Heads You Lose ms-8

by Brett Halliday

  “This is police business, Mike,” Gentry said persuasively.

  “Not yet. Not till I do some work on it.”

  Herbert P. Carlton stood stiffly erect on the spot where Shayne had stopped him. His eyes stared coldly as the two men argued. The other officers lounged against the counter looking bored, and Mrs. Wilson sat huddled in the only chair the room afforded, her face buried in her work-roughened hands. The kid reporter’s eyes were round and popping and his pink ears appeared to spread. He chewed gently on his pencil eraser.

  Gentry’s breathing became audible again. A scowl brought his bushy brows together. There was no hint of persuasion in his voice when he said, “I’ve stood for a lot from you in the past, Mike. I won’t stand for a cover-up.”

  Shayne laughed harshly. “Turn what I’ve got over to you and let you mess it up? No.”

  Will Gentry warned, “There are ways to make you talk.”

  “They don’t work on me. Be reasonable, Will.” Shayne softened his tone. “You know I’m right. You’re a cop and there’s been murder committed. All right. It’s your job to arrest the killer. If I sing, that’s just what you’ll do, and it’ll end there. This thing is big, and it’s vicious. Chiseling on gasoline rationing is sabotage just the same as blowing up a power plant. You don’t want just one man. You want the whole ring of traitors.”

  “All right… all right,” Gentry roared impatiently, “I admit all that. But it makes you an accomplice with them when you hold out vital information. God knows I hate a chiseler as much as you do.”

  “But you’re still a cop, Will.” Shayne glanced aside at the Herald reporter. The youth was hastily scribbling on a pad. “That’s why I’ve got to keep this to myself,” Shayne went on sorrowfully. “Clem Wilson was my friend, but I would rather see his killers go free if that’ll help round up the gang back of them. That’s what Clem would’ve wanted, too.”

  “I’ll have you arraigned before a grand jury,” Gentry threatened angrily. “Withholding evidence in a murder case is serious business.”

  “Confidential information received from a client? Nope. I’m keeping what I’ve got.”

  “You’re crazy,” Gentry exploded. “There’s a reporter taking down every word of this. How much will your life be worth if its publicly announced that you know who murdered Clem Wilson and are keeping it secret from the authorities? Hell, Mike, you might as well send out invitations to your funeral.”

  Shayne said shortly, “I can take care of myself.”

  “You sound like a Boy Scout,” Gentry snorted.

  Shayne shrugged and turned his attention to Carlton. “Now that you know what’s back of this murder, have you changed your mind about being able to identify those men?”

  Carlton wet his lips again. He lifted his shoulders slightly and said, “I try to be a good citizen. I have the same contempt as you for traitors who undermine our war effort and morale by evading the rationing rules. Yes, Mr. Shayne… I believe I’d recognize them again.”

  Shayne said heartily, “I’ll try to give you the chance.” He stepped past Gentry and went over to Mrs. Wilson. “Why don’t you get dressed and let me take you to a neighbor’s house? I’ll take care of everything here for you.”

  “Wait a minute, Shayne.” Gentry’s voice was harsh with authority. “For the last time, I’m asking you to cut this nonsense and repeat exactly what Wilson told you over the phone tonight.”

  Over his shoulder, Shayne said mockingly, “I’m glad this is the last time. I’m getting damned tired of saying no.” He caught Mrs. Wilson’s arm and assisted her from the chair, opened an inner door leading into the shabby living quarters behind the office, and led her through. He hesitated in the doorway, turned and spoke to the youthful reporter:

  “You’d better get going, kid. You’ve got a deadline to meet if this story makes the early edition.”

  The lad nodded and edged toward the door. “Yeah, I… guess I’ve got enough.”

  “You’ve got too damned much,” Chief Gentry growled. “I’m not going to let you print…”

  Shayne let his breath out angrily. He released the widow’s arm and stepped back inside the office. He said to the reporter, “Gentry hasn’t started censoring the news yet. Get going.”

  The young man gulped and started for the door again. Gentry barked, “Grab him, Grayson,” to the detective sergeant. The sergeant moved forward, but Shayne lunged in front of him, driving the reporter through the door with his shoulder.

  Outside Shayne commanded, “Get in your car and beat it.” He whirled to face Grayson with fists doubled as the youth sprinted toward his car. Shayne said, “I’m sorry, Will, but…”

  “Take him!” Gentry barked.

  The harness cop and the detective sergeant started forward together. Shayne braced himself with lips drawn back from his teeth, gray eyes coldly watchful.

  A motor roared outside as the two policemen closed in. Shayne laughed shortly and drove a straight left to the sergeant’s chin. The other cop bulled in under his right and pinned Shayne against the wall. Grayson recovered and deliberately smashed a fist into the redhead’s mouth.

  Shayne lunged at the sergeant, dragging the cop with him. He tripped Grayson and the three of them went down in a pile almost on top of the corpse. Shayne let his body go limp while Grayson sat on his chest and snapped handcuffs on his wrists.

  Gentry was striding toward the telephone, but Shayne warned him, “Better not touch it, Will. Someone hung it up after Clem was killed. It might have fingerprints.”

  Gentry stopped with his clawed fingers reaching for the phone. He turned slowly, chewing on his thick underlip. “Damn you, Mike, what do you think you’re pulling?”

  Shayne struggled to a sitting position. Blood smeared his chin from a cut lip. He grinned cheerfully. “Protecting the sanctity of the press.”

  “Do you realize the Herald will print everything that went on here?” Gentry roared.

  “Why not? It’s still a free country.”

  “Goddamn it, I was just trying to protect you, Mike. You and Carlton. What will your lives be worth when the killers read that you refused to give out what Clem Wilson told you… and that Mr. Carlton stands ready to identify them?”

  “If you weren’t so thickheaded you’d see that’s the only way to smoke ’em out. When that story’s printed they’ll have to get me and Carlton. We’re your bait. They’ll show their hands by coming after us.”

  Mr. Carlton shuddered and his face turned a shade paler. “That’s deliberately inviting death, Mr. Shayne.”

  Shayne said, “Gentry will give you a body guard. Better make it two, Will.” His tone was one of disgust.

  “Take the cuffs off him,” Gentry ordered Grayson wearily. “It’s not a bad idea. But, damn it, Mike, there’s no reason why you shouldn’t give out whatever dope you got from Wilson before he was gunned.”

  With the handcuffs off, Shayne got up slowly. “There’s one hell of a good reason, Will. As long as I’m the only one who knows, the killers can protect themselves by bumping me. But as soon as I tell you or anyone else, my death is no longer of any great importance.”

  “That’s all right for a public announcement. But privately…”

  Shayne said doggedly, “Not privately either. You’re a cop, Will. No matter how hard you tried, you’d find yourself taking some action on my information. That would tip our hand and I’d no longer be important.”

  He took out a handkerchief, wiped the blood from his chin, and went back to Mrs. Wilson.

  CHAPTER 2

  When Mrs. Wilson went into the bedroom and closed the door, Shayne leaned against the inner threshold of the door from the outside office listening to Gentry and his men snapping pictures and going over the death room with microscopic thoroughness.

  The room before him was a combined sitting room, dining room and kitchen. Worn and grease-smeared linoleum covered the floor, a sink and cupboard occupied one corner, and there was a gas range and an
old-fashioned icebox beside it. A kitchen table covered with faded oil cloth was pushed back against the wall with an unpainted kitchen chair at either end. A shabby sofa stood against the opposite wall, with a floor lamp at one end and a smoking stand drawn up close. Clem Wilson’s blackened briar pipe lay on the smoking stand and the Miami News lay on the floor beside it.

  Beyond the other closed door, Shayne could hear Mrs. Wilson moving about in the bedroom, getting dressed and packing a few things to take with her.

  Shayne reached in the slanting pocket of his trench coat and took out the bottle of cognac he had snatched up as he ran from his office-apartment. His eyes were narrowed as he twisted the cork out and put the bottle to his lips. He could hear Gentry giving gruff orders about removing the body, and presently there was silence in the outer room.

  His gaze wandered around the little room as he recorked the bottle. He had become intimately acquainted with every detail of the scene during long and pleasant visits with Clem Wilson. Though uneducated and poor, Wilson had been a philosopher of sorts and they had had some good talks here in the back room when Shayne occasionally stopped to have his tank filled. Wilson had been proud of his two sons in the service. On the wall where he could lift his eyes to it while seated, hung a framed picture of the boys together.

  Shayne sank wearily on the sofa and looked up at the picture. He frowned and drew in his breath sharply. The ten-cent-store frame was still there against the soot-stained wallpaper, but only one pair of eyes looked down at him. This was Joe Wilson, a grave-faced youth proudly wearing the uniform of a sailor. Joe Wilson, who had gone down with his torpedoed ship in the Solomons two months ago.

  Shayne slid the cognac bottle back into his pocket and got up, walked over to look more closely at the frame. He was not mistaken. This was only half of the picture which had originally been in the frame. The Wilson boys had posed for it together while Joe was home on leave and Bob had just enlisted in the Army. Joe, the elder brother, had had his arm loosely around the shoulders of his grinning brother, Bob.

  Shayne fumbled for a cigarette and stuck it between his lips with his eyes fixed on the picture. He could see clearly that the figure of Bob had been cut out of the double photograph. Joe’s left arm was cut off just beyond the shoulder. The single figure had been moved to the center of the frame, leaving a strip of blank cardboard background on either side.

  It didn’t make sense. He knew that Clem and his wife had been as proud of Bob as of Joe. Bob was the baby, their favorite, if, indeed, people like Mr. and Mrs. Wilson had a favorite. Bob had been a little wild, a laughing youngster who refused to consider life a serious business. Bob had been the instrument, in fact, which had brought Shayne and Clem Wilson together. He had been in trouble the previous year, and Shayne had arrested him in the company of older men in an attempted drugstore robbery.

  Because of his youth and inexperience, and believing he recognized a basic honesty which had been led astray, the detective had not booked Bob Wilson with his older companions, but had brought him home to his father to be punished.

  Shayne remembered that punishment. He still winced when he recalled the thrashing Clem Wilson had administered to his erring son. And Clem had been grateful for the consideration shown. Thus they had drifted into a close friendship founded on mutual respect.

  No. It certainly did not make sense. Perhaps because of that one mistake, or because he recognized an intrinsic weakness in his younger son’s character, Clem Wilson had been a proud and happy father the day Bob enlisted in the Army. To him it signified that Bob had become a responsible citizen and a son of whom he could justly be proud.

  The doorknob of the bedroom turned and Shayne hastily walked away from the framed picture. He struck light to a cigarette and tossed the match into the ashtray as Mrs. Wilson came out wearing a neat black dress and carrying a rattan suitcase. He took the bag from her withered hand, and asked briskly, “Are you sure you have everything you need?”

  “I reckon I have, Mr. Shayne,” she answered tonelessly. “I’ll be going to Joe’s wife. She’s expecting come two months, and it’s just as good I should be with her. Sarah’s like my own girl, and we’ll make out. She’s got Joe’s insurance you know, for her and the baby.” The ghost of a smile moved her thin lips. She gave Shayne the address in the southern suburbs of the city, and followed him apathetically into the office.

  Chalk lines and a pool of blood near the door were the only indication that a dead man had recently lain there. Shayne led her out to his car and put the suitcase in the back, helped her in, and drove down the Trail with dimmed lights.

  Bright moonlight outlined the Buick coupe and the police car which were still parked off the pavement. Shayne stopped when he came abreast of the radio car, got out, muttering to Mrs. Wilson, “I’ll only be a minute.”

  The policeman was lounging in the front seat of his car smoking a cigarette. Mr. Carlton was on his knees beside the Buick tightening the lugs of his spare wheel on the right rear axle.

  Shayne went to the police car and rested his elbows on the door. “Got yourself a new job, Gary?”

  “Yeh. Damned nursemaid,” he grumped. He spat with disgust through the opposite door. “Chief says I’m to ride herd on this guy. Ain’t supposed to let him out of my sight. Does that mean I have to sleep with him?”

  Shayne grinned. “Maybe his wife’s good-looking and you can sleep between them,” he offered.

  “Fat chance. Even if I get that break he’ll probably turn out to be a light sleeper. You figure they’ll try to get him, Mike? Account of he saw them two torpedoes.”

  “I doubt it. Not if they can get me first. I wouldn’t worry too much.”

  Shayne went over to Carlton, who had taken the jack from under the wheel and was stowing it in his luggage compartment. “It looks as if you’ll be adequately protected, Mr. Carlton.”

  Carlton nodded, brushing the knees of his trousers. “I don’t like to seem unduly worried, but I confess the protection of an officer will be welcome. It does seem to me,” he went on severely, “that no useful purpose was served by publishing my willingness to identify the murderers. I may have been overly enthusiastic listening to you and Chief Gentry speaking of patriotism. Those men had their hats pulled down low on their foreheads, and they looked very tough. What if I slipped up trying to do my duty?”

  “Don’t worry,” Shayne said soothingly. “It’ll give them more reason to bump me off before I can show them to you for identification. I doubt whether they’ll bother you at all if they can get me out of the way. After all, I’m the only one who actually knows where to look for them. You’re not a danger to them unless they’re arrested and put into the lineup. If they are, I’ll see that they wear hats pulled low over their foreheads.”

  “That’s some consolation,” Carlton agreed in a relieved voice. He came close to Shayne and asked, “Just between us, how much do you know, Mr. Shayne? I’ll admit I became confused listening to you and Chief Gentry arguing, but it seems to me if the filling station man told you anything definite, you’d be out after them right now.”

  Shayne laughed lightly and cheerfully. “It isn’t that simple. I’ve got to do some checking. This is a big thing, and there are a lot of loose ends to be tied together to verify what Clem told me.”

  “Oh, I see,” Carlton murmured. “I know nothing of such things, of course.”

  Shayne put a hand on Carlton’s shoulder and said firmly, “I promise you it won’t be long, and I want you to know I appreciate what you’re doing. It would have been easy for you to have denied seeing the men. If more citizens would do their duty courageously we’d have less racketeering.”

  Carlton squared his shoulders and his eyes were grateful, but his tone was deprecative when he said, “I’m afraid it wasn’t courage that prompted me. Frankly, I’m frightened. I’m a family man, Mr. Shayne, and have to consider others besides myself. But the evasion of rationing is, as you said, a vicious evil, and must be stamped out.” />
  “You’ve done a brave thing,” Shayne told him cheerfully, “whatever your motives were. But don’t worry. Gary will keep tabs on you,” he called on his way back to his car.

  Shayne slid the gears in and rolled away.

  Mrs. Wilson put a timid hand on his arm and asked, “How much did Clem tell you tonight, Mr. Shayne? Before he got shot?”

  “Enough,” Shayne assured her, “to make certain his murderers won’t get away with it.”

  Her hand trembled and tightened on his arm. “Was it… was it gas racketeers like you told the police?”

  Shayne glanced at her wrinkled face. “I didn’t exactly tell the police that, but it all adds up… what you heard and the way Clem acted as soon as the car drove away.”

  “You’re not… not keeping anything from me, are you, Mr. Shayne?” she asked in a faint voice. Her hand had slid back into her lap and her fingers intertwined.

  “What makes you think I am keeping something from you, Mrs. Wilson?”

  Her body trembled against him. “Oh, I don’t know. Oh, God! I don’t know.” She began to sob silently.

  Shayne waited a while, then asked gently, “You’re not holding anything back from me, are you?”

  “You mean… about tonight?” she asked between sobs.

  “About tonight,” Shayne said. “You’re positive you didn’t see anyone or recognize the voices arguing with Clem? Didn’t he say anything to indicate who they were when he came in to ask my telephone number?”

  She shivered. The night air was growing chilly. Shayne said, “You’re cold. Roll up your window and I’ll close mine part way.”

  She fumbled for the handle and rolled her window up tight. “What… makes you think… I mighta recognized their voices?” she asked through chattering teeth.

  “Are you sure you didn’t?” Shayne’s tone was suddenly firm.

  “Yes… I’m certain sure.” She stopped sobbing and a nervousness twitched her emaciated body. “I’ll swear it… on my Bible. But… I wish you’d tell me who you think it was. Seems to me like… I’ve got the right to know… who killed Clem.”