Heads You Lose ms-8

by Brett Halliday

  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.”

  “That’s just what I told you, Herbert,” Mrs. Carlton said sharply.

  Shayne looked at the publisher’s wife. A flicker of disdain curled her unrouged lips. Bartel had quietly moved away from the desk and was sitting in a chair near the window a little behind Mrs. Carlton. He sat stiffly with his legs crossed and his arms folded, staring impassively through the window. There was a curious air of tension between the trio that made Shayne’s Irish blood pound a little faster. He studied the two by the window gravely for a moment, then turned to Carlton.

  “You have a policeman on guard, haven’t you, Carlton?”

  “What good is a policeman?” Carlton’s voice rose nervously. “I understand there were two on guard at your door when the rifle bullet was fired at you. I am a prisoner in my own house,” he went on fretfully. “I dare not go to my office. Though we get the Trumpet out only once a week we have a large volume of commercial printing and I can’t afford to be away from my office this way. It’s a preposterous situation.”

  “It won’t last long,” Shayne said with assurance. “Another day or so and…”

  “You don’t understand,” Carlton interrupted. “I’m positive I wouldn’t recognize either of those men again.”

  Shayne said, “It’s cowards like you who encourage rackets and murder.”

  There was a long moment of flat silence in the sunlit library. Carlton sat down heavily behind the desk. His eyes were steely and focused on Shayne. He said, “I’ll have to ask you to apologize for that, Shayne.”

  “Don’t be absurd, Herbert.” Mrs. Carlton’s voice dripped malice. “Mr. Shayne is simply saying what everyone else will be thinking.”

  Carlton’s face grew flaccid. He said, “Laura!” hoarsely.

  “Don’t you agree with me, Mr. Bartel?” she asked.

  Shayne turned again to look at them. Bartel was still staring out the window. Mrs. Carlton’s profile showed intense concentration, as though his reply mattered terribly to her.

  Bartel said gruffly, “It’s not for me to say.”

  Shayne didn’t see the man’s lips move, though his words came clearly across the room.

  Laura Carlton turned from him and looked directly at Shayne. She said in a tired voice, “You can see how it is. I’ve tried to argue with Herbert. After all those editorials he’s written about Americanism, too. About putting shoulders to the wheel, being a good soldier on the home front, the necessity for rationing restrictions…” She paused with her voice high, as though she would add more if her memory served her.

  Carlton flushed at his wife’s tone and put his head in his hands.

  Laura went on slowly, “I was almost proud of you last night when you told me what you had done. That was foolish of me. After being married to you all these years…” Her upper lip curled away from nice teeth. She stood up suddenly and pulled a silken bell cord. “I need a drink,” she said, looking at Shayne.

  He nodded. “It might help to wash the taste out.”

  Turning to Bartel, she asked, “Will you join us?”

  “Just a small one before I go back to the office,” he said in his odd, tight-lipped tone, and did not look at her.

  The maid appeared in the doorway. Mrs. Carlton said, “Scotch, Emily… for three.”

  When the maid went away Carlton lifted his head from his hands and said, “Must we quarrel before a stranger, Laura?”

  “I’m not quarreling.” To Shayne she said, “I’m ashamed of my husband.”

  “Would you like a cigarette?”

  “Please.”

  Shayne stood beside the chaise longue and she took a cigarette from his pack. The maid brought a tray holding three tall glasses, a bottle of Scotch, an icetub of cubes, a siphon, and three large ponies. As Mrs. Carlton put ice in the tall glasses, Bartel got up stiffly and said, “No soda for me.”

  She filled a pony and passed it to him, then glanced up at Shayne inquiringly, tilted the bottle over his glass. He nodded when it was half full. She poured as much in her glass and filled them with soda.

  Bartel drank his and set the small glass back on the tray. He said to Carlton, “You can send that stuff down after you’ve checked it,” and went out abruptly.

  Laura Carlton held her glass out to touch Shayne’s and said, “Here’s to happy hunting, Mr. Shayne.”

  In the silence, as they drank, Carlton snapped from the desk, “You might have some consideration for my feelings, Laura. You know I don’t approve of your drinking in the afternoon.”

  She ignored his plea, raised her eyes to Shayne and said, “It must be wonderful to live dangerously.”

  “It takes all kinds to make up the world,” Shayne responded genially.

  “And I had to draw Herbert.” She emptied her glass and reached for the whisky bottle.

  Carlton said, “Laura,” forlornly, as though he knew she would not answer.

  She didn’t. She said between her teeth, “I hate little people. I detest hypocrisy. Don’t you, Mr. Shayne?”

  “That gives you a lot of detesting to do,” he said.

  “Do you think they’ll kill you?” she asked suddenly.

  “They’ll do their best.”

  “They’ll probably succeed.” She sounded very sad. “And after I’ve just met you, Michael.”

  Shayne grinned. “I’m hard to kill.”

  “But they’ll get you, and Herbert will keep on living. And I’ll keep on living with him, because I’m a coward, too, Michael.” Twin tears rolled down her smooth cheeks. She sank back on the chaise longue with a glass of whisky between her palms.

  Shayne took out a handkerchief and wiped the tears away. He heard Carlton get up and move hesitantly toward them across the soft rose rug, but kept his back turned.

  Laura caught Shayne’s wrist and held it tightly. “You’re not afraid of anything, are you?”

  “Laura!” Carlton spoke harshly from close behind Shayne. “You’re making a ridiculous scene. I demand that you go to your room at once. You’re disgustingly drunk.”

  “Go down and publish your paper,” she said thickly. “You know, I hate you.”

  Carlton stepped forward to face Shayne. He said meekly, “Perhaps you’ll listen to reason, Shayne. Surely you can see that my wife is… indisposed.”

  Shayne stood up, wincing with pain from his broken ribs. He looked at Laura Carlton as he finished his drink and thought he knew why her hair was white. He said, “I feel sorry for you, Carlton.”

  “Your opinion does not interest me.”

  “You were almost a man for a little while last night,” Shayne reminded him.

  “The maid will show you out,” he said severely.

  Mrs. Carlton pulled herself up and said tearfully, “I wish you’d stay, Michael.”

  “I�
��ll be back and we’ll have another drink together,” he promised with a puffy smile.

  Carlton seized his arm as he turned toward the door. His grip was surprisingly strong. He exclaimed, “It isn’t fair… what either of you think. I tell you I’ve decided…”

  “Save it for the editorial page,” Shayne said. He shook the editor’s hand from his arm, and Carlton turned away in despair.

  Laura had dropped back against the cushions and her blue eyes were closed when he said, “Good-by.”

  Bending over her slightly, Shayne slid the first two fingers of one hand inside the shot glass Bartel had used, and widened them against the inner edges. He dropped the glass into his pocket, turned and went out of the library, down the wide hallway and out into the sunlight. He glanced over his shoulder and shivered as he went down the circuitous flagged walk to his car. He felt sorry as hell for Laura Carlton.

  The sun was dipping low in the west as he drove to Miami police headquarters. He went directly to Chief Gentry’s private office.

  Gentry looked up hopefully as Shayne walked in. “Well… well,” he began jovially.

  Shayne said hastily, “I’m still fishing, Will.” He took a handkerchief from his pocket and carefully lifted the shot glass from his coat pocket. Setting it on Gentry’s desk, he explained, “A guy who says his name is Bartel drank out of this. I think he has a record. Check the prints for me, Will… and quick.”

  Gentry nodded unhappily. “I sit here waiting for things to break,” he said sadly, “and you bring me a whisky glass.”

  Shayne had the bottle of salve out and was smearing some of it on his upper lip. Replacing it, he said, “Well… so long.”

  “Where you off to now?”

  “I’ve still got that date. Remember? The she-lawyer.”

  Gentry grunted. “If you walk into a bullet…”

  “No woman has ever had to protect herself from me. You ought to know that, Will.” He waved a big hand and closed the door as he went out.

  CHAPTER 10

  When Shayne entered the hotel-apartment lobby, Roger, the day clerk, reached into a pigeonhole and took out several slips of paper. He beckoned to Shayne, winked significantly, and handed him a handful of papers.

  “There’s a lady waiting to see you,” Roger whispered. “She’s on that couch between the two palms.”

  Shayne fanned the slips of paper out. All were telephone messages, and all from Herbert Carlton. He turned slowly, leaning an elbow on the desk, and looked toward the couch.

  He had never seen the girl who sat there. She wore a plain cloth hat with the brim rolled in the back and pulled down over her forehead, partially obscuring her face. Her dress was of some cheap material with red flowers and a white belt drawn tight around her slim waist. The skirt was short and skimpy and she kept pulling it down over her bony knees. Thin legs stretched out in front of her, her match-stick ankles were crossed. She wore red shoes with absurdly high heels. Her hands were folded in her lap and she appeared to stare fixedly down at the tips of the stocking toes sticking from the open-toed shoes.

  Shayne studied her for a moment before asking Roger, “Did she give any name?”

  “No sir. She’s been sitting there an hour maybe. Made me promise I’d tell her the minute you came in. She said she’d wait all night if she had to,” he went on excitedly, “when I told her you mightn’t be back this afternoon.” He kept looking at Shayne’s bruised face and swollen lips, but didn’t ask any questions.

  Shayne dropped the telephone messages into the wastebasket, lit a cigarette, and walked across to the girl. He said, “The clerk says you’re waiting for me.”

  She gave a start and looked up at him. “Yes… yes, that is… I’ve been waiting quite a while.”

  Shayne saw that she was very young. Her cheeks were hollow and her eyes much too big for her face. Heavy rouge did not hide the dark circles of weariness beneath her eyes. Her mouth was too wide to be pretty, but the bone structure of her face would have been nice with more flesh over it.

  She uncrossed her ankles and drew her legs up with her knees tight together. She wore a plain gold wedding ring and a large imitation diamond on her left hand.

  Shayne said, “I haven’t much time. If you could tell me what you want…”

  She sprang up and said, “I won’t take much time. Can we go some place and talk?”

  When Shayne hesitated she put one hand on his forearm and gripped it with fingers that were like thin talons. “Please. I’ve got to talk to you.”

  “We’ll go up to my office,” he said, taking her hand from his arm and placing his palm under her sharp elbow. They went up in the elevator and down the corridor silently.

  Inside the office with the door closed she faced him squarely, her face taut and her eyes filled with fear. She asked, “Did my husband kill Mr. Wilson?”

  “Your husband?”

  “Yes. Did he commit that awful murder? I’ve got to know. Can’t you see I’m almost crazy not knowing?” Her voice trembled.

  Shayne tossed his hat on a hook and said, “Sit down and try to relax.” He went to a wall cabinet and came back with a glass of wine.

  “No… no,” she cried, “I don’t want any wine. I want to know whether Eddie’s a murderer.”

  Shayne sat down opposite her and asked, “What is your husband’s name besides Eddie?”

  “Edward Seeney.” Her enormous eyes were fixed on him fearfully when she spoke the name.

  Shayne shook his head. “Unfortunately I don’t know the name of the man who killed Clem Wilson.”

  “But the paper said…”

  “Clem did talk to me just before he was killed, but he didn’t have time to mention any names. Tell me, why do you think your husband might be a murderer?”

  Mrs. Seeney sat on the extreme edge of the chair with her thin legs under her at an angle indicating her readiness to leap up at the slightest provocation. “Was Mr. Wilson killed on account of some kind of gasoline deal like the paper said?”

  A deep frown creased Shayne’s forehead. “I’m not answering any questions. Some people are damned anxious to find out how much I know. You may have been sent by them.”

  “I’m not,” she cried, “I swear I’m not.” She leaned eagerly toward him. “I’m just crazy worried about Eddie.”

  Shayne said, “Maybe. You go ahead and do the talking.” He got up and went into the bathroom, leaving the door open. He peered at his face in the mirror and was astonished to see that much of the swelling had gone from his lips. The salve, by God, was doing its stuff. He reasoned that if a little did a little good, a lot would do more. He took the jar from his pocket and smeared some more on.

  When he went back into the room Mrs. Seeney was crouched back in her chair looking diminutive and appallingly childish to be a married woman. Shayne offered her a cigarette.

  She shook her head listlessly. “Thanks. I don’t smoke.”

  Shayne lit one and sat down. He explained, “I know a lot of things about Clem Wilson’s murder and I’m finding out more all the time. If you’ll explain about your husband… why you think he may be guilty… I’ll probably be able to add things up and give you some kind of an answer.”

  “Well, Eddie has changed lately,” she said, pulling herself erect, “since the war and all. We got married just before the first draft. Just enough so it kept Eddie out. We were crazy about each other, and I couldn’t stand to think of him having to go to war.” A note of bitterness tightened her voice on the last words.

  “You must have been very young,” Shayne suggested.

  “I was sixteen. Eddie and me eloped and we were awful happy. Then, when the baby came it seemed like he changed. He took to drinking and he admitted the only reason he married me was to get out of the draft. Well… I don’t want him to be drafted and taken away from me, but I didn’t figure on it the way Eddie did.”

  Shayne smoked his cigarette and didn’t look at the girl.

  “Eddie had a good job then,�
� she went on falteringly. “He sold a line of accessories to filling stations all up and down the coast. Then… priorities and things started, and pretty soon there wasn’t anything to sell.”

  She stopped talking, and when Shayne glanced at her, her big eyes appealed to him for understanding.

  “I’m listening,” he said gently, “go on.”

  “Maybe I shouldn’t be telling you all this,” she said in a small voice. “None of it counts… now. What’s important is…”

  “All of it counts,” Shayne told her. “Every little thing about Eddie counts. They all add up. What happened after he lost his job?”

  “We… we didn’t have any money saved up and things were awful hard. He got some odd jobs off and on, but he’d drink most of the money up. Then last month he got a new job. He bragged about how good it was. He gave me money for the house and bought a car for himself. But he never has told me what he does. He stays away a lot. Mostly at night, and he’s only got a B card, but he always has lots of gasoline. I noticed last week he had two new tires, but whenever I ask him about the gas and tires he laughs and says he’s got connections.”

  “So you think he’s mixed up in some kind of racket?”

  “I… I don’t know. It’s got so I’m afraid to think.” A frown came between her smooth brows, stayed for an instant, and flickered away as she continued, “Eddie started carrying a gun after he got his new job. I saw it in his coat pocket. He got mad when I asked him why he needed to carry a gun.”

  “What kind of a gun?”

  “I don’t know… a pistol. Not a very big one,” she answered vaguely.

  “What kind of car did he buy?”

  “It’s a Chevrolet sedan… nineteen forty-one model. It’s black,” she ended breathlessly, straining toward him with stricken eyes, “and the Herald said…”

  “There are ten thousand black sedans in Miami,” Shayne told her gently. “What happened last night to make you suspect that Eddie committed the murder?”

  Mrs. Seeney wrung her hands together. “Well, he was gone all afternoon and evening. When he came home he’d been drinking… almost drunk… and there was lipstick on his mouth and face.” She began to cry silently and fumbled with the zipper of her purse to get a handkerchief. She wiped her eyes and blew her nose gently, then huddled back in the chair. Her skirt crept up over her knees, showing thighs no larger than Shayne’s forearms, but she did not notice it now.