Heads You Lose ms-8 Read online

  “The… ah… number two-sixteen,” the clerk chattered.

  Shayne released him and ran to the elevator, ordering, “Bring up a key,” as he ran. He stepped into the waiting elevator and said, “Two… and make it fast.”

  The Negro operator rolled the whites of his eyes at Shayne and sent the cage up fast. Shayne asked, “Which way is two-sixteen?” and the Negro pointed a shaking finger to the left as he opened the door.

  Shayne sprinted down the hall and stopped at 216. The door was locked. He pounded on it without getting any response.

  The elevator went down and brought up a white-faced clerk. His tightly compressed lips expressed his disapproval of Shayne and his aspersions against a guest, but he had an extra key which he reluctantly inserted in the lock.

  Shayne rushed into the room and to the open window. He nodded grimly as he looked out and across to the bedroom window of his apartment. Turning back, he looked searchingly around the room, stooped and picked up a brass shell from the carpet. After studying it for a moment he held it out to the clerk, saying, “An automatic rifle. The slug out of that shell missed my head by a couple of inches.”

  The clerk stared and his body shook with fright. He stammered, “I don’t understand. I didn’t hear anything. I simply don’t understand it… unless the man was, perhaps, an enemy of yours.” He glared through his glasses with suspicion at Shayne’s set face and hot gray eyes and backed away.

  “You’re going to stay and witness this,” Shayne said harshly. He was examining an unlocked Gladstone containing a wadded collection of old newspapers. He bent to examine them, sniffed, and pointed to an oily spot on one of the papers. “He brought the rifle in that bag, taken down, so it would fit easily.” He stood on widespread legs and glowered at the clerk.

  “But… but… all our guests bring luggage,” he stuttered, his bespectacled eyes blinking nervously.

  “Stop having the hissies and tell me all about the guy that rented this room,” Shayne demanded, his fists doubled.

  “He… he seemed quite a gentleman,” the clerk insisted. “He arrived in a taxi with that one bag about half an hour ago. He was tall and slender and very well dressed. He insisted that he must have a room with a southern exposure and on the second floor. I showed him the floor diagram with a few vacancies on this side, and he… selected this room. That’s all I can tell you about him. But,” he went on with rising agitation, “where is he? He hasn’t gone out… I’m sure of that.”

  “You’ve got a back stairway, haven’t you?”

  “Of course… the one leading to the service entrance, but our guests…”

  “He wouldn’t stick around here very long,” Shayne mused. “I don’t believe he knows whether he got me or not. Don’t touch a thing in here. I’ll get the police up to look for fingerprints. What name did he sign?”

  “I’m not sure.” The subdued clerk followed Shayne out. “We can look in the file.”

  The file was not very helpful. It supplied the name of B. Antrim, New York City. Shayne pocketed the card over a protest from the clerk and after showing his badge. He called Will Gentry and told him what had happened and suggested locating the taxi driver as a possible means of tracing the would-be assassin.

  The early edition of the Herald was delivered to the hotel while Shayne was phoning Gentry. It had already been on the streets for more than an hour.

  Shayne bought a copy and went back to his apartment.

  CHAPTER 5

  Tommy had a copy of The Herald spread out on the desk when Shayne went into the lobby. He looked up from the headline which read: MIKE SHAYNE REFUSES TO REVEAL RATION RACKET, and his face was clouded. “Gee, they sure make it look bad for you here in the paper.”

  “Do they?”

  Tommy said angrily, “Looks like the newspapers and the cops’d learn to lay off when you’re working on a murder case. Don’t you always get your man, Mr. Shayne?”

  Shayne grinned. “Newspapers have to have headlines and the cops have to hold their jobs. By the way, you’ll have to get a new pane put in my bedroom window right away.”

  “Did something happen? What’d you go running out for just now?” the young clerk asked eagerly.

  “Chasing a clue,” Shayne called on his way to the elevator.

  A stench filled his apartment when he opened the door. Shayne swore under his breath and longlegged to the kitchenette. The water had boiled out of the percolator and the vile odor of burning coffee was stifling. He snatched it from the fire, turned off the heat, and went back to the living room to spread out the front page of the morning Herald.

  There was a photograph of himself beside a picture of Herbert P. Carlton. Below them was a faded likeness of Clem Wilson and an exterior shot of the filling station on the Tamiami Trail.

  Shayne shucked off his coat and sat down; he tugged at his earlobe as he glanced over the newspaper story. The facts were, as a whole, correct, but they were presented in a manner to intimate that the detective had a sinister personal motive in suppressing what Wilson had told him over the telephone. His supposed association with criminal elements in the city was recalled to readers, and the entire story was couched in phrases to make it appear that Shayne was circumventing justice by refusing to turn his information over to the authorities.

  Chief Will Gentry came in for his share of castigation for not taking more effective measures to force Shayne to reveal the facts in his possession.

  Shayne grinned as he finished reading the story. The Herald had been after his scalp for a long time because he had let Timothy Rourke scoop them on the News. This was too good a chance to pass up.

  At that, he reflected grimly, it wasn’t a bad angle to consider. If the gang could be led to believe that he was holding out for a pay-off, they might decide to make him an offer rather than waste time and bullets trying to kill him.

  Brushing the sheet aside, he went into the bedroom and put on a clean shirt, adjusted a belt about his lean hips inside his trousers to permit a holster to lie flat against the front of his right thigh. After buckling his pants over the holster he went to the bathroom, found a used razor blade, and cut the right pocket out of his pants. He slid the. 38 through the opening into the holster, pressing it down and out of sight to a point of instant availability. He knotted his tie before the bathroom mirror, put on his coat and hat and went out.

  Shayne scowled heavily when he saw Detective Sergeant Grayson at the desk in the lobby. Grayson was leaning negligently against the desk, facing the elevator. He gave Shayne a thin smile and said, “Let’s go down to headquarters.”

  “Is it a pinch?”

  “Not unless you make it one.”

  Shayne sighed. “We’ll keep it friendly, then. Where’s your car?”

  “I’m walking,” Grayson told him. They went out together and turned toward Flagler Street.

  Chief Gentry was alone in his office when Grayson and Shayne entered the room. Gentry said, “That’s all, Sergeant,” and waited until the door closed before barking at Shayne, “Well, are you ready to start talking?”

  Shayne pulled up a chair in front of the battered oak desk and asked, “What about?”

  Gentry choked over a soggy cigar butt. He flung it toward a cuspidor and said, “I thought maybe that bullet would scare some sense into your thick head.”

  “It wasn’t even close,” Shayne scoffed.

  Gentry folded his massive arms on the desk and implored, “Mother of God, Mike, get wise to yourself. Those boys aren’t fooling. That hood checked into the room opposite yours at six twenty-two, just twenty-two minutes after the first edition of the Herald hit the streets. They didn’t lose any time.”

  “That’s what I hoped they’d do,” Shayne protested.

  “It’s your own neck,” Gentry growled. “I’m damned if I care whether you get it chopped off or not. But give me something to go on after they get you. That’s all I ask.”

  Shayne lit a cigarette and said blandly, “You’ll never
learn, Will.”

  “We’ve worked together,” Gentry argued evenly, “and you know I can keep it under my hat till it’s time to go.”

  Shayne moved his red head stubbornly from side to side. “They’re going to be watching close for any sign that I’ve squawked. As long as I’m the only one who knows, they’ll keep on gunning for me.”

  Gentry relaxed, took a fat cigar from his pocket, sank his teeth into it and struck a match. He asked, “That your only reason for clamming up, Mike?”

  “Can you think of any other?”

  “Maybe I can’t, but other people can. The Herald.”

  “To hell with the Herald.”

  “People read it. Lots of people… like the State’s Attorney.”

  Shayne stared at Gentry. “Has Osgood been after you?”

  “He phoned me a little while ago wanting to know what the hell I mean letting you get away with it. He’s always suspected you had your hand out for dirty money, but he never suspected you’d cover up murder and sabotage for a price.”

  “He thinks that, does he?” Shayne’s voice was hard.

  “Hell, you know how Osgood is. You can’t buck a thing like that. Everybody’ll be thinking you’re holding out for a cut-in on the racket.”

  “Everybody thinks too damned much,” Shayne grated, “including Osgood. Let them think.”

  “It’s not that easy. Osgood wants you over at his office.”

  “Okay.” Shayne stood up. “Let’s go.”

  Gentry remained solidly in his chair. “I think you’re right, Mike. That rifle bullet shows they’re plenty scared of what you know. But Osgood isn’t going to see in that way. I’m warning you.”

  Shayne said, “Let’s go.”

  Gentry sighed heavily. His telephone buzzed. He lifted the receiver and flipped a connection, grunted into the mouthpiece and listened. After a time he said, “You don’t need me on every kid bum that gets bumped off,” and hung up. “Now, look, Mike…”

  “What was that call?” Shayne asked.

  “Some hobo out near the railroad yards. Drilled with a forty-five. I tell you…”

  “What did the kid look like?” Shayne dropped into his chair and leaned toward Gentry.

  “That was just a routine report. I didn’t get a full description.”

  “Call back and get the details… a description of the hobo, Will. Find out if he had pimples and a buck in his pocket. And if he was skinny and dirty and wore a cap.” Shayne spoke swiftly and earnestly.

  As Gentry dialed a number, he asked, “Why are you so worked up over it?”

  Shayne waited impatiently while Gentry asked questions, settled back when the chief kept nodding his head. He hung up and turned on Shayne. “Now what the hell do you know about this murder?”

  “Did the description check?”

  “Yeh, pimples and all,” Gentry growled.

  Shayne drew in a long breath and said, “Sounds like the kid who paid me a visit this morning and was so interested in the view from my windows.” He gave Gentry full details concerning the messenger and the envelope containing the blank paper.

  Gentry said, “I’ll be damned. Suppose it’s got anything to do with the other?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine. Are you taking me over to see Osgood?” Shayne stood up again.

  Gentry heaved his bulk from the chair. “If that’s the way you want it, Mike. Maybe you’ll talk for Osgood.” His face was dark and glowering as he reached for his hat.

  They went out and across Flagler Street to the Dade County Courthouse.

  State’s Attorney Osgood was a big man with stern dark eyes and mane of white hair. He was dictating rapidly to a competent-appearing young woman when Chief Gentry and Shayne went in. He dismissed the young woman with a wave of a manicured hand and remained seated behind a large polished desk as the two men came toward him.

  Waving them to seats across from him, Osgood came swiftly to the point. Over a leveled forefinger he asked brusquely, “Now what’s all this about your holding information from the authorities, Shayne?”

  “I’m working on a case. It’s my legal and ethical right to withhold confidential information given by my client until I solve the case.” Shayne’s tone was clipped and firm.

  Osgood’s stern eyes regarded him coldly. “It’s the State’s case. This is no time to play fast and loose with important evidence. As a licensed private detective you are as much an officer of the State as I. If this Wilson murder, as you contend, is a result of the machinations of a gasoline ring, then I say to you all the more reason that ring should be stamped out.”

  Shayne crossed one long leg over the other and nodded. “That’s exactly why I’m forcing them to come to me.”

  “Do you expect me to believe that’s your only reason?”

  “I don’t give a goddamn what you believe,” Shayne told him bluntly.

  “Just a minute,” Gentry groaned; “he doesn’t mean that, Osgood.”

  “The hell I don’t,” Shayne snapped.

  Osgood cleared his throat and pursed his lips. “You leave me only one course, Shayne. I’m going to order your immediate arrest.”

  “On what grounds?”

  “Suppression of evidence in a murder case.”

  Shayne got up. “I’ll stay in jail as long as it takes my lawyer to get a writ of habeas corpus.”

  “Now look, Mike,” Gentry interposed, but Shayne interrupted him wearily:

  “Osgood is bluffing. He’s not going to arrest me. He’s got enough sense to realize his only chance to crack this thing is to leave me in circulation where Wilson’s murderers can get a crack at me.” He turned and stalked out, leaving the State’s Attorney’s face a mottled red.

  Outside the door of Osgood’s private office his arm was seized by Timothy Rourke, his long-time friend and a reporter for the afternoon News.

  “Just got a tip Osgood had you on the grill,” Rourke ejaculated, his nose twitching like a bloodhound’s on a hot scene. “What’s up, Mike?”

  Shayne advised, “Ask Osgood,” and went down the hallway.

  Rourke went with him, complaining, “All I know is what I read in the Herald. Give me an angle, Mike.”

  “Play up the Herald angle,” Shayne said. “It’s a good one.” He stopped at the elevator shaft and pushed the DOWN button.

  “But I figured on busting that story wide open,” Rourke said cheerfully. “Hell, it was practically libelous. They all but accused you of holding out for a bribe from the murderer for keeping your mouth shut.”

  Shayne’s wide mouth twisted into a sour grin. “Maybe I could use a bribe.” An elevator stopped and he got in.

  Rourke went in with him. “Don’t give me that. I made the mistake of falling for a shenanigan like that once before.”

  When they got out on the ground floor Shayne took Rourke’s arm and guided him to the Flagler exit of the building. “Had breakfast yet?”

  “No. I’ve been chasing around trying to dig up some dope.”

  “And I’ve been dodging bullets and State’s Attorneys.” They went into a small restaurant and took a table for two in the rear. “Sit down and spread your ears, Tim. You can do something for me if I’m still alive when you go to press this afternoon.”

  CHAPTER 6

  After breakfast Shayne and Rourke argued on the sidewalk outside the restaurant. Rourke was disgruntled and adamant, demanding a headline that had at least a hint of the truth in it.

  “Sorry,” Shayne said, “but that’s the way it has to be,” and made his way to an old building on Miami Avenue.

  A sardonic grin twisted his features as he entered and walked up two nights, turned to the right in the dark corridor and stopped before a wooden door on which a painted shingle read, MANUEL P. MARKLE, Atty. at Law.

  Manny Markle was the shrewdest criminal lawyer in Miami. His clientele included the wealthiest crooks of the nation who flocked to the sunny, semi-tropical playground during the season. But Shayne knew that h
is expert legal mind was as dirty as the offices he maintained.

  He turned the knob and entered a dingy room which appeared crowded with a desk and four chairs. It was unoccupied.

  An inner door was marked PRIVATE. Shayne opened it and walked into an office twice the size of the reception room. It was lined with law books. Near the windows was a scarred desk which was dusty and cluttered with papers. A squat iron safe stood open behind it.

  Manny Markle was alone in the office. He looked up from his desk and said, “Hello, Shayne,” without cordiality. His face was thin, almost gaunt, except for thick lips which looked puffed by comparison. His eyes were a pale, cold blue and predatory, overshadowed by heavy brows. A wisp of long hair made a grayish-brown strip across the top of his bald, pointed head. He wore a rumpled Palm Beach suit smeared with ashes.

  “Hello, Manny,” Shayne responded. Upon closing the door marked PRIVATE he noted that it had a rusty iron bolt on the inside. “Your secretary taking the day off?”

  “She hasn’t come down yet. The third girl I’ve had in three weeks and they get progressively worse. They try on jobs like they try on hats. Sit down,” he ended negligently.

  Shayne sat down and leaned forward with his forearms on the attorney’s desk. He said, “I need a little information, Manny.”

  “My fee is fifty dollars in advance.”

  Shayne said, “This information isn’t going to cost me anything. I’m not trying to beat a rap.”

  Markle rustled some papers in front of him and murmured, “You know I’m always willing to co-operate with the dicks.”

  “Sure. I know that, Manny. That’s why this is going to come easy. It goes back a year. You represented three punks on a breaking and entering charge. A drugstore on Miami Avenue. They were Garson, Axtell, and Dimoff.”

  Markle’s eyes were fixed on Shayne’s face, cold and inscrutable, telling him nothing.

  “Do you recall the case?” Shayne prompted.

  “Maybe I do… maybe I don’t.”