Heads You Lose (8 page)

Pat’s hands were seeking his throat. Shayne twisted his head to get his teeth into one palm. He got his right wrist free and fired another bullet into the carcass sprawled across him.

Pat responded with a grunt. His huge body began to grow limp. Shayne put all his strength in a twisting, side-wise motion, and suddenly sat up.

He blinked in the bright sunlight and looked around stupidly for Gene, but Shayne and Pat were the only ones in the little clearing.

Swaying to his feet, he heard the sputter of a gasoline motor somewhere on the bay. He staggered forward a few steps and collapsed in a heap. He felt as though all his ribs had been shoved into his lungs.

As he lay there fighting for breath he witnessed an amazing thing.

In spite of three steel-jacketed bullets in his body, Pat was getting to his feet. He came up slowly, a look of childish hurt and disappointment on his broad, flat face. He whined, “Gene… don’ leave me, Gene,” and began dragging himself toward the sound of the motor.

Shayne lay on his side and watched the big man’s faltering progress. Twice he fell on his face, twice he dragged himself up and went on.

A complete sense of lassitude enveloped Shayne. Why had Gene taken it on the lam instead of finishing him off with the .45? None of it made any sense.

He rolled over and painfully drew himself to a sitting position. Sunlight glinted from Gene’s heavy automatic near his feet. He picked it up and let his breath out in a low whistle when he saw the trigger of the automatic smashed back against the guard, rendering the weapon useless.

As he stared in amazement, examining the weapon carefully, he realized that his one unaimed shot had struck the pistol at a vulnerable point. It was pure luck. He could not repeat such a performance in a thousand shots by taking careful aim. One of those once-in-a-lifetime accidents… and it had saved his life.

He rocked to his knees and stood up. When he broke through the underbrush fringing the shore, he stopped. A small motorboat with a single occupant was pulling away rapidly, already well beyond pistol range.

Pat was staggering down the sandy beach toward the water’s edge. There was a sharp, angry spat from the motorboat, and Pat’s giant body quivered as though a shot of electricity passed through him. He sank to his knees, then fell flat on his belly with his face in the damp sand.

Remaining crouched in the underbrush, Shayne’s features contorted into hard lines. If Gene had handled the rifle that morning he wouldn’t have missed the easy target Shayne made at the window of his hotel bedroom.

When the motorboat whipped around an arm of the shore-line and slid from view Shayne dragged himself to his car and drove away.

CHAPTER

IN THE EMERGENCY WARD AT THE HOSPITAL Shayne gritted his teeth and winced when the doctor drew a strip of adhesive tape tight about his chest. “Does it have to be that tight, Doc?”

“It does. You’ve got a couple of cracked ribs to be held in place,” the doctor told him.

“Only two?” Shayne grinned. “I thought they were all busted on the right side.”

“It will likely feel that way for several days,” the doctor informed him cheerfully.

Shayne swung his legs painfully from the operating table. He could hear Will Gentry stamping around the reception room, and he grinned ruefully as he went out.

Gentry was savagely chewing on the butt of an unlit cigar. When they were in the corridor, he burst out:

“You’ve got to come clean, Mike. This is too big for one man. You can see that now.” He glared at Shayne’s mottled face.

Shayne’s lips were puffed and there was a purple bruise under his right eye. He said, “I thought I was doing all right playing it my way.”

“All right?” Gentry sputtered. “What have you accomplished except to try to get yourself killed and to look like hell?”

“I’ve got them worried,” Shayne argued. “They’re coming to me, just as I knew they would.”

“Yeh… they’re coming to you, all right. The next time will be the charm. You can’t go on shooting the triggers off guns.”

Shayne tried out another grin. He pushed the DOWN button for the elevator and said, “Something’s bound to break soon.”

“For the love of God,” Gentry pleaded, “let me take over, Mike. Tell me what you’ve got.”

Shayne shook his head stubbornly. “That would ruin everything. Right now they’re plenty panicked. They’ll quit trying to kill me after a while and come across with a proposition.”

Gentry took the cigar butt from his mouth, studied it with a heavy scowl, tossed it away and said, “You’re not waiting for that, are you?”

“I’m waiting for anything that turns up.”

Gentry hesitated, then asked, “Have you seen today’s
News?”

“No.”

The elevator stopped and they got in. Gentry said in an undertone, “You’re not going to like it. Even Tim Rourke is beginning to wonder why you’re so stubborn about keeping the racket information to yourself.”

They stepped out of the elevator and Shayne said, “To hell with Rourke.”

“But that’s what everybody’s asking,” Gentry argued as they stepped out onto the street. “Look at the spot it puts me in. I let you get yourself killed… the only witness in a murder and racketeering set-up. So you’re a goddamned hero and I’m the goat. And the boys go on merrily running their Black Market.”

“We’re making progress,” Shayne assured him. “We’re smoking them out. We’ve got a description of the guy who took a pot-shot at me, and I’ll know Gene if I ever see him again. We know they use a motorboat. And you’ve got a .45 that you can check against the bullets in that kid hobo’s body. The one who visited me early this morning. And you’ve got Pat’s corpse. Anything on him?”

“Not a damned thing. We’re checking on his prints, but as far as I know he’s not hooked up with any local outfit.”

“We wouldn’t have a damn one of those leads if I hadn’t stuck my neck out,” Shayne reminded him wearily. “You know I’m right. The minute I talk they’ll pull in their horns and go into hiding. As long as they have only one man to kill, they’ll keep on trying.”

Gentry was sullen as they walked toward Shayne’s car. He said, “I’m pulling Peterson and McNulty off their assignment. If you’re going to be a pigheaded fool there’s no use making the department look any sillier than necessary.”

“Thanks. That’ll save me the trouble of ditching them,” Shayne agreed. “I’ve got a six o’clock date and I don’t need any chaperons.”

“A date? You mean female stuff?” Gentry frowned.

“Yeh. I got to get some stuff to put on my upper lip.”

Gentry grunted. “Here’s a drugstore. I’ll wait out here while you get something to make yourself pretty.”

Shayne grinned painfully and turned into the drugstore, went back to the prescription department and spoke to the druggist. “Got anything that’ll help this lip of mine?”

The druggist examined the wound carefully, said, “I think I’ve got something that’ll fix you up.” He stepped from his cage and went to a row of shelves in the rear, took down a small carton, and handed it to Shayne. “Massage the lip at thirty-minute intervals. It’s the best thing I’ve found for bruises.”

Shayne said, “Thanks,” and paid the bill on his way out.

Gentry was waiting. He said, “There’s another thing… your other witness isn’t going to hold out very long.”

Shayne leaned against the building and opened the package, which contained a jar of yellowish salve. He smeared it on his lips slowly and thoughtfully, said, “You mean Carlton?”

“Yeh. He called up after reading about that rifle attack on you this morning. Wanted to know if that was a sample of the police protection I could give. And he’s called three times since noon wanting you. He’ll cave in when he hears about the fun you had at Tahiti.”

Shayne said grimly, “I’ll see that he doesn’t cave in.” He tossed the small carton toward the gutter and put the jar of salve in his pocket.

Gentry squinted up at him and asked, “What about this date you’ve got with a dame?”

“A gal I met today. A she-lawyer. One of those dames that look cold and intellectual, yet something tells you she’s nothing but a bottled-up volcano. Know what I mean? Ready to go off like a firecracker if a man lights the fuse.”

“I suppose you think you can light the fuse?”

Shayne grinned. The salve was beginning to limber his lip. He said, “I’m taking along a pocketful of matches.”

“Got anything to do with the Wilson case… or the racketeers?” Gentry asked suspiciously.

“Maybe.” He looked at his watch. “I got to be going now. See you later, Will.”

“See here, Mike,” Gentry called, but Shayne waved his hand and stalked to his car.

He drove out to Coral Gables and located the Carlton house in an exclusive residential district near the Biltmore Hotel. It was a large, two-story, Spanish-style stucco house with balconies and exterior stairways. He parked behind a police car in front and went up a flagged walk to ring the bell.

A maid opened the door and Shayne asked for Mr. Carlton. She led the way to a long library with the afternoon sun streaming through the west windows. There was a stone fireplace at one end of the room, and bookcases on either side with books which looked as though they had been read.

Carlton was seated at a desk in front of the fireplace. Another man stood beside the desk, leaning over and talking with Carlton in a low tone. In front of the windows a slender woman with a youthful face and snow-white hair reclined on a chaise longue reading a book. She looked up and Shayne met a pair of appraising blue eyes, but she made no move to greet him. Shayne was wondering why her hair was white when the maid announced:

“Mr. Shayne to see Mr. Carlton.”

Mr. Carlton pushed some papers back and got up. The other man stepped aside, thrusting his hands deep into the pockets of an untidy tan suit and looking at Shayne with an insolent frown. He was past middle age, with aquiline features and bushy black hair.

Carlton’s face looked haggard and his eyes were those of a frightened man. He said, “I’m glad to see you, Mr. Shayne. I’ve been trying to reach you by telephone.”

The white-haired lady coughed delicately. Carlton turned to her and said, “Mr. Shayne, this is Mrs. Carlton.”

She closed her book with a finger between the pages and said, “You look more like a truck driver than a detective, Mr. Shayne,” but her eyes held a pleasurable glint.

“I can drive a truck, too,” Shayne told her.

“You’ve been hurt,” she said, her blue eyes lingering on his face. “Have you had another encounter with those gangsters?”

“Yes… for heaven’s sake, Shayne,” Carlton broke in with a tremolo of fear. “You’re all battered up.”

Shayne laughed and touched his swollen, salved lip. “A bee stung me. I’m allergic to bees,” he added gravely to Mrs. Carlton.

“This is scarcely the time for joking,” Carlton reprimanded.

“I didn’t know whether you wanted to discuss business just now,” Shayne apologized. He looked at the man standing back from Carlton’s desk.

“Oh yes… Mr. Bartel knows all about it. Bartel is my compositor and pressman,” Carlton added. “He brought these items up from the office for my okay.” He indicated the litter of proofs and newspaper cuts on the desk.

Studying Bartel with intent eyes, Shayne frowned and said, “Haven’t we met before?”

“I don’t think so.” Bartel’s aloof tone indicated that he would be pleased if they didn’t meet again.

Shayne shrugged and moved close to the desk to ask, “Just what is your business, Carlton?”

“I publish the Coral Gables
Trumpet.”
He bent forward and opened a drawer.

“Weekly?”

“Yes.” He straightened up and offered Shayne a folded sheet of paper. “I received this threat in the morning mail.”

The threat was typed. On the same Hammond Bond which had been used for Shayne’s letter. It, too, was unsigned and read:

“Maybe your eyesight is too good for your health. You’ve got till tomorrow to decide you made a mistake last night.”

Carlton watched Shayne’s face as he read the note, then said anxiously, “I’m afraid I did make a mistake.”

“You mean you think you can’t identify the killers?”

“Precisely. I’m afraid I let my natural desire to be of help run away with me.”

Shayne laid the anonymous threat down. “You had to expect something like this. They’re not passing up any bets.”