Heads You Lose ms-8

by Brett Halliday

  Shayne swore softly, got up and went to the liquor cabinet, took down a square bottle of Cointreau which he kept for mixing sidecars, poured a jigger into the bottom of a wine glass and carried it back to her. He touched her shoulder and said, “Try sipping this. You can’t go to pieces now.”

  She turned her tear-streaked face away, but her fingers reached for the glass. As she lifted it obediently to her lips, Shayne went back to the cabinet and poured a drink of cognac.

  She had stopped crying when he returned and had shifted her position to one of comfort by drawing one leg under her and leaning her elbow on the upholstered arm of the chair. The liquor had brought some color to her pale cheeks and she began to speak rapidly:

  “Eddie was drunk, as I said. Drunker than I ever saw him. He was so disgusting… vomiting on the bathroom floor and I had to take off his clothes and get him to bed. It was about two o’clock when he got home.” She stopped and chewed on her underlip, twisting her thin fingers together. Her eyes were flooded with tears, but she didn’t cry again.

  Shayne waited for her to go on. He was certain, now, that she was on the level.

  “That was more than I could stand,” she went on after a little while. “I decided to leave him. I had threatened to before, and he always got mad and said he’d beat me if I did. It was the draft, you see. I stayed on because I felt guilty too, but after we got in the war I didn’t feel the way I did before. But Eddie figured he was safe as long as he had a wife and baby. If I left him he was afraid they’d put him in one-A.

  “Well, after I got him to bed last night I was determined to find out what I could, so I went through his pockets. He had a lot of money… over two hundred dollars. I took exactly half. There wasn’t any gun in his pockets, but I found a list of names written on a typewriter.” She paused, shivered violently, and looked at Shayne.

  Shayne’s gray eyes were soft and sympathetic. He asked, “Would you like another sip of wine?”

  “Could I? Just a little. It makes me feel… stronger.”

  Shayne took her glass and poured a small portion of the sweet liquor into it. He sat down as he handed it to her, asked, “What about the list of names?”

  “I don’t know anything about business, of course,” she said. “Some of the names had a checkmark in pencil and some weren’t marked at all. Two of them had a pencil line drawn through them.” Her voice trembled and slid into silence. She took a sip from her glass. She lowered her eyes to her lap, but no tears came out.

  “Then you’ve left Eddie… left home?” Shayne prompted.

  “No… well, I didn’t leave then. The baby was sick and I didn’t want to take her out at night. But… I hid my half of Eddie’s money and I wired my folks I’d be home today. They live up at Sebring.”

  Shayne looked at his watch when she stopped talking. It was five-thirty. He took the jar from his pocket and rubbed some more salve on his lips. His upper lip was feeling almost normal again.

  Mrs. Seeney roused and said, “I couldn’t sleep all night. Jessica… that’s the baby… kept waking up and crying. She had a little fever and I was busy with her. When the Herald came I read about the murder last night and I remembered that one of the names crossed out on Eddie’s list was the same as the man who was murdered… Clem Wilson.” She had drunk the small portion of Cointreau Shayne had poured. The glass sagged in her right hand, resting against the cushion of the chair. She stared at him with big dark eyes that seemed empty of emotion.

  Shayne frowned. “Now let’s get this straight. You saw a typewritten list of names with two of them crossed out. One of those was Clem Wilson.”

  She nodded mutely.

  “What was the other name?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t remember. As soon as I read about the rationing racket and all I began remembering all those things about Eddie’s new job… the amount of gas he has and his new tires. I remembered the gun… and then that list.” She shuddered and slumped in the chair.

  Shayne stood up and caught her bony shoulders in his big hands. “All this is very important,” he said. “What did you do then?”

  She wriggled, pulled her foot from under her and planted it solidly on the floor beside the other. She appeared to have gained control of her fear and her emotions. She said, “I didn’t know what to do. I kept thinking about the baby. I couldn’t stand to think of calling the police and telling them about Eddie.” Her voice broke, but she straightened her shoulders and went on:

  “The more I thought about it the more I knew I had to see you. It was bad enough for me having a slacker for a husband, but thinking of Jessica having a father who was a murderer… a traitor… like the paper said, and I couldn’t stand that. So I packed up and got ready to go. I left the baby with a friend and came over here to see you.”

  Shayne looked at his watch again and asked, “When does your train leave?”

  “At six-thirty. Do you think…?”

  “You’ve done the right thing,” Shayne interrupted hastily, “and your husband has a lot of explaining to do.” Shayne got up and took a pencil and a sheet of paper from a drawer. “Give me a description of your husband… everything about him.” He had the pencil poised, ready to write.

  “Well… Eddie is twenty-four years old. His hair is brown like his eyes, and he is dark. Sort of good-looking. He’s not very tall…”

  “Know of any places he might go nights when he doesn’t come home?” Shayne asked.

  “He goes to the Heigh-Ho club sometimes… somewhere on Seventy-ninth… beyond Little River.”

  “Have you got a picture of him?”

  “Oh, yes. It’s hanging on the wall in our apartment.” She gave him the number of an apartment in the northwest section.

  “What’s his license number on the Chevrolet?”

  “I never noticed,” she admitted.

  Shayne jotted down the information, then said, “The best thing for you is to take Jessica and go home to your mother. Give me your address there and I’ll let you know how things turn out.”

  She gave him the address of her parents in Sebring and stood up shakily.

  Shayne went to the door with her and asked, “Do you have to go back to your apartment? Where’s your baby?”

  “I’ve got my things checked at the depot,” she told him. “And Mrs. Jones… the friend I left the baby with… lives in an apartment here in town.”

  Shayne said, “That’s fine.” He patted her shoulder and said, “Try not to worry about things. A clean break with Eddie will be the best thing that can happen to you.”

  She appeared to have matured in the short time during which she had poured out her troubles to Shayne. She looked up at him with dry eyes and said, “I think you’re right, Mr. Shayne, and I’m thankful to you.”

  Shayne went back into his apartment and telephoned Will Gentry. He gave the chief of detectives a succinct resume of Mrs. Seeney’s damning information against her husband, a complete description of Eddie and the address of the apartment. “His car was bought here about a month ago, Will,” he said, “and you can look up the number. I’d put a man at his apartment if I were you, and get out a pick-up on Eddie.”

  “You think he’s the one, Mike? Does he fit with the dope you got from Wilson?”

  “I’m pretty sure Seeney can tell us a lot of things we need,” Shayne told him grimly. “I’d like to know the minute you pick him up and have a chance to sit in while he’s being grilled.”

  “Damn it, Mike,” Gentry complained, “I don’t believe you know a hell of a lot more than I do about this case. Sounds to me like you’re fumbling in the dark.”

  “I’m finding things out,” Shayne reminded him. “That’s more than you’re doing.” He hung up and grinned.

  It was almost six o’clock.

  Shayne went into the bathroom and inspected his lips, washed them carefully with soap to get the salve off, then took a quick shave before keeping his cocktail date with Edna Taylor, vice-president of the Motorist P
rotective Association.

  CHAPTER 11

  The address Edna Taylor had given him took him to a winding street on the bayfront east of Brickwell Avenue, a section taken over, for the most part, by rambling estates of the very wealthy. Miss Taylor’s bungalow was a small house of weathered rock tucked in between forbidding walled-in estates on either side, charmingly rustic and appealing in its setting of green lawns and cocopalms.

  The cottage was situated on the edge of the bay at the end of a hundred-foot strip of ground leading down from the street. Red and purple bougainvillea intermingled with bright orange flamevine, having outgrown the slender trellises, ran rampant over the south side and upward to partially cover the roof.

  A concrete driveway led in along the side of the lawn and a polished coupe was parked under the porte cochere. The coupe carried a Washington, D.C. license plate.

  Shayne parked behind the car and got out. The bay waters rippled with red and gold and deep purple, reflecting the colorful clouds obscuring the setting sun. A gentle wind from the east splashed the wider waves against a low concrete bulwark, making a musical sound. Palms and Australian pine moved whisperingly, gleaming already in the light of a full moon riding low in the eastern sky.

  There was a peaceful feeling of isolation in the protection afforded by the walls sloping down on either side to the edge of the water. Shayne stood for a moment taking in the scene before circling the coupe and making his way to the door.

  The exterior of the smaller dwelling was decorated to conform with the old mansions. The massive wooden door looked weatherbeaten, and the heavy wrought-iron knocker was worn.

  Shayne knocked twice. The door opened almost immediately and Miss Taylor smiled up at him. She said, “Do come in, Mr. Shayne,” in a welcoming lilt.

  He stepped into a low square room with heavy hand-decorated beams overhead. Two ship’s lanterns were suspended from the center beam, wired for electricity, but with dim globes which gave off the yellowish light of kerosene wicks. Bright hand-woven rugs were strategically placed on the polished oak floor, and the furniture was of a simple, massive design. A wide fireplace of native rock was laid with driftwood, and a silver cocktail shaker was gathering frost on the mantel.

  Edna Taylor still wore the tailored gray suit she had worn that morning, but her hair was brushed out in soft honey-colored ringlets and she held out a firm hand to Shayne.

  “I’m late,” he apologized. “Got tied up with some things at my office.”

  “Only five minutes,” she said, glancing at her watch. “If you’d come earlier you’d have caught me with a dirty face.” Her hazel eyes deepened with concern when she spoke of the bruise on his cheek. “Have things been happening to you?”

  “Things are always happening to me.” Shayne tossed his hat onto a stiff occasional chair and looked around the room with approval. “You certainly have an attractive place here.”

  “It’s no credit to me,” she told him gaily. “It belongs to a friend who couldn’t get down this season. I’m acting in the capacity of caretaker.”

  “Nice work.” Shayne gave her a cigarette and took one for himself. She came close to him and he touched a match flame to both.

  She said, “Do sit down,” indicating a comfortable chair.

  Dropping into a chair close by she shook her head to loosen her curls so that they softened the contour of her face. Stretching her well-formed legs out she said, “Oh… this is nice.”

  Shayne grinned. “I like you here better than in an office.”

  “Oh, damn the office. And call me Edna. I get so tired of being ‘Miss Taylor, head of our legal department,’” she said, mimicking Brannigan’s tone.

  “It’s the price you pay for having brains. You overawe men.”

  “I don’t overawe you, do I?” The yellowish light from the ship’s lanterns was soft upon her face as she turned her eyes anxiously toward him.

  “Not here,” Shayne assured her.

  She put out her half-smoked cigarette and stood up. “I’m glad it’s different here,” she said in a rich contralto. “Excuse me a moment.” She went out of the room with long-limbed graceful strides.

  Shayne crushed his cigarette in a brass ashtray, let his head sink back against the cushioned chair, clasped his hands above it and felt relief from the pressure of the bandage.

  She returned after a moment, took the shaker from the mantel and poured cocktails into round, hammered copper bowls. She said, “I had just time to shake up some sidecars before you came,” and handed one to him.

  Shayne raised bushy brows and said, “Sidecars,” in a tone of pleased surprise.

  “They’re your favorite, aren’t they?” She resumed her seat and lifted her bowl from the end table beside her chair.

  “I know a lot of things about you, Michael Shayne.” She made three soft syllables of his first name.

  “I’m flattered.” He took a sip of the drink.

  “You’re not… really,” she charged gaily. “How is it?”

  “As good as I ever made,” he declared.

  “Meaning that’s the highest accolade?” she laughed.

  “If that means what I think it does, you’re right. What else do you know about me?”

  “You’re tough and ruthless and mercenary. You solve cases your own way and set your own fees and drive the police department crazy.” She chuckled deep in her throat and her eyes danced.

  “Well, what do you know… and I’m just a child at heart,” he muttered.

  “You intend that for sarcasm,” she told him quietly, “but it’s true. Your toughness is all on the surface.”

  “Am I being psychoanalyzed?”

  “It’s my legalistic mind. I spent most of the afternoon reading up on you in old newspaper files.”

  “Now, I am flattered,” Shayne said musingly. He emptied his glass and set it on the table beside him.

  “You needn’t be. You see, I want something from you and I merely studied the best approach.”

  “Your sidecars are a good beginning.”

  She got up and brought the shaker, leaned over to refill his bowl. He looked up into her eyes and surprised a faint flush on her cheeks. “I’m not going to deny that I thought they would be.” She set the shaker on the table beside him. The line of her throat was smooth and girlish and her breasts swelled the tailored coat in wholly satisfactory curves.

  “Let’s not rush things,” Shayne said. “I’m afraid I’ll say no to your proposition and then you won’t pour any more cocktails and I’ll have to leave and I don’t want to. I haven’t been so relaxed for a long time.”

  She went back to her chair, sat down and clasped both hands around one knee which was crossed over the other. “I don’t think you’re going to say no,” she said with deep-toned conviction, “for I’m going to advance a lot of good arguments.”

  “You’re strangely direct for a lawyer,” he opinioned.

  “That’s because I’ve been studying you. I believe subtleties would irritate you.”

  He said, “Clever women frighten me.”

  “No… they don’t. That’s just a pose, Michael. You can be as direct as I am.”

  “I could if you wouldn’t sit so far away from me.”

  She studied him intently for a moment. She sighed and said, “I thought we would be completely businesslike… impersonal.”

  “You lie,” Shayne muttered. “You didn’t think that. You weren’t impersonal at the office this morning.”

  Her breathing quickened. She did not look at him when she said, “You are a strange man.”

  “I’m not,” he contradicted roughly. “We’re alone here. You arranged it that way. You wouldn’t have done that if you expected to keep our discussion impersonal.”

  She blushed furiously and lowered her eyes to the copper bowl in her hands. “Now I’m afraid of you.”

  “You’re afraid of yourself,” he said gruffly. “Right now you’ve got a tingle inside. You’re afraid of that.�
�

  “Perhaps I am.”

  Shayne painfully drew his taped torso erect from his comfortable position, drained his bowl for the second time. “What do you want from me?” he demanded.

  She finished her drink before answering, looked levelly at him and said, “I want to talk to you about the Wilson case.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “How much do you actually know, Michael?”

  His nostrils flared. “So you’re a stooge for Brannigan.”

  “No. I’ll swear I’m not.”

  “Just feminine curiosity?” His mouth curved ironically.

  “It’s a lot more than that. I have to know if it’s something we can really use.”

  “You’ll have to take my word for it.”

  “Then he was murdered by ration racketeers?”

  Shayne nodded and said curtly, “That much is free.”

  Edna Taylor drew in a long breath. “It’s worth a million dollars, Michael, if we handle it right.”

  “We?” He poured another drink from the shaker.

  “To you… and to me.”

  “What about Brannigan?”

  She said swiftly, “Brannigan is out. We don’t need him.”

  “So? How about his organization? He’s the president of the Motorist Protective Association.”

  She made a derisive gesture. “He is a little man, Michael. He has no vision. He’s satisfied with things as they are… a paltry few thousand per year and the title of president.”

  “And you?”

  She got up and paced the length of the room, came back to get her bowl and poured a drink. After swallowing half of it at once, she spoke swiftly and with rising excitement:

  “This thing is just beginning. In six months it can be the biggest thing in the country. Why stop with motorists? Everything else is being rationed. Why not a Consumer’s Protective League… with every citizen of the United States as a potential member? We spread out… establish key offices throughout the country. With the right sort of publicity the idea will spread like wildfire.” She paused with her head held at a dramatic angle, her eyes staring at the rafters. “Fifty million members isn’t impossible,” she ended, lowering her gaze to meet his.