Heads You Lose ms-8

by Brett Halliday

  Gentry went back and sat down again. When Shayne finished, he growled, “All right for that. But why did you think Miss Taylor might know the guy?”

  Shayne tucked his copied list in his pocket, returned to his chair and picked up his odd-looking cocktail bowl. Turning it around slowly in his hands, he confessed, “It was a shot in the dark.”

  Gentry grunted. “Some more of your guesswork, huh?”

  “Some things you find out, and some things you guess at,” Shayne said, aggrieved. “You know how that is, Will. But here’s the way things stack up.” He went into a full recital of all that had happened in Brannigan’s office that morning.

  Edna Taylor sat quietly and listened without a change of expression as Shayne continued:

  “Then she invited me over here. She did her best to pry some information out of me on the Wilson murder. Maybe the reason she and Brannigan gave is legitimate… maybe it isn’t. It’s not hard to figure that an organization like that could be on the racket side. Brannigan’s special services could mean furnishing certain monied members with bootleg gas and tires, while others who couldn’t afford to pay more than the nominal fee… or pay an abnormal price for gas and tires… would be no better off than before they joined up.”

  Edna Taylor said, “You rat!” in a vicious undertone.

  Chief Gentry glowered at the vice-president and asked, “What additional services can you render to the public that free Government agencies can’t give without charge?”

  “I suppose you’ve never heard of Governmental red tape,” she said witheringly.

  “That’s not much of an answer,” Gentry rumbled.

  Edna Taylor bit her underlip and strove for calmness. “You’re not a private citizen trying to understand the new rationing regulations that come out of Washington every day. We have all the forms and regulations on hand. We furnish free assistance in filling out requests for B and C cards, for new tires and so forth.

  “Not only that,” she went on sharply, “we maintain trained mechanics who have made a special study of gas-saving devices and methods of obtaining maximum efficiency from available fuels. This service is supplied at cost to our members. And one of our most popular services is the formation of share-the-ride clubs among our membership. By dividing the city into sections we are instantly able to furnish a list of other members living nearby who wish to ride to work together, go downtown shopping on appointed days, arrange beach parties and so forth. All in all, our swiftly expanding membership list proves the value of the services we offer.” She shot Shayne a venomous glance as she ended.

  He grinned cheerfully. “You make it sound good,” he admitted. “On the other hand, it’s a nice spot for a racket. And if you and Brannigan are mixed up in bootleg stuff and if one of your men bumped off Clem Wilson because he refused to go along… then you’d have a mighty good reason for wanting to know how much Clem told me before he was killed.”

  Edna got up and asked Gentry in a tone of icy anger, “Do I have to sit here and be insulted in my own house, Inspector?”

  Chief Gentry said, “If you’re in the clear I’ll see that Mike gets down on his knees and apologizes. But you’d better tell us what Seeney was doing here.”

  Her cheeks flamed and her hazel eyes flared angrily. “I’ve told you I haven’t the faintest idea.”

  “You’re too good a lawyer to believe we’ll accept his coming as a coincidence,” Shayne stated flatly.

  “Perhaps he followed you here,” she parried. “If he is Mr. Wilson’s murderer he was probably looking for a chance to kill you.”

  “Seeney wasn’t packing a rod, was he, Will?”

  “No. He wasn’t armed. We searched his car, too. No gun in it.”

  Shayne spread out his hands and looked at Edna. “That doesn’t look as though he was trailing me.”

  “I don’t know,” she cried, breaking down at last. “I don’t know anything about it. You both look at me as though I… as though I…” She began sobbing violently and sank back on the couch.

  Gentry raised his bushy brows at Shayne. Shayne shrugged and finished off his drink. The sound of the vice-president’s sobbing was loud in the room.

  “She did kill him,” Shayne reminded Gentry soberly. “You can lock her up on that.”

  “What’s the use?” Gentry sighed heavily. “She’ll cop a self-defense plea and we’ll never make it stick.”

  “I could testify that…”

  Gentry interrupted with a derisive laugh. “After all that nice publicity you got I don’t think your testimony would hold water with judge or jury.”

  Shayne’s gaunt face was bleak when he said, “You could keep her out of circulation for a while.”

  He stood up and thrust his hands deep into his pockets. He paced impatiently around the room for a moment, stopping before the couch.

  Edna Taylor lifted her head and stared at him with teary eyes, “And I thought you…”

  “You thought you had me on the end of a string,” he grated. “Like most women you think you can shake your sex at a man and make him forget everything else. Sure, I liked kissing you,” he went on brutally. “What you dames don’t take into consideration is that most men have something decent to remember.

  “I’m out to get Wilson’s murderer, and by God if you had a hand in it I’ll see that you hang with the rest of them.” He turned his back on her abruptly, strode to the fireplace, rested his elbow on the rustic rock and put his palm against his bony cheek.

  Gentry’s shrewd eyes followed his movements. He turned to Edna Taylor and asked, “Have you got anything to say to that?”

  “It’s a filthy accusation,” she said in a taut, angry tone. “The whole thing is an utterly fantastic hypothesis based on nothing more concrete than the wildest supposition.”

  Gentry heaved a sigh. “Is this all you’ve got for me, Mike?”

  “That’s all right now,” he answered without lifting his head. “I must congratulate Miss Taylor for taking your cue so well.”

  Gentry frowned, his eyes puzzled. “Did Wilson say anything that pointed directly to this motorists’ organization? And what do you mean by a cue?”

  Shayne’s broad shoulders drooped. “Forget it. Wilson didn’t say anything that directly connects Seeney with the case, but I suggest you make a careful investigation of Seeney’s connection with Brannigan and Miss Taylor.”

  “I will.” The puzzled frown on Gentry’s brow stayed fixed as he finished his one drink and got up.

  “Are you taking her in?” Shayne asked.

  Gentry shook his head. “Not yet. As it stands now, according to your own story, Seeney was drunk and intent upon coming into Miss Taylor’s home, even if he didn’t use force. I want to do some more checking up.” He strode to the door, turning before he went out to say, “Keep your nose clean, Mike.”

  Neither Shayne nor Edna moved until the sound of Gentry’s heavy footsteps faded from the pavement and his official car rolled away.

  Then, she asked brokenly, “How could you have said all those things, Michael?” She came close to him and lifted her arms toward his neck. “What sort of a woman do you think I am?”

  He turned away and tossed a cigarette butt into the fireplace. “I don’t know,” he said in a harsh, weary voice.

  She shivered. “It’s getting chilly in here.” She bent forward and struck a match to a small portion of matted pine needles and resin. The flame leaped up and the smell of burning driftwood was pleasant in the big room.

  “You’re a fool,” she said drearily. “We could have had so much, but you’re afraid to believe in anything. You’re cursed with the need always to look beneath the surface for a hidden motive. I’m sorry for you.”

  Shayne’s laugh was sardonic. “Hidden motives are my meat,” he confessed.

  She laughed and there was a queer haunting sadness in her laughter. “You don’t know very much about women. You won’t let yourself. You’re too busy being cynical.”

  Shay
ne turned away and got his hat, saying, “You missed your calling, Edna. You should have been an actress instead of a lawyer.” He stepped over the bloody spot where Seeney’s body had fallen and closed the door firmly behind him.

  The soft mantle of moonlight lay over Miami. Stars shone faintly, striving against the moon’s bright light to lend their luster to the beauty of the sky. Shayne stopped for a moment and drew in several short breaths of fresh air, wincing with the pain of taped and broken ribs, then got in his car and drove moodily away. He had a sour taste in his mouth.

  Edna Taylor was right. He was a fool. There wasn’t a particle of real evidence against her. It was entirely possible that Eddie had trailed him to her house. Eddie’s wife could have changed her mind and tipped her husband off. Eddie could have brought her to his apartment and waited to follow him.

  He could have kept his mouth shut in front of Gentry and let Edna Taylor’s story stand. But before God she was a murderess, and he intended to find out why she had shot Eddie Seeney.

  CHAPTER 13

  Shayne stopped at the first drugstore and went into a telephone booth. The directory listed three Brannigans. One was a doctor and he disregarded the initials. He tried to remember whether Edna had called the president of the Motorist Protective Association by a front name, but could not recall it. He tried the other Brannigans until the unctuous voice he had heard that morning answered.

  Turning his mouth partially away from the mouthpiece he made his voice sound excited and a little drunk. He said:

  “Mr. Brannigan! I got to see you! Right away!”

  “Who’s speaking?”

  “Eddie. I got to see you, boss.”

  “Eddie who?”

  “Eddie Seeney. You know me, Mr. Brannigan.”

  A short silence ensued. Brannigan said, “You must have the wrong party, Mr. Seeney.”

  Shayne put the wide part of his tie over the mouthpiece and said thickly, “You’re head guy in the Motorist Protective Association, ain’t you?”

  “I’m the president… yes. But I… I don’t do business after hours… in my home.”

  “But this is important.” Shayne made his voice shaky and urgent. “That man… that detective is after me an’ I gotta see you.”

  “Is this some kind of a joke?” Brannigan asked. “I don’t understand.”

  “This here’s Eddie Seeney, see? I work for you.”

  Brannigan cleared his throat. He said irritably, “You sound drunk. You certainly do not work for me.”

  Shayne whined, “You can’t turn me down. I’m on the spot. You gotta help me.”

  “I’ve heard enough of this nonsense.” Brannigan hung up.

  Shayne tugged at his left earlobe with his right thumb and forefinger, then opened the door of the booth, dragged in a breath of fresh air and closed it again. He looked up Ponti in the phone book, running his forefinger down to F. Ponti, Res. and Serv. Sta. The address was far out on West Flagler Street. He scribbled the address in his notebook and began looking up other names on the list he had copied from Eddie Seeney’s list.

  Three of those bearing checkmarks were listed as filling stations or garages. Two other checked names did not appear in the telephone book. Four of the unchecked names were in the tire or gasoline business.

  He closed the telephone book with a grunt of satisfaction. Things were beginning to add up.

  Hurrying out to his car he drove directly to his garage. His gauge indicated that his tank was less than half full. He called an attendant and asked, “Got a five-gallon can, Joe?”

  A lanky youth who came to attend him asked, “A five-gallon can, Mr. Shayne?” in a puzzled voice.

  “I want to drain the gas out of my car,” he explained.

  “But that’s against the rules,” the youth protested. “You ain’t supposed to take no gas out of a tank once it’s put in.”

  Shayne said impatiently, “To hell with the rules. Get me a can.”

  Joe nodded and trotted off. When he brought the can, Shayne ordered, “Drain it off full and set it aside for me.”

  A gleam of understanding came into the boy’s eyes. “Yes sir. You got a hot case on, Mr. Shayne?”

  Shayne grinned and said, “Hot enough. I’m hunting some guy who’ll feel sorry for me having an empty gas tank.” He watched the five gallons being drained from his tank. Aware that at least two gallons was his reserve supply, he flipped the ignition switch and saw it go to “empty.”

  “I get you,” Joe beamed. “You’re going after that murder case the paper said was on account of bootleg gas. Gee, I sure hope you get ’em.”

  Shayne warned, “Don’t let anything happen to my gas, Joe,” and backed out.

  He drove out First Street across the Florida East Coast tracks and turned onto Flagler where it became a two-way street.

  Felix Ponti’s service station was on a corner on the right-hand side of the street. A neat, three-pump station, complete with grease rack and washroom.

  A dark, diminutive man hurried out when Shayne stopped beside one of the pumps. Black hair fell aslant his forehead and he wore neat white overalls with F. Ponti in red lettering on the back. He flashed a white-toothed smile at Shayne and asked, “What’ll you have today?”

  “I want to see the boss,” Shayne told him.

  “But I am the boss,” the little man said.

  “You’re Ponti?”

  “You bet my life.” He smiled ingratiatingly.

  Shayne lowered his voice to a confidential whisper and said rapidly, “I’m in a jam. Somebody drained my tank.”

  Ponti stuck his head in the window and watched when Shayne switched on the ignition.

  He saw the needle rest at empty. “The thieves been after your tank, so?”

  “Like I said, I’m in a jam. I got to have a couple of gallons.”

  “Sure. You got the coupon, Mister?”

  “That’s the hell of it. I’ve used up my quota.”

  “Ha! You try to get gas without a coupon?” Ponti shook his head emphatically. “Sorry, Mister, you come to the wrong place.”

  “What am I going to do?” Shayne groaned. “It isn’t my fault some sonofabitch stole my gas. Goddamn it, I’ve got to have a couple of gallons right away.”

  “You go to the board, Mister. Maybe they give you extra coupons.”

  “The ration board?” Shayne laughed derisively. “Those fellows won’t listen to a man. Hell, no! They have all the gas they want to drive around in Government cars. But they tell us we can have just so much. To hell with us. What right have they got to ration gas? There’s plenty for everybody.”

  “Look, Mister, I don’t like talk like that.” F. Ponti’s small dark hands doubled into fists and his black eyes snapped angrily. “They know what is best for all. You got a C card. They give you plenty.”

  “Plenty hell,” Shayne argued. “I don’t get half I need.”

  “By golly, I think you need somebody to tell you a few things. A fellow like you should be in jail. This country’s at war.” His black eyes narrowed. “Maybe you don’t know that,” he ended in a threatening voice.

  Shayne softened his voice to a tone of anxious pleading. “Be a pal, Ponti. Just a couple of gallons. You must have some extra stashed away. I’ll give you a buck a gallon for it.”

  The small dark man choked with rage. “You trying to bribe! You go on or I’ll call the police.”

  Shayne laughed suddenly. He showed Ponti his badge and said, “Okay, Felix. I’m just checking up on bootleg stuff. Did you ever have any propositions made to you?”

  “Detective, huh? That’s good. Sure, I have plenty chances to handle extra gas. But not me, Mister.”

  “Been anybody around here lately?” Shayne described Eddie Seeney. “Has anybody answering that description been trying to sell you bootleg stuff?”

  “I think you mean that fellow a coupla days ago. I told him plenty.” Ponti laughed. “I bet he won’t come back here.”

  Shayne lit a cigaret
te, puffed thoughtfully, then said, “You may be in trouble, Felix. That gang killed a man last night. You’re next on their list. You keep a sharp lookout for them.”

  “Me? No.” He laughed scornfully. “They bettern’t try nothing on me.”

  Shayne started his motor. “All the same, watch your step. If they come back, don’t argue with them. Call the police.”

  He rolled away, studying the list as he drove slowly. He saw that one of those checked by Seeney was a garage on the Trail a few blocks west. He cut south and stopped in front of Dexter’s garage and got out.

  There were two gas pumps in front and a dim light burned inside. The doors of the garage were closed.

  Shayne called, and a large man came to the door of the office. He wore a greasy mechanic’s cap and there was a stubble of black beard on his jaw. He was chewing on a matchstick.

  “Yeh?” he inquired.

  Shayne said rapidly, “Look, chum, I’m in a hell of a jam. Some bastard drained my tank and I’ve got to have a couple gallons. Haven’t got a coupon left.”

  The man scowled and demanded, “Who sent you here?”

  “Nobody. I just thought maybe… hell, you know how it is. My tank’s damn near dry. You must have a few extra gallons. How’s for helping a guy out? It’ll be worth plenty to me.”

  The man shook his head. “Sorry, but I can’t do it. God, if you knew how they check up on us you’d know I ain’t got no extra. We got to account for every gallon we put out. And they ’low damn little for evaporation. I’m telling you it’s enough to drive a man outta business.”

  “I know it’s tough. But how am I going to get anywhere without gas? Do you know where I can get some?” he ended desperately.

  “Nope. Sure don’t.” The man turned and went inside.

  Shayne grinned and got back into his car. Maybe those checkmarks on Eddie’s list didn’t mean what he thought they meant. This man’s refusal had been very definite. He decided to try once more, and found another checked name on the list with an address back toward the city.

  A plump woman was in charge of the pumps. She told Shayne that her husband was out. She was sympathetic but adamant when he went into his act, turning the tables on him by interrupting with a long account of her own grievances.