Heads You Lose ms-8

by Brett Halliday

  “They grabbed a guilty plea and didn’t stand trial,” Shayne reminded him. “One of your stinking private deals with Osgood.”

  The lawyer’s expression did not change. He puffed on a cigar and let half an inch of ashes drop on his coat.

  “Who paid your fee on that case?” Shayne demanded.

  Markle’s thick lips smiled coldly. “Is that the information you’re after?”

  “That’s it.”

  “You’re wasting your time, Shamus. How should I know? A year ago? I should remember so long.”

  “It’ll be in your records.”

  “I don’t keep records.”

  Shayne said, “I’ve got to know who was backing those three punks. Someone who paid you money to fix up a deal and keep them out of court so they couldn’t testify.”

  “Aren’t you building up a lot of hypothesis out of a little conjecture?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Markle said again, “You’re wasting your time… and mine.” He picked up some typewritten sheets and started to look at them.

  Shayne’s features tightened. He reached out a big hand and slapped the papers from the attorney’s hand. “I’m not kidding, Markle. I want that name.”

  Manny’s eyes became venomous. “Don’t try to push me around, Shayne. I’m warning you. Don’t do it.” He spoke with passionate sincerity.

  Shayne’s hand doubled into a fist on the desk. He growled, “I’ll push this down your throat if you don’t give… and fast.”

  Markle leaned back in his chair. “You’re making a mistake,” he warned. “You’re just a punk and you don’t know it. You’ve been smart for a long time, Shayne. You’ve kept out of my way. That’s the only reason you’ve lasted this long.”

  With one movement Shayne got up and kicked his chair from under him. He turned and deliberately pushed the iron bolt, locking the door on the inside. When he turned back, Markle was reaching for the telephone. Shayne warned flatly, “Don’t make that mistake. I’ll break every bone in your body before anybody can get in here to you.”

  Manny’s breath wheezed in between his stained teeth. He sat with his arm outstretched for the telephone, studying Shayne’s set face intently. “Do you realize what you’re doing?”

  Shayne advanced toward him slowly with flared nostrils and upper lip drawn back. “I got socked in the puss last night by a cop. And I dodged a rifle bullet this morning. I’m playing for keeps, Markle. You’re going to give me that name, so make it easy on yourself. Personally, I don’t care. I’d like to smash your damned face. I don’t like it.”

  Markle’s face turned ashen. He pushed his chair back, holding up a long-fingered hand as though to fend off a blow, and ejaculated, “I believe you’re crazy, Shayne.”

  Shayne laughed without moving his lips. He stopped beside the desk, towering over the attorney. “Who were you fronting for, Manny, when you represented Garson and Axtell and Dimoff?”

  “That’s something I couldn’t tell you if I knew,” Markle panted. “Confidential between a client…”

  Shayne slapped him. The force of his open palm slewed Markle sideways. He reached down with his left hand and gathered up a handful of the lawyer’s shirt-front, lifted him half out of his seat. He said, “This is going to cost you a whole mouthful of new teeth.”

  Shayne let go and Markle slumped into his chair. His face was pasty and his eyes shifted away from Shayne’s gray and steady stare. “Think fast and give it to me straight,” Shayne warned implacably.

  “I’ll have to know how you’re going to use it…”

  “You don’t have to know anything except that you’re going to take one hell of a beating if you don’t come through.”

  Markle’s thick lips moved and in a choked voice he said, “Kline… Dennis Kline asked me to handle the case.”

  Shayne repeated, “Dennis Kline,” and nodded thoughtfully. “Might be. I had a hunch those lads were after dope when they broke into the drugstore.”

  “You’ve got to promise me Kline will never find out I told you,” Markle whimpered. “If he…”

  “What’s Kline’s racket now,” Shayne interrupted, “since the feds have buttoned up the dope business?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Markle said in a harassed voice. “Kline has been unjustly persecuted by the police for years. He has been acquitted every time he was dragged into court.”

  “And you’ve taken a nice slice for getting him acquitted. All right, Manny.” Shayne turned away. “I’ll find out from Kline if you’re going to be coy.”

  He unbolted the door and strode out without looking back. Striding down Miami Avenue, he swung into a drugstore and went to a telephone booth, called his apartment garage and ordered his car brought to the corner of Flagler and Miami Avenue. He then found Dennis Kline’s residence number in the phone book and strolled down to the appointed corner to wait for his car.

  Ten minutes later he was driving north on Biscayne Boulevard. He pulled to the curb before a modern apartment house built around a patio centered with a fishpond and studded with royal palms.

  Dennis Kline was a tall, spare man with an austere face. He wore a close-cropped gray mustache and there was a rim of gray hair around his bald head. He was having breakfast in the luxurious sunlit living room of his bachelor apartment when a Filipino boy ushered Shayne in. Kline was munching on a strip of crisp bacon and he waved his napkin and nodded. “Hello there, Shayne,” he called jovially, “you’re just in time for breakfast.”

  Shayne tossed his hat to the boy and sauntered to the wheeled breakfast table. “I’ve had my scrambled eggs. Thanks.” He leaned over to inhale the steam rising from the spout of a silver coffee service, wrinkled his nose and said, “It is coffee. If I had my coupon book I’d join you in a cup.”

  Kline swallowed, chuckled, wiped his lips and said, “Nonsense. Pull up a chair.” And to the Filipino, “Another cup.”

  Shayne drew up a brocaded chair and sat down. “That’s the ultimate in hospitality. Offering a cup of coffee nowadays is something like cutting off your right arm.”

  Kline dipped a piece of toast in the yolk of a fried egg. “There’s plenty of coffee on the market if you know where to look.”

  “I suppose,” Shayne said noncommittally. He lit a cigarette as the boy placed a cup and saucer before him, filled the cup from the pot. Shayne tasted it and nodded appreciatively. “Tastes just as good as though it wasn’t bootlegged.”

  Kline chuckled again. “Understand, I’m admitting nothing.”

  “I’ve wondered what racket you’d taken up since the dope business got too hot.” Shayne flipped cigarette ashes into the exquisite chinaware saucer.

  “Don’t jump to any conclusions,” Kline warned jovially.

  “I’m really interested. That’s what I came to ask you.”

  Dennis Kline kept his tone genial then said, “You’re an amazing man, Shayne. I’ve always said so.”

  “Thanks. What are you handling besides coffee?”

  “It’s a beautiful day,” Kline parried.

  “Have you thought of gasoline?”

  “Why beat around the bush?”

  Shayne looked surprised. “I thought I was being very explicit. I’m asking you… are you handling bootleg gasoline?”

  Kline’s eyes narrowed momentarily, then his face cleared, and he glanced toward the morning Herald lying on a chair nearby. “I suppose you’re chasing your tail on that murder last night.”

  “Not chasing my tail, Kline. I’ve got some pretty straight dope that points to you behind the gasoline racket,” Shayne said quietly. He took a sip of coffee and inhaled the aroma.

  “Is that so?” Kline finished his eggs and toast, emptied his coffee cup with a grunt of satisfaction. “You wouldn’t be needling me, would you?” he asked with gentle mockery.

  “You’ll know when I start needling you,” Shayne promised.

  “Would you like to search my place for the dea
th weapon?”

  “I know you don’t dirty your hands with stuff like that,” Shayne snorted. “You hire trigger boys… like the one who smashed my window with a rifle bullet this morning.”

  “A rifle bullet? Indeed?” Kline shoved the breakfast away and turned his chair to face Shayne squarely.

  “You’d better have your boys do some practicing.”

  “If I had any boys they’d be in practice, Shayne.” Kline took a fat cigar from his breast pocket, leaned back, and lit it and let out a puff of smoke with the question, “Don’t you think you’re getting in over your depth?”

  “No.”

  Kline belched gently and asked, “Would you like to tell me why you’ve come to me?”

  Shayne gestured toward the Herald. “I thought you’d read the story.”

  “So I have.”

  “Then you should be able to guess.”

  Kline looked surprised. “I don’t follow you.”

  “Clem Wilson talked before he was shot last night.”

  “About me?”

  “You’re beginning to catch on.”

  “About my offer to buy his station?” Kline looked at Shayne with amusement. “Don’t tell me you think I had him killed because he refused to sell.”

  Shayne lowered his eyelids to hide the leaping light of excitement in his eyes. He said, slowly, “I figure that may have been a contributing factor.”

  Kline laughed outright. “You’re slipping, Shayne. You’re a fool if you think I cared that much about his site. Service stations are a drug on the market since rationing.”

  “Is that the reason you’re buying them up?”

  “Precisely. This war can’t last forever. It looks like a good investment.”

  “But you’re not letting them stand idle as an investment,” Shayne said. “You’re operating them while other stations are closing for lack of business.”

  “I’m operating some of them… yes. It doesn’t take a very smart detective to find that out. It’s a matter of record.”

  “You won’t get away with it, Kline. I’ll see that the FBI gets a list of every station you own. They’ll check your supplies morning, noon, and night. This country is going to get tough on ration chiselers.”

  Kline smiled genially. “I’ll be glad to co-operate with the FBI. Indeed, to make their task easier I’ll see that they’re furnished with a list of my stations.” He stood up suddenly and said, “This is very pleasant, but I’ve others things to do.”

  Shayne stood up. “Sheltering an army deserter is a pretty serious business in wartime, Kline. Do you know what the penalty is?”

  Dennis Kline looked at him sharply. “What are you driving at now?”

  “You’d better talk it over with Manny Markle. He’s plenty good, but that’s one rap even Manny would find it hard to get you out of.” Shayne turned on his heel abruptly and strode toward the door. The Filipino glided up with his hat. He took it and went out.

  Driving back on Biscayne Boulevard, Shayne stopped at the first drugstore and called Chief Gentry from a telephone booth. He said, “Will, did you know Dennis Kline was going into the service station business in a big way?”

  “Kline? That you, Mike?”

  “Right. I just thought you might be interested.” He kept his lips close to the mouthpiece and spoke very softly.

  There was a short silence, then Gentry asked, “What cooks now?”

  “That’s what I’m wondering. Kline is a smart operator. Yet it doesn’t look smart to jump into a business that’s been dead for months.”

  “Maybe Kline figured out an angle.”

  “I think maybe he has,” Shayne agreed wryly. “What gets me is that he isn’t covering up. He doesn’t seem to be worried about an investigation.”

  “He’ll never get by with it if he’s figuring on handling bootleg stuff. We’ll start checking his stations.”

  “Sure. Kline knows we will. I imagine you’ll find everything in apple-pie order.”

  “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 7

  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.”