The booth held a narrow table with plain wooden benches on each side. There was a bottle on the table, and glasses, a conch-shell ash tray piled high with closely smoked cigarette butts. The stench of stale alcohol and marijuana blasted out in Shayne’s face as he pulled the curtain.
Belle was half lying on the table, glassy-eyed, her lolling head supported on her fat arm. She wore the same inadequate lace evening gown Shayne had seen her wear at Marco’s casino. One of her breasts was half out of the gown, lying in a little pool of spilled liquor.
A ferret-laced young man looked at Shayne through dreamy, hall-closed eyes from his position against the wall, with one foot on the bench. His cheeks were flushed and feverish. Long, yellow fingers held a half-smoked cigarette a few inches from his mouth.
On the side of the table next to the curtain, a thicknecked, bushy-headed man was hunched forward with elbows resting on the table, hairy forearms bared, calloused palms supporting a square chin bristling with whiskers. He tilted his chin in his hands to look up at Shayne. A jagged, ugly scar twitched the corner of his right eye.
Shayne said, “Hello, Butch,” and let his gaze slide past to the dreamy-eyed younger man, asking without interest, “How’re tricks, Ned?”
Butch made no reply.
Ned Parradone said, “What’s it to a sonofabitch like you?” and slid the cigarette up to his lips.
A giggle came from Belle’s pouted lips. She didn’t move, and her glazed eyes were not quite focused on Shayne’s face. She asked throatily, “Er you gonna take that from Ned?”
“Sure,” Shayne said. “I’m an easy guy to get along with.”
Butch’s scar twitched and he muttered, “He’s scairt of Ned. Can’t you see he’s scairt?”
He dropped the splayed fingers of one hand toward a glass of whisky in front of him and tipped it over.
Shayne touched Belle’s shoulder and said, “I heard Chuck pulled out on you.”
She closed her right eye tightly and widened the other one to fix it on Shayne’s angular face bent close to hers. She slurred, “The bashtard—crawl on hizh knees—”
“Yeh,” said Ned Parradone. “Chuck got tired of her stuff. Look at her, slopping around like—”
“That’s a lie, Belle.”
Shayne slid his arm over her rounded shoulders and didn’t look at Ned Parradone.
Unexpectedly, she giggled and reached up to get hold of Shayne’s hand and snuggle it against her. “You tell ’em, tall, tough and hot-mouthed. I still got plenty—”
“Say,” Butch bellowed, “d’ju hear what he said, Ned? Same as called you uh liar.”
“I know.”
Ned Parradone waved his cigarette elegantly. He let smoke trail from his pinched nostrils, and started cursing the detective in a low, deadly monotone.
Shayne spoke urgently to Belle, close to her ear. “When did you see Chuck last?”
“Whashit matter?” she giggled. “Le’m go. I got you, ain’t I?”
“Sure.” Shayne pinched the soft flesh beneath his fingers. “Have you seen Chuck since last night? Did you leave the casino with him?”
“—and I’m going to cut your liver out and Belle can fry it for breakfast,” Ned Parradone ended in the same deadly monotone.
He stood up waveringly, reached in his pocket and brought out a long-bladed clasp-knife.
Shayne stood up with his fists bunched, turning his whole attention to Ned Parradone.
He didn’t see the movement in the opening behind him, nor hear the swish of a descending blackjack. Shayne slumped limply on the table.
Butch guffawed, thumping his open palm down.
Ned Parradone looked reproachfully at the slim, dark figure standing just inside the curtains and said:
“You orten’t uv did that, Bernie. I wanted to slit his belly open.”
“You’re hopped,” Bernie snapped. “You and Butch both. Drag him outdoors and leave ’im lay, Butch.”
Butch lumbered drunkenly to his feet, got hold of Shayne with one hand and dragged him out.
“C’mon, sweetheart,” he crooned. “You wanta dance this un with Butch?”
Clutching Shayne’s limp body about the middle, he moved toward the door with the shambling rhythm of a dancing bear.
In the alcove, Belle slept, snoring loudly.
Propelling Shayne through the dark entry, Butch stopped in the doorway and gave him a mighty shove which landed him face down on the coral rocks.
The bruising impact stirred the detective to consciousness. He sat up, putting his hand wonderingly to his hard cheek, and felt sticky blood from a rock cut; then got up on unsteady legs and went back to the door.
The sallow-faced man in the mess jacket stepped in front of him to bar his way.
“Go on home for godsake!” the man implored. “They’ll gang up on you.”
Shayne put a big hand in the man’s face and shoved. Stepping past with hunched shoulders, he went around the bamboo screen and started toward the alcove where Belle had passed out.
Bernie and Butch met him halfway. A blackjack dangled from Bernie’s fingers, and his black eyes were murderous.
“Take him, Butch,” he rasped. “The goddam’ fool don’t know when he’s being treated nice.”
Shayne swung a fist at the end of a long arm toward Butch’s scarred face.
The hoodlum slid under the wavering blow, came up with fingers of both hands around Shayne’s neck. He brought the tall detective to his knees with a quick downward jerk, tightened his fingers on Shayne’s throat and looked over his shoulder hopefully.
“Can I squeeze his goozle, Bernie?”
“Enough to give him some sense,” Bernie ordered sharply. “He’ll stay put when you throw him out this time.”
Butch went to the door, holding both hands down low, dragging Shayne behind him. When he relaxed his grip outside the door, Shayne fell prone, hands clawing at his throat while labored breath wheezed in and out through grinding teeth.
Butch watched with simple pleasure as Shayne put the palms of his hands flat on the ground and pushed himself up to his knees, then laughed heartily when he toppled forward on his face. But his amusement changed to concern when Shayne tottered to his feet again and doggedly started to the door.
Butch put out a powerful arm and said good-naturedly, “You can’t go back in there, mug. Want me to bust you in thuh puss?”
Shayne put both hands on the big arm and shoved against it. His bleared eyes showed a crazy glint.
“Stay away from me, Butch,” he muttered thickly. “I’ve got to go in. Got to ask Belle—”
“You ain’t goin’ nowheres.” Butch took a backward step and slammed his fist into Shayne’s face.
Shayne went down and began getting up again.
Butch moved back to the doorway and watched him uneasily. When Shayne lurched forward he yelled, “Hey, you’re nuts!”
“Got to see Belle.” The words welled up from some where deep inside Michael Shayne. “Got to ask her what horse Chuck made his killing on. Got to—”
Butch sighed and jerked him back from the doorway.
“You’re sure a card. Whyn’t yuh tell me that’s all you wanted to know? I coulda saved you trouble. Chuck had Banjo Boy in the fifth.”
“Banjo Boy?” Shayne leaned against the building and drew his breath laboriously. “You’re sure?” he asked suspiciously.
“’Course I’m sure. What the hell good it does you—”
Butch watched with almost human concern as Shayne pushed himself away from the wall and wove through the dim light to his parked car.
Shayne drove at a speed of ten miles an hour to Little River, gripping the wheel with both hands and peering at the road through slitted eyes with fierce concentration. He parked in front of a drugstore and went in a side entrance to buy adhesive tape, iodine and absorbent cotton. He patched himself up the best he could, and rounded out his purchases with a bottle of California grape brandy.
Back in his car
he opened the bottle and drank half a pint, and knew he could make it to his apartment all right.
It took him half an hour to reach his hotel. He decided against the stairway when he went in the side entrance. The night clerk called to him as he tried to ease through the lobby to the elevator without being noticed.
The clerk let out an awed, “My God!” when Shayne turned his bandaged face toward the desk.
Shayne tried to grin, but ruefully gave up when the effort proved too painful. Sidling to the clerk, he said out of the side of his mouth:
“Don’t tell me, for God’s sake, that my sister picked this night to pay me a visit?”
“No.” The clerk discreetly repressed his laughter. “But there’s a couple of cops up in your apartment. That little fellow from the beach and Chief Gentry.”
Shayne nodded and went to the elevator.
Chapter Thirteen: THE DOUBTFUL RACE
THE DOOR of Shayne’s apartment was open, and Peter Painter and the Miami detective chief were sitting inside. Will Gentry grinned broadly when he saw Shayne’s face, but Painter regarded him with cold hostility.
Shayne grimaced and said, “I hope I haven’t kept you gentlemen waiting.”
He went past them to the liquor cabinet and got some glasses, set what was left of the bottle of cheap brandy on the table and said,
“Help yourselves. I’ll pretty up a little.”
He went into the bathroom to appraise the damage he had suffered at the Round-up, wondering whether those two little words, “Banjo Boy,” were worth the price he had paid. He was appalled when he looked at the rough-and-ready job of bandaging he and the druggist had done to his face. The bleeding had all stopped, however, and he contented himself with cleaning off the dried blood with a wet rag; then went back into the living-room.
Will Gentry had poured himself a glass of brandy, but Painter sat stiffly erect with palms flat on the table.
Shayne grinned painfully and said, “I take it this is not a social call, Painter.”
He went to the cabinet and got down his bottle of cognac, brought it back and poured out a drink.
“Painter,” said Gentry, “wants to ask you some questions.”
“He’s always asking somebody fool questions.” Shayne slumped down in a chair and indicated the bottle he had just set down. “If he isn’t in a drinking mood, Will, I won’t hold out my private stock on you.”
“When you get through horsing around,” said Painter distantly, “I have some matters to take up with you.”
“Take them up, by all means.”
“When I questioned you about Grange’s death last night, why didn’t you tell me of the connection your friend Kincaid had with the dead man?”
“Because I didn’t consider it any of your damned business,” Shayne responded blandly.
Painter’s neat black mustache trembled slightly. “Suppression of evidence in a homicide is a felony in this state.”
“I don’t admit that Larry Kincaid’s connection with Grange had anything to do with homicide.”
“Are you sure it wasn’t because you had agreed to act as intermediary for Kincaid? Because you met Grange out on that lonely stretch of beach to obtain the evidence he was holding out on Elliot Thomas?”
Shayne’s blunt finger tips drummed irritably on the table.
“Are you still trying to hang that murder on me? I thought we settled that last night.”
“When I released you, I wasn’t in possession of the facts set forth in an affidavit sworn to by Mr. Elliot Thomas who came in voluntarily this afternoon.”
“All right,” Shayne snapped. “Now that you’re in possession of that affidavit—what are you going to do?”
Painter’s eyes glinted happily.
“I think I’m going to place a charge of first-degree murder against you.”
“You’ll wish you hadn’t,” Shayne warned. “Besides, I need another twelve hours free of interference and I’ll dump this whole thing in your lap. Hell! you haven’t even found the murder gun yet. Do you think I swallowed it after I shot Grange?”
Painter was fidgeting with the knob of the table drawer. He purred, “I’m quite sure we have found the death gun, Shayne. An embarrassing discovery for you.”
He pulled the drawer open and pointed to the two .32 automatics lying in plain sight.
“Very careless of you, Shayne. Not to have even cleaned and reloaded the pistol.”
Gentry had been sitting back sipping a drink, making no visible show of his interest. Now, he sat up, studied Shayne intently, a puzzled frown gathering on his broad, genial face.
Shayne laughed and asked, “Have you checked the bullet that killed Grange with that pistol?”
“Not yet. We discovered the guns by accident while we were waiting for you. But Grange was killed with a thirty-two automatic.”
“And ten to one, that’s the gun that did it.”
Shayne leaned forward and pointed to the pistol he had taken from Marsha Marco’s room—now fitted with the barrel taken out of his own pistol.
“While you’ve been getting affidavits on my guilt,” he said drily, “I’ve been collecting evidence for you. I found that gun this afternoon—where the killer threw it after shooting Grange.”
Will Gentry relaxed again and emptied his glass while Painter snorted, “Naturally, you would cover up with some such story.”
“I’ve got an affidavit, too. From a substantial citizen who witnessed my finding of the gun.”
“That only proves you threw it there yourself last night,” Painter snarled.
Shayne shrugged and lifted heavy red brows at Will Gentry. The semblance of a smile formed around his eyes and crinkled his heavy cheek muscles.
“Why don’t you instruct your playmate in the rudiments of sleuthing, Will? This pistol with the nick in the butt belongs to me. It’s registered in my name and I’ve got a permit to carry it. If he wasn’t so damned interested in hanging something on me, he’d take the number off that other gun and find out who it belongs to.”
Peter Painter was quivering with wrath.
“I don’t need you to teach me my job, Shayne. That’s exactly what I’ve done. Gentry phoned the numbers in—and we’re waiting for a call from headquarters.”
“And you thought about that all by yourself?” Shayne looked upon him admiringly. “My, my. Stick around with me, little man, and you’ll learn to recognize a clue when you see one.”
Gentry turned his face away and put a huge hand to his mouth while Shayne blandly leaned forward and filled the two glasses with cognac.
The telephone rang while Painter was choking over a reply. He snapped, “I’ll answer,” and hopped up importantly.
Shayne lifted his glass to Gentry with a grin, said, “Here’s mud in your eye, Will,” while Painter lifted the receiver and carried on a brief conversation.
Gentry waggled his big head sidewise and said in a low tone, “Before God, Mike, I thought Petey had you when he found that gun in your drawer. Is that story of finding it straight?”
“Want to see my affidavit?”
Painter slammed up the receiver as Gentry smilingly said, “Not if you’ve got it, Mike.”
Painter came back to the table and rapped out, “That was your office, Gentry. They have only one thirty-two automatic registered in Shayne’s name. The number corresponds with the one that hasn’t been fired. They have no record of the other number. It’s probably one he stole on one of his jobs.”
Shayne came slowly and ominously to his feet. In a soft, terrible voice, he said, “That’s about the last crack of that sort I’m taking from you, Painter. Get out of here, or so help me God—”
The phone rang again. Painter backed toward it nervously.
Gentry put his hand on Shayne’s arm and said soothingly, “Don’t let him get your goat, Mike. You’ve got to admit that story Thomas told makes it look pretty bad.”
“I don’t admit a goddamned thing,” Shayne growled. “I d
on’t even know what lies Thomas told. Maybe he killed Grange. He’s so damned interested. Maybe he’s just trying to hang it on me.”
Again Painter replaced the receiver after a brief colloquy. Returning, a look of uncertainty clouded his dark, finely chiseled face. Addressing Gentry, he wet his lips and said, “Of course, we have only Shayne’s word for where he found the other pistol. We haven’t checked it with the death bullet yet.”
“You’re going to,” Shayne told him sharply. “Just because you found out who belongs to that pistol is not going to keep you from checking on it.”
Painter moved around Shayne and sank into a chair. He was perspiring freely, and dabbed at his forehead close to the edge of his smooth black hair. When the handkerchief was fastidiously restored to his outer coat pocket, he said to Gentry:
“That was my office. The pistol is registered under John Marco’s name.”
Shayne snorted like a mad bull, then lifted his glass and drank deeply.
“Councilman John Marco, eh? Another one of the mugs who’s been running around swearing out affidavits against me. Now that gives you something to cogitate on, my fine-feathered friend. It does me. But you can do your cogitating out of my sight.”
Painter touched the tip of a shaking forefinger to his mustache.
“I’m taking the pistol with me,” he warned.
“Hell, yes,” Shayne agreed. “I’m as interested in the ballistics test as you are. If you still don’t know who killed Harry Grange, I’ll see if I can dig up some more evidence. But I’m too damned sleepy right now to do any more detecting for you.”
He waited while Painter got a silk handkerchief from his hip pocket and picked up the Marco pistol.
Will Gentry pulled himself heavily from the chair, and Shayne accompanied them to the door and shut it firmly behind them.
Returning to the center of the room, he stood for a moment in deep thought, then went to the telephone and called one of the daily newspapers. He asked for the sports editor, and after a brief wait, asked, “Do you know anything about a horse named Banjo Boy that came in at Hialeah a few days ago?”
“Banjo Boy? Sure thing. That’s the nag they’re making such a stink about. Who’s speaking?”
The Private Practice of Michael Shayne Page 10
