Heads You Lose (6 page)

“What the hell are you getting at, Mike?” Gentry’s voice came louder, baffled and aggrieved. “Damn you, first you act like you’ve got a smart tip, and then you hedge.”

“I’m just giving you the dope I got,” Shayne assured him. “But I wish you would go to the records and get a list of every filling station he’s bought or leased. Manny Markle is probably handling the deals for him.”

“Sure. I’ll do that. Are you getting anywhere on the Wilson murder?”

“I’m learning things,” Shayne admitted cautiously. “For instance, Kline has been trying to buy Clem Wilson out, and Clem wouldn’t sell.”

“What does that mean? You don’t think Dennis Kline is fool enough to kill a man just for a service station site?”

Shayne said, “No. But it’s something to think about, Will.” He grinned as he hung up and cut off Will Gentry’s angry sputtering.

CHAPTER

ROGER, THE DAY CLERK, WAS ON DUTY WHEN Shayne got back to his hotel apartment. He raised his eyebrows and motioned to the switchboard where a girl operator was on duty. “I think Gladys has a call for you on the wire right now, Mr. Shayne. Want to take it here?”

Shayne said to Gladys, “Switch it to the booth,” and went into the tiny compartment and closed the door.

An unctuous voice came over the wire. “Mr. Shayne, this is Mr. Brannigan speaking… of the Motorist Protective Association.”

Shayne said, “I don’t know you, do I?”

“I believe not, but I hope you will. I wonder if you could drop into my office for a conference?”

“What about?” Shayne asked.

There was a slight hesitation at the other end of the line. Then Mr. Brannigan said heartily, “I think we should get together, Mr. Shayne. It appears to me we might be of mutual benefit to each other.”

“How?”

Mr. Brannigan’s soft laughter gurgled soothingly over the wire, like thick oil bubbling from a bottle on a cold morning. “You are certainly forthright, Mr. Shayne. I’d like for us to discuss certain information in your possession regarding what the morning paper calls a ration racket.”

Shayne grinned. He said, “I’m open to suggestions.”

“Good. I’d like to see you at once.” Brannigan quit purring and became brisk as he continued, “Our offices are in the Biscayne Building.” He gave a fourth-floor number and asked, “May I expect to see you soon?”

“Right away.” Shayne hung up and stared at the inanimate instrument for an instant, then emerged from the booth worrying his left earlobe. He stopped, turned back, and riffled through the pages of the telephone book until he found Motorist Protective Association listed at the address Brannigan had given him.

Shayne went out and started to get into his car, checked the gasoline by turning on the ignition, returned the keys to his pocket and walked with long, swift strides to the Biscayne Building between First and Miami Avenues.

The lettering on the frosted glass door of the Motorist Protective Association looked fresh and neat. He went into a reception room containing new furniture, a soft blue rug, and attractive seascapes adorning the wall. A trim receptionist looked up from her desk and smiled at him, and asked, “What can I do for you?”

“I’m to see Mr. Brannigan,” Shayne told her.

“The name, please?”

“Mike Shayne.”

“Oh,” she said, and smiled again. “You’re to go right in, Mr. Shayne.” She sprang up and preceded him to a door chastely lettered, “President, Private.”

The private office was newly decorated in pastel shades with long windows veiled by half-closed Venetian blinds. Soft lights reflected on an immaculate glass-topped desk and the man sitting behind it.

Brannigan wore a double-breasted pongee suit, and the red carnation in the buttonhole matched his tie. His head was square, and the short stubble of dark hair standing up from a low forehead enhanced the squareness. His upper lip was too short, almost cherubic, but his chin was forceful. His blue eyes twinkled, and as he stood up to greet Shayne effusively, he smoothed his coat down over a hint of a paunch.

“Well, well, Mr. Shayne, you are very prompt. I like a man to be prompt. I do, indeed.”

Shayne grinned and pulled up a leather-cushioned chair. He said, “You’re Brannigan, of course?”

“That’s correct, Mr. Shayne.” He sat down and folded his hands on the glass-topped desk. “You are doubtless familiar with the work of our organization.”

“Never heard of it,” Shayne said. “It’s a new racket to me.”

A look of pain flitted over the president’s face. “I’m afraid you have the wrong impression, Mr. Shayne.”

“It’s new, isn’t it?” Shayne’s gray eyes roved around the immaculate room, taking in the shining newness of everything in the office.

“We’ve been operating only a short time… yes. But our work certainly cannot be considered a racket. It is, in fact, the exact opposite.”

Shayne tipped his chair back and crossed his legs. “Just what is your line?”

“Line? Oh, we don’t carry a line, Mr. Shayne. You see, we are organized to fill a very real need during this period of wartime restrictions. We offer sympathetic counsel and guidance to every motorist who is patriotically co-operating with the Government to conserve gasoline and rubber so vitally needed by our armed forces.” The words rolled sonorously off Brannigan’s tongue.

Shayne lit a cigarette and tossed the match on the deep, wine-colored rug. “What kind of counsel and guidance?”

“We show them how to stretch their gasoline allowance in innumerable ways by maintaining a corps of specialists who advise in methods of gasoline conservation. With a legal department which studies the individual problems of our members and makes recommendations toward applications for supplemental allowances. By skilled field workers who assist in the preparation of budgets for essential driving needs. The organization of the share-the-rides clubs among our membership. These are only a few of the services we offer.”

“Sounds fair enough. But why did you want to see me?”

Brannigan leaned forward eagerly. “Another service we plan is a drive against all forms of ration racketeering. Every gallon of gasoline and every tire diverted to illicit channels leaves that much less to go around among our membership. We feel it is our duty to ruthlessly stamp out all such practices.”

“Isn’t that a police job?” Shayne asked. “Or a matter for the FBI?”

Brannigan laughed indulgently. “I can see you are a very practical man, Shayne. But… you should know how far the local police and the FBI have gone in meeting the problem. Thus far there has not been a single arrest in the city of Miami… yet it is well known that an extensive Black Market exists here. You and I know there is an organized ring of gasoline thieves who bootleg their stolen stuff at an enormous profit. The police seem powerless to stamp it out. And lately…” he paused to give his words emphasis, “… I’ve heard rumors of a counterfeiting ring offering forged ration books for sale.” Brannigan’s eyes were no longer twinkling. They were cold and demanding. “Have you heard any such rumors?”

Shayne took his cigarette from his mouth and studied the burning tip. He said, “Whether I have or haven’t, how do you propose to use such information?”

Mr. Brannigan fitted the fingertips of his hands together. “We plan to make that one of the outstanding services of the Motorist Protective Association. With our vastly expanding membership, soon to include every motorist on the Eastern Seaboard, we have an unparalleled opportunity for public service. Each member will be urged to report every person who approaches him with a scheme for rationing violation.”

“But I still don’t see where I come in,” Shayne said.

“According to this morning’s paper the murder last night was committed by members of a gang who sought to force Wilson to deal with them.”

“That,” said Shayne, “is true.”

Brannigan nodded. “And it appears that you possess information about the scheme, perhaps even the identity of the actual murderer or murderers.”

Shayne murmured, “Perhaps.” His eyes were very bright but his angular face remained impassive.

“Don’t you see how important that is?” Brannigan’s soft fist struck the desk. “What wonderful publicity it would be for our organization if we could expose the racket!”

Shayne took a final drag on his cigarette and ground it out in a shining brass tray on the desk. “What’s your idea on it?” he asked.

Brannigan folded his arms on the desk and leaned toward Shayne in a confidential attitude. “I wonder if you could be induced to share your information with us, Mr. Shayne? With our facilities it is likely we could promptly smash the racket and obtain the arrest of Wilson’s murderer. We could even prevent further murders brought on by gasoline racketeering.”

Shayne said, “It would depend on the inducement you offer.”

Again a pained expression flitted over Brannigan’s face. “It’s a great opportunity for public service. In times like these no loyal citizen can conscientiously put a price on patriotism.”

“I suppose you’re going to tell me that your organization operates on an altruistic set-up,” Shayne said bluntly.

Dejection covered the square face of the president. “There are certain expenses connected with such an organization as ours,” he said with stiff dignity. “We have a large overhead and a salaried staff.”

“You don’t look exactly ill-fed, Brannigan.” Shayne held up a big palm to stop a protest, and continued, “Let’s drop the preliminaries and get down to business. You’ve got a good thing here. It looks legitimate and your members probably get what they pay for. But that’s beside the point. If you could get the credit for rounding up a gang of murderers and gas racketeers it’d be worth a million dollars in publicity. New members would flock to join you. Isn’t that true?”

“Well…” Brannigan squirmed. “Presumably, yes.”

“All right. How much?”

The president spread out his smooth white hands. “Really, Mr. Shayne, how do I know how much your information is worth until I know what it is?”

“You don’t.”

“I assure you we’ll be fair. If you could only give me an inkling.”

Shayne said, “No.” He made himself comfortable and lit another cigarette. “I’m playing for high stakes, too.”

“Surely you have no thought of dealing with those scoundrels,” Brannigan said in a trembling voice. “You wouldn’t take a bribe from them?”

“I’d rather get paid for turning them in than accept their proposition, Brannigan. After all, Clem Wilson was my friend.”

“But don’t you see how impossible it is to judge what your information is worth as long as I don’t know what it is?” Brannigan argued.

Shayne laughed harshly. “You and the gang are in the same boat.
They
don’t know how much Wilson told me before he died, either.”

“Does it concern forged ration books?”

Shayne’s gray eyes were hard as he looked squarely at Brannigan. “I’ll have to see some money before I start talking.”

“Very well. A thousand dollars… payable when and if the gang is apprehended and our association receives appropriate credit for their capture.”

Shayne laughed scornfully. “A grand is peanuts. How many members have you?”

Brannigan blinked. “Some eight thousand at present.”

“At how much a head?”

“Annual dues are five dollars. Little enough when you consider our service.”

Shayne growled, “Leave out the sales talk. Eight thousand at five bucks… that’s forty grand. Is that the extent of your charge?”

“That’s the basic charge,” the president admitted uncomfortably. “There are, of course, nominal charges for various special services.”

Teetering his chair back to a solid position, Shayne said, “Hell, you’ve got a gold mine. You’d double your membership over night if you got the right sort of publicity on this Wilson murder. And you offer me a thousand bucks!”

“But you don’t realize what our expenses run to,” Brannigan said irritably.

Shayne waved the feeble protest aside. “When you start playing with forty grand you can afford a front like this. How does this deal sound?… I go ahead and work on this my own way and when I crack the case I see that you get the credit… the publicity. We split the admission fees of all new members you get as a result.”

Brannigan smiled thinly. “That’s impossible. We’re getting new members every day. There would be no way of determining how many joined as a result of your work. Besides, half the admission fee is a preposterous sum.”

Shayne heard a door open behind him. Brannigan was facing the door and Shayne saw an almost imperceptible change in his expression.

Turning his head, Shayne saw a woman coming toward the desk with a sheaf of legal papers in her hand. She stopped when her eyes met his.

Brannigan said, “Come on in, Miss Taylor. This is Michael Shayne. Miss Taylor,” he explained, “is our vice-president and head of our legal department.”

She kept on looking at Shayne while she said to Brannigan, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were busy.”

Shayne stood up and extended his hand, saying, “I’m glad to know you, Miss Taylor,” looking into a pair of clear hazel eyes that returned his gaze with composed interest.

She was tall, compactly put together with firm curves in the right places. She had the appearance of a woman who always bathed in cold water. Her gray suit was mannish and well tailored, and her honey-colored hair was severely coiffured.

Her mouth was soft, upcurved at the corners, and she was not in a hurry to take her hand from Shayne’s. She said, “Michael Shayne… you’re the local bogey-man aren’t you?” impudently. Her fingertips trailed against his palm as he let go of her hand.

“I’m a bogey-man only when the occasion demands it,” he said.

“I suppose you’d rather be called a private detective,” she drawled in a deep, intimate contralto. Her mouth smiled, but her eyes held no hint of laughter.

“Mr. Shayne has refused to co-operate with us, Edna,” Brannigan interposed fussily. He turned to Shayne and explained, “Miss Taylor and I discussed the matter before I called you.”

“Naturally,” Shayne said dryly.

“That’s a shame,” Edna Taylor murmured. She moved around to Brannigan’s side and laid the papers before him. She looked directly at Shayne and said, “I think I would enjoy working with you.”

“Miss Taylor was prepared to handle the legal details,” Brannigan cut in hastily, “if you saw fit to join with us.”

“Maybe,” Shayne conceded, “you’ve got something there.” He took out a pack of cigarettes and offered one to the vice-president.

She said, “Thanks,” leaning close for a light from the match he struck. “I hope your decision isn’t irrevocable.”

Shayne drew in a lungful of smoke. “I haven’t made any decision. I’ve been waiting for the right kind of an offer.”

“He has a preposterous idea of what his information is worth to us,” Brannigan complained.

Edna puckered her mouth so that a dimple came to her smooth cheek when she blew smoke through her lips. “Perhaps I could persuade you, Michael Shayne.”