“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.”
“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 8
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 t
he 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.
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