“Let me have Desmond,” Shayne suggested. “All I want is the girl’s killer.”
“That,” Soule said, “is an idea.” He looked at Denton with raised brows.
“I don’t trust Shayne,” Denton said heavily. “Sure, he wants a fall guy for the murder. He needs an out. But after he gets that, he still knows too much about our hookup.”
“Thanks to the young man who invited him here,” Soule purred.
“Yeh. Thanks to Henri. But that’s not the point right now. I say let’s hang the murder on Shayne.”
“Henri fits a frame lots better than I do,” Shayne told them wolfishly. “He had the motive. I swear that’s all I want,” he went on earnestly. “I came to New Orleans on one job. When that’s finished I’m through here.”
“Sounds all right to me,” said Soule. “Henri’s been getting too free with those cards he passes out. Like Drake. He’s going to use us for an alibi if the pressure gets hot. That means publicity. Gives a place a bad name.”
“Denton tipped me to Drake,” Henri expostulated sullenly. “If you want to get sore—”
“Nobody’s sore,” Soule told him calmly. “The harm’s been done and we’ve got to patch it up.” He addressed Shayne. “Do you need any more than you’ve got or will you be satisfied with Henri?”
“Damn you,” raged Henri, “you’d sell me out like that! Not if I know it. I’ll bust things wide open, and I know plenty to bust it with.”
Shayne grinned at Soule. “Sometimes murderers get an attack of conscience and commit suicide when they think they’re going to get caught. That way they don’t do any talking afterward.”
“It’s an idea,” Soule agreed. “How do you like it?” He looked at Denton for sanction.
“Shayne’s talking you into something,” Denton grunted suspiciously. “I’d like it better if he got an attack of conscience and committed suicide.”
“You’re forgetting the two girls,” Shayne reminded him. “Their evidence will pin it on Henri if you let it go that way. With me, you’d have to see that neither of them ever did any talking.”
“He’s right,” Soule said evenly. “It’s a lot cleaner using Henri.”
Henri sobbed. “Oh, God! You’re talking about me—like I was already dead. Like I didn’t matter.”
“If you can give us a better out, let’s have it,” Soule suggested with thin-lipped viciousness.
“Will both girls tell the same story?” Denton asked Shayne.
“They both witnessed the quarrel and heard Henri threaten Margo. Lucile left right away and the other girl stayed. Hell, she may even have seen Henri do it. Quinlan may have hold of her right now. Maybe I don’t need anything you can give me.”
The telephone rang on Soule’s desk. He picked it up and said, “Yes, just a minute,” and handed it to Denton. After a moment, Denton asked, “What was the name of that other girl?”
“Evalyn Jordan,” Henri answered.
Denton nodded, barked into the phone, “Keep it in our precinct till I get there. Don’t let anybody in to see her. If she does any talking it’ll be to me.” He slammed the receiver down and swung to his feet. “The Jordan girl has tried to kill herself. I’ll call you back as soon as I find out what’s what.” He tramped from the room.
There was a short silence after Denton left. Henri Desmond was slumped back against the wall staring apathetically at the floor. Soule studied him thoughtfully, then pushed his chair back and got up. He put his hand on Henri’s shoulder and said, “Maybe something will come up.”
Sitting crosslegged on the floor, Shayne was congratulating himself upon feeling so well physically, but when he tried to get up, his knees were weak and wobbly and his head swam. He caught the back of the chair which Denton had vacated and held on until the dizziness passed, then said, “I’ll buy us all a drink if anyone will join me.”
Soule said, “I don’t see why not.” He went to his desk and pushed a button. Immediately, a waiter appeared in the doorway and Soule ordered three drinks.
Bart stood in a watchful attitude behind Shayne, his blackjack swinging. Shayne winced and appealed to Soule, “Does that gorilla have to look at me like that?”
Soule said, “I’m sorry you don’t like Bart’s looks, but I want to be sure you stay here.”
A Negro came in with a tray of three-ounce glasses and a quart of Bourbon. Soule filled the glasses and handed one to Shayne. He said placidly, “That’s the best medicine I know of for Bart’s blackjack.”
Shayne grinned and said, “I’d drink it even if it was a Mickey Finn.” He tipped it up and let it drain down his parched throat.
Soule laughed shortly and pushed the other two glasses aside. He said, “It was.”
Shayne stared at his empty glass, wrinkling his nose in disgust. He said, “If you want me put away I’m glad it’s this way instead of under the ear.”
“We try to be considerate of our guests. It was for your own good,” Soule said earnestly. “You’ve got a rep for not knowing when to stop, and Bart might not be so gentle next time.”
Shayne said, “Thanks.” His tongue felt thick and heavy, and his lips were dry and numb. His fingers were slow taking a cigarette from the pack, and refused to hold the match he tried to strike.
He muttered, “I’ve always wondered how a Mickey worked.” The cigarette dropped from his lips. He felt a pleasing lassitude coming over his body. His head sagged forward and he slid gently and ungracefully from the chair.
CHAPTER TWELVE
SHAYNE WAS HAVING A PLEASANT DREAM of being back in his Miami apartment. He dreamed that it was night and he was in bed with his wife, Phyllis. His hand touched hers and she snuggled a little closer to him. She was asleep, but he was awake, and he decided he would stay awake to enjoy the cozy sense of contentment.
Something wakened him. The dream was blended with reality. He had a hell of a hang-over. His tongue scraped the walls of his parched mouth, and his head was splitting with pain. He lay very still for fear it would fly into pieces if he dared to move.
There was a confusing clamor all around him. The shrieks of women and the heavy thud of hard heels on bare floor. Somewhere, far away, a police whistle sounded shrilly.
Shayne moved his arm. His hand contacted something soft and warm. The something moved, snuggled closer to him. He forced his eyes open and dragged himself to a sitting position, his mind still confused with the dream and with reality. The room was certainly not his Miami apartment.
Again he felt movement beside him, and turned his aching eyes to see Lucile Hamilton sitting up, staring about wildly. Her hair was a disheveled mass and the covers had fallen from her naked body. Instinctively, he made a grab for the covers to draw them up, put his arm around her to drag her down on the pillow.
A blinding flare from a flashlight bulb flooded the room. A grinning man was backing away through the doorway, dismantling a camera from a tripod as he went. A red mist blotted out the room and the cameraman from Shayne’s gaze. He threw back the covers and lunged to his feet only to find the door barred by a bluecoat swinging a nightstick.
“Take it easy, buddy, or you’ll get a rap on the head.”
Through the red haze, Shayne saw other grinning cops in the hall outside. The cameraman had disappeared. He shivered, and for the first time realized that he was stark naked. He took a step backward and rusty bedsprings creaked as he sat down abruptly. With his back toward the girl, he said, “Stay down under the covers until I get some clothes on.”
He found them hung in disarray on a chair beside the bed. On the floor beside a chair, Lucile’s clothing lay in a little pile.
“Be quick about it,” the bluecoat ordered gruffly from the doorway. “We can’t be holding the wagon for you two.”
Shayne pulled his undershirt over his head and slid into his shorts. As he pulled on his pants he said to Lucile, “We’ve been framed, kid. Keep your chin up.”
“Sure you’ve been framed.” The cop guffawed from
the doorway. “We shoulda warned you we was gonna pull a raid.”
Shayne buckled his belt. His first mad burst of anger had simmered down to cold rage. He picked up his shirt, turned to meet Lucile’s imploring eyes staring up at him from the edge of the covers. He said, tersely, “I’m sorry. We’ll get out and let you get dressed.”
“I’m staying right here,” the bluecoat growled.
Shayne started toward him with fists clenched. “You and I are going out while the lady gets dressed.”
“The lady, is it?” The cop grinned widely. “I s’pose the two of you are married an’ all? Didn’t even know this was a cat-house—”
Shayne was close enough to reach the policeman’s jaw with an uppercut. He put his shoulder and all his anger and sickening realization of the situation into the blow.
The cop’s head snapped back and his eyes went blank. Shayne gave him a shove and stepped out over his prostrate body, jerking the door shut.
Two policemen were herding disheveled drabs and an occasional protesting man down the stairs. They converged on Shayne and pinioned his arms, cursing him violently. He tried to drag himself free, but one of them snapped handcuffs on his wrist while the other knelt on the floor to help the bluecoat.
The door opened and Lucile looked out timidly. When she saw Shayne handcuffed she ran to him with a little cry and threw her arms around his neck. “What’s happening?” she sobbed against his undershirt. “I don’t understand—I don’t remember—”
Shayne said coldly, “We were doped and brought here, undressed and put to bed together, and then the cops staged a raid.”
One of the cops dragged Lucile away from him, thrust her forward toward the stairway leading down. “Cut out the stuff, sister, and get on down with the other floosies.”
Her brown eyes made a wild appeal to Shayne. He nodded and said, “Go ahead before these bastards manhandle you. I’ll be down.”
“You’re damned right you will. Start walkin’.”
Shayne held his handcuffed wrists out to the man who had put them on him. “How about unlocking these things and let me finish getting dressed? I guess I went kind of crazy,” he confessed ruefully.
The cop smiled good-naturedly and said, “Sure.”
The bluecoat whom he had knocked down was coming toward Shayne with his fists doubled and a snarl on his face. The other officer shouldered him aside and commanded, “Go on down and help load ’em in the wagon, Groat. I’ll bring this guy along.”
The officer unlocked Shayne’s handcuffs and said, “Go ahead and put your shirt on. I know it’s tough to get hooked like this, but hell! we’re only following orders. It’ll only be a suspended sentence for you guys that were here.”
Shayne went back into the room and put on his shirt and coat. He couldn’t find his hat. He took out his wallet. “How much would it be worth to get the girl and me off?” He drew a sheaf of bills from the wallet.
The cop said regretfully, “It ain’t that I wouldn’t like to, but it’s like this. They got that picture, see? And we had strict orders about pulling this raid. I’m afraid you’ll have to come along to court.”
Shayne fanned the bills out. They were all twenties and tens. “That picture is worth all this to me.”
“Sorry, Mister. I sure could use that scratch. But I couldn’t get the picture. That was a news guy that Captain Denton sent along with us.”
Shayne said, “I tell you it’s a frame. That girl doesn’t belong here.”
“I can’t help it, Mister. You’ll have to go along and tell it to the judge. Come on, we’re holding up the parade.” Shayne put the money back in his wallet and went down scuffed wooden stairs, through a parlor with paintings of nude women that looked dispirited and ghastly in the pale light of morning.
Shayne was greeted by a chorus of giggles from inside the patrol wagon. Half a dozen slovenly drabs sat along a bench on one side, and three men huddled together on the opposite seat.
He saw Lucile trying to smile at him as the rear door slammed shut and was locked on the outside. He sat down as the wagon lurched away and demanded of the women, “Which one of you runs that joint?”
A big-bosomed, hard-featured blonde said, “Madame Goiner wasn’t there when they pulled the raid. But we got nothin’ to worry about. She’s got a mouthpiece that’ll pay our fines like a slot machine hittin’ the jackpot.”
“Have any of you ever seen this girl before?” Shayne pointed to Lucile.
They all turned to look at her. A small, dark-eyed woman smiled and said, “You’re new at the house. Sorta fresh at this, too, ain’t you? Tough to have this happen the first night, but you’ll get used to it.”
When Lucile started to say something Shayne shook his head for silence. “The easiest way out of this is to keep your mouth shut,” he told her. “We’ve got no proof that’s worth a damn. The more fuss we cause the worse it’ll be.”
The patrol wagon came to a jolting stop and the barred doors were unlocked and swung open. “End of the line,” an officer said cheerfully. “Everybody out.”
Lucile clung to Shayne’s arm as they were marched down the walk. The other women were chattering and laughing cheerfully.
Lucile said tensely, “I don’t understand. How did we get there?”
Shayne said grimly, “It’s one of the oldest frames in the business—and the hardest to prove. We haven’t got a chance. Go on with the rest of them and don’t give your right name.”
They were herded into the court building and down a wide corridor to a dingy courtroom where a bored and sleepy judge was dispensing his particular brand of justice to the tag-ends of humanity dredged up from the city’s gutters during the night.
A yawning clerk sat beside the judge, making entries as each case was disposed of—a steady flow of drunks and pickpockets and every type of riffraff along the aisle in front of the judge’s bench.
A dapper little man rose smilingly to greet Madame Goiner’s girls as they took their places at the end of the line receiving sentences. He shook his finger at them chidingly, moved along with them laughing and talking.
Not more than 30 minutes elapsed after they entered the courtroom before the dapper little mouthpiece was standing before the judge and saying crisply, “I represent these unfortunate women, Your Honor. I desire to enter a plea of guilty as charged, inmates of a disorderly house.” The judge was a wizened little man with tired eyes. He smiled wearily and did not lift his eyes when he said, “You’re building up a nice clientele. If the women will give their names to the clerk, you may settle for all at once. Ten and costs.”
The women started giving names to the clerk. There was a stir at the back of the room. Shayne turned and saw Captain Dolph Denton making his way behind the railing to the bench. He reached the clerk just as Lucile said, “Josie Smith,” in response to his question.
The captain simulated a start of surprise and peered closely at Lucile. “You’re under oath,” he warned her. “Give your right name.”
Lucile tossed her head angrily, and Shayne realized that she did not know who Denton was. “I said Josie Smith,” she said tartly.
“Your Honor,” Denton said to the judge, “I happen to know that this young lady’s name is Lucile Hamilton. For the sake of the record—”
“Yes, indeed,” the judge said sternly. “Do you realize that I can hold you in contempt of court for falsehood under oath?”
Lucile shrank back and her face went white when Captain Denton pronounced her real name. She turned frantic eyes on Shayne. He nodded to Lucile and hoped she understood, then caught Denton’s eye. The captain smiled jovially and waved a friendly hand at Shayne.
“I’m sorry,” Lucile said to the judge. “I didn’t mean to be contemptuous, Your Honor.” To the clerk she said in a clear voice, “Lucile Hamilton is right.”
Denton stepped back and folded his arms as Shayne stopped in front of the judge. A cop muttered, “With one of the girls, Your Honor,” and the judge intoned, “
Frequenting a disorderly house, guilty or not guilty.”
Shayne said, “Guilty.” He didn’t trust himself to look at Denton.
“Thirty days suspended next case,” the judge chanted, as though he had long ago discarded punctuation marks.
Shayne moved on to the recording clerk. Denton stepped closer, a sneer on his thick lips. Shayne looked at Denton and said, “Mike Shayne, Hyers Hotel.”
Denton smiled and moved to Shayne’s side. “It was smart not to make a fuss, shamus. Judge Roberts throws the book at a guy when he pleads not guilty.”
Shayne muttered, “I’ve never seen a slicker frame.”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Denton smiled broadly at the compliment. “We do have our own way of fixing things here. Maybe you’ve forgotten.”
Shayne thrust his hands deep in his pockets and asked, “What’s the picture worth?”
“I haven’t seen it yet,” Denton chuckled, “but Kearny says it’s a honey.” His loud guffaw was obscene. “The two of you sitting up in bed like a pair of scared rabbits and naked as jaybirds in sheddin’ time. You were smart not to make me introduce it as evidence.”
“What’s it worth to you?” Shayne repeated grimly.
“Just for you to get out of town and quit horsing around. Two-thirty this afternoon is the deadline. It’s got to be run while it’s hot. It’ll be spread over tonight’s paper if you don’t play wise. With a story of how and when.”
Shayne kept his bunched fists in his pockets. “I’ve still got a case to break. Are you giving me Henri?”
“Hell, no. That was all a mistake. Forget that crazy story you dreamed up and get out of town. You haven’t got a thing on Henri.”
“I’ve still got Lucile’s testimony.”
Denton roared with coarse laughter. “One of Madame Goiner’s girls? That’ll go over fine in court. Don’t be a fool, Shayne. You’re whipped. Get out of town and leave me alone.”
Shayne’s gray eyes held a hot glint. “You don’t know me very well, Denton, but I think we’re going to get real well acquainted. I’m still on a case.”
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