Heads You Lose (7 page)

“I’m not easily persuaded,” he warned.

“So?” Her eyes were provocative. “Let’s see… I’m frightfully busy with a brief today. Perhaps we could discuss it over a cocktail.”

“A lot of cocktails,” Shayne amended. “About six this afternoon?”

She nodded slowly. “If you’ll call for me.” She gave him an address on the Bayfront.

Shayne took a notebook from his pocket and wrote the address.

Miss Taylor moved back to Brannigan’s chair and put the tips of her fingers on his shoulder. She said, “As soon as you look this over I’d like to discuss it with you.” Coming back past Shayne she said, “Bye… now. See you later,” and went out.

Brannigan muttered, “Wonderful woman,” without lifting his eyes from the papers she had laid before him. “Wonderful legal mind. I’m sure she’ll present some arguments you’ll be unable to resist, Mr. Shayne.”

“I have a hunch,” said Shayne as he picked up his hat, “she will.”

CHAPTER

DETECTIVES PETERSON AND MCNULTY GREETED Shayne reproachfully in the lobby when he returned to his hotel-apartment.

“That was a fine stunt to pull,” McNulty complained, and Peterson added mournfully, “Did we get chewed up by the Chief! As if we could of kept that guy from shooting at you in the bedroom even if we’d been camped across from the right door ’stead of being one flight up.”

The two officers closed in on Shayne and marched him to the elevator.

Shayne grinned and asked, “Did you sit up all night watching that door? Didn’t Gentry tell you I had moved to my old apartment?”

“Nobody told us anything except to tail you,” Peterson said. “Sure we stayed up there watching your apartment. Gentry had a conniption when we called and said you hadn’t left your apartment when you was spreadin’ yourself all over town.”

Shayne turned his face away to grin. He said, “I’ll make it up to you boys,” when the elevator stopped on the second floor. He led the way down the hall to his office-apartment. “Come on in. I’ve got a deck of cards and we’ll dig up a bottle. How’s that?”

“It’s okay by us, but what about Gentry?” McNulty said sadly.

They entered the room and looked around suspiciously. Peterson went to the table and tilted the cognac bottle up to the light. He asked, “Is this the bottle you were talking about?”

Shayne went to a cabinet in the kitchenette and brought out a full bottle and set it on the table. He said, “Make yourselves at home, boys,” and yawned widely. “I’ve got some sleeping to do.”

In the bedroom he pulled the shade down over the broken pane, stripped off his tie and shirt, and lay down on the bed. His body went limp and he closed his eyes. He could hear Peterson and McNulty arguing in a desultory way in the other room.

Then he heard nothing.

He slept a couple of hours. The telephone wakened him. He lay on his back and heard McNulty saying gruffly, “Just a minute and I’ll get him.”

Shayne sat up when the police detective came in. Pitching his voice high, McNulty shouted, “Paging Mr. Shayne… telephone for Mr. Shayne,” and held out his hand for a tip.

Shayne caught his hand and pulled himself from the bed, saying, “You can make my bed now, boy,” and went in to the telephone.

An unfamiliar voice asked, “This Mike Shayne?”

“Yeh,” Shayne answered, yawning into the mouthpiece.

“Who was that answered the phone?”

“That,” said Shayne pleasantly, “was the Blue Fairy. Who the hell is this?”

“Look, Shayne,” the voice grated, “you alone?”

“Practically. Couple of dicks here but they’re not very bright.”

“Can you ditch ’em?”

“Sure. Why?”

“If you’re smart you’ll get rid of ’em. Maybe you’re ready to do some business.”

“What kind of business?”

“Listen, Shayne… this is the pay-off.”

“In that case,” Shayne said, “I’m always glad to talk things over.”

“You’re pretty smart, but we ain’t dumb either, see? Here’s the way you’ll do it. Get this, and get it straight.”

“I’ll get it,” Shayne said impatiently.

“Go to the post office and there’s a letter for you in General Delivery. It tells you what to do. You’ll be watched while you get the letter and from then on. If you say anything to anybody or signal anybody or are followed when you leave the post office, the deal’s off. And the next bullet won’t miss.”

Shayne said, “It’s a date.” He hung up, turned around and grinned at Peterson and McNulty, ruffling his hair. “I wish to God dames would let me alone when I’m on a case.”

“That dame,” McNulty observed, “ought to do somethin’ about her voice.”

“She’s got a bad cold,” Shayne told him. He went into the bathroom and soused water over his face and head. In the bedroom he replaced his shirt and tie, fingered the gun in the holster nestling against his right groin, came out and picked up his hat.

McNulty and Peterson ranged themselves alongside him. Peterson said, “Maybe she’s got a couple of girl friends, so we’ll just tag along.”

“They wouldn’t be your type, boys,” Shayne argued.

“With my charm,” said McNulty, “I’ll get along okay.”

The trio moved out of the room and down the hall. McNulty said to Peterson, “Stick close to him, Pete, and maybe some of Mike’s Irish luck’ll rub off on us.”

Peterson nodded happily. “I’m curious. I’ve allus wondered what kind of dame would spread for a Shamus.”

“Trouble with you boys,” Shayne said, “is you don’t ever get down on your knees at night and pray.”

A derisive grunt came from the two men as the elevator stopped. They went down, marched through the lobby with him and out to his car. Shayne slid under the wheel, his face impassive. He waited for them to get in beside him, then drove up Third Avenue a couple of blocks beyond Flagler. He stopped in front of a bar and said:

“We’ve got some time to kill before I keep my date.”

He parked his car where it couldn’t be seen from the interior, got out and strolled in.

McNulty and Peterson followed him with grim determination.

Shayne said to the bartender, “Set out a bottle of cognac for me, Louis,” and went on to a rear booth. The two detectives stalked back with him and squeezed into the seat across the table.

Louis came back with a fifth of cognac, a four-ounce glass and a tumbler of ice water.

McNulty said, “What’s the idea? Two more glasses, Louis.”

Shayne said, “Hell, no. You guys buy your own drinks.” He carefully filled his glass to the brim.

“Beer for me,” said Peterson with resignation and disgust, and McNulty nodded confirmation to the bartender.

Shayne lifted his brimming glass in both hands and passed it back and forth beneath his flared nostrils, breathing deeply of the aroma, then drank a small portion.

Louis brought two beers and set them before the police detectives.

“Look, Mike,” McNulty exploded, “what’s the dope? Who was on the phone back there?”

“Her name,” said Shayne dreamily, “is Geraldine.”

“To hell with that!” McNulty thumped his beer mug down. “I answered the phone. You’re figuring on pulling another disappearing act.”

“Listen, boys,” Shayne said seriously, “I know how Gentry is. I wouldn’t let you down.” He toyed with his glass a moment, then refilled it.

Peterson’s long nose twitched. He complained, “Goddamn it, Mike, you know we had this job wished on us.”

“Yeh. I know,” Shayne said sympathetically. He took a sip of cognac, pushed the glass away and got up. “Want to match to see which one of you accompanies me to the can?”

Peterson’s face darkened and McNulty choked over his beer. “I’ll go,” said Peterson. “I’ll just see, by God, that there’s not a back door.”

Shayne waited politely while he got up and preceded him to a side door lettered MEN. Peterson went in and turned on the light, surveyed a four-by-six cubicle containing a stained lavatory and a toilet. Sunlight streamed through a cobwebbed skylight eight feet above the floor and there was no other exit.

Peterson went out muttering, “All right, smart guy. I’ll wait outside.”

Shayne closed and locked the door, got up on the lavatory and unlatched the steel-sashed skylight. With the toe of his shoe he pushed the toilet lever and flushed it, then pushed up on hinges that squeaked slightly from long disuse. He caught the edge and chinned his long body upward, wriggled through the opening and rolled out on a sloping roof, slid down to the edge and dropped off into an alley.

Running swiftly to the street he got in his car and drove to the post office. At the General Delivery window, he said, “Shayne, Michael.”

The clerk riffled through a batch of letters from the S pigeonhole and handed him an envelope. Shayne held it up and looked at it, went back to his car and got in. He didn’t look at the loiterers, didn’t try to guess who might be watching him.

The address on the envelope was typed. The postmark was 11 A.M. He tore it open and took out a folded sheet of 8 ½ by 11 Hammond Bond. The brief message was typewritten:

“You are being watched every second. Drive straight to Tahiti Beach on the Coral Gables road. Take it slow all the way but don’t stop. We’ll know if any cops are following you.”

Replacing the note in the envelope, he started his motor. He took the most direct route to Coral Cables, driving slowly and watching through the rear-view mirror, but he was unable to spot any car which might be definitely following him. As he drove he got out a pen-knife and cut a slit in the upholstery of the back of the front seat, slid the envelope into the slit and smoothed it back.

Beyond Coral Cables he turned onto the winding road leading down through deserted hammocks and swampy land toward the edge of the bay where there was a now deserted resort which had once been a popular bathing beach and dancing casino. Gasoline rationing had ended, temporarily, the popularity of the picturesque spot.

There was not a car in sight behind him as he drove slowly between rows of straggly palms and wild palmettos. This was understandable. There was no side road once one turned from the main highway, and anyone following could stop and effectually prevent help reaching him.

Shayne swore softly at himself for having started on what would probably be a wild-goose chase, but he knew that it was important to follow every lead. He decided that the murderers were getting desperate to plan a meeting here in the jungle, and he hunched low under the wheel, keeping his foot on the accelerator.

A warm, stagnant dankness filled the air as he approached the dead-end at the bayshore. An occasional sandcrab scuttled across the road in front of his car, but they were the only living things to be seen.

The winding highway debouched suddenly into a clearing. The serene shimmer of the bay showed between gray trunks of royal palms, and there was a graveled parking space marked off in neat lanes, but empty now of cars. The palm-thatched dance pavilion and bath houses were deserted and silent.

Shayne turned into the parking lot and turned off his motor. He lit a cigarette and listened to the sluffing slap of waves on the wide sandy beach and to the faint whisper of palm fronds.

The air was warm, and the humid stench of the swamp was thick in his nostrils. A squirrel chattered angrily from a twisted mangrove beyond the silent pavilion, and a fish broke the calm waters of the bay with a loud splash.

For several minutes there was no other sound. Shayne finished his cigarette and spun the butt away. He wished he had that drink of cognac he had left as a decoy on the barroom table. His mouth twisted into a grin at the thought of Peterson and McNulty keeping watch on the empty men’s room.

He heard a sound as of someone moving stealthily in the palmetto thicket behind him. He stiffened with his hands tight on the steering wheel.

A voice, quite close to him, said, “Hold it like that and you won’t get hurt.” The tone was curiously thick, as if it came from a sore throat.

Shayne did not move. He said, “I’m holding it.”

He heard other movement behind him. The same voice spoke again, much closer. “Unlatch the door and get out slow. Keep your back turned this way.”

Shayne grumbled, “This is a hell of a way to talk things over.” He unlatched the door and slid from the car.

The voice gave a low order, “Go over him, Pat,” and foot-steps approached from behind.

“I’m not carrying anything,” Shayne told him. “Hell, I thought we were going to make a deal.”

“Maybe we will, but it’ll be our way.”

Shayne felt breath on the back of his neck, and a growl, “Git yore hands up.”

A pair of hairy paws came around patted his chest and sides all the way down to his waist, then slid around to feel across his hips and outer thighs. “He’s clean, I reckon,” the surly voice said. “You want I should slug him now, Gene?”

“Not yet.” Gene moved forward and faced Shayne. He was slender and dark-featured, wearing ragged corduroys and a canvas fishing jacket. His face was clean-shaven and of the unhealthy pallor of a grubworm. A .45 Colt’s automatic hung carelessly from the long, lax fingers of his right hand. His expression was one of curiosity rather than of animosity.

Pat was a hulking man in overalls and a sweaty cotton shirt open at the throat. The sleeves were rolled up above his hairy forearms, and matted black hair showed in the open V of his shirt. He was bareheaded and had flat features characterized by a leer of animal cunning.

Shayne’s gaze flickered past the dull eyes of Pat to Gene. He said, “What’s the idea of all the hokus? I’m not pulling anything.”

“Sure you’re not,” Gene agreed. His voice sank to a sibilant purr. “Not never no more.”

Shayne’s lips drew back from his teeth. “The old double-cross, eh?”

“That’s right, chum. You’re through listening to telephones.” Gene glanced down at the automatic in his hand. “You want to break him in two, Pat?”

Pat bobbed his head and said, “Yup,” happily. Slaver wet the corners of his mouth. He doubled his fists and they were like picnic hams. Childlike anticipation glinted from his eyes as he took a step forward.

Shayne said, “Wait,” sharply. He scowled at Gene. “I’m not going to be tough to deal with.”

Gene laughed. “You’re not going to be tough, period. Not after Pat softens you up.”

“You’re making a mistake,” Shayne warned. “If I’m not back by dark Will Gentry gets a sealed envelope with everything Clem Wilson told me last night.”

“I figured you’d make that stall,” Gene said. “I’m taking a chance on it.” He then added softly, “Slug him, Pat.”

Shayne saw the fist coming but couldn’t get his head out of the way in time. It was like being clubbed with a baseball bat. He was lifted off his feet and rocketed backward.

Pat lunged forward and kicked viciously at his face. Shayne rolled aside, forcing his right hand down to his side pocket. Pat fell on top of him, slobbering happily. He clubbed Shayne with huge fists, then lifted his body high and thumped it down.

Shayne twisted himself into a ball and got one heel in Pat’s mouth. His fingers closed about the butt of his .38 and it came free from the cut-out pocket as he drove Pat backward. He threw one shot at Gene’s crouching figure before Pat lunged in again. Twisting the muzzle upward, he pulled the trigger twice. The explosions were muffled beneath the weight of Pat’s hulking body.