on the street while ago. Give me a buck to deliver it an’ get a answer.” The boy strode insolently past Shayne to the table and clutched a cigarette which extended from the opened pack. He struck a match to it and wandered to the windows to peer out while Shayne tore the envelope open.

“Gee, you got a good view here,” the boy said, his back toward Shayne.

Shayne was turning a blank sheet of paper over and over in his big hands. He scowled and looked inside the envelope again, but there was nothing more inside. He turned on the light and held the blank sheet up to it to make certain he wasn’t missing any trick writing.

The paper was completely blank.

Shayne asked angrily, “What’s the gag?”

The boy whirled around with a bewildered expression on his face. “What kinda gag? I was s’posed to get a answer.”

“Do you know what was in the envelope?”

“Nope. I sure don’t. It was all sealed up.”

“Where’d you get it?”

“Down on Flagler.” He gestured vaguely out the window and as he did so, a spasm of coughing shook his thin body. “I slep’ in the park an’ was wonderin’ could I find a joint open where I could get a cup of Java when this guy walks up to me an’ ast me did I wanta make a buck. Did I wanna make a buck!” An attempt to laugh choked him again, and he finally sputtered, “He gimme
that
an’ tol’ me to deliver it to you personal and get a answer.”

“What did he look like?”

“I dunno. Sorta medium, dressed good, but I didn’t see his face so good,” he ended defensively.

“Where are you supposed to meet him to give my answer?”