Heads You Lose ms-8

by Brett Halliday

  “What,” asked Shayne, “do you plan to protect consumers from?”

  An irritated frown flickered between her brows. “We render the same services we now render motorists. Advise them about ration problems, find legal loopholes and methods by which our membership is able to get a jump ahead of non-members.”

  “Which would mean a complete breakdown in the rationing system,” Shayne stated flatly and without enthusiasm.

  She drank the last of her drink and began pacing again. “No… not that at all. It’s really protection against their own ignorance. The government expects everyone to take full advantage of the law. It’s like the income tax. It isn’t unpatriotic to protect oneself by legal advice against paying excessive amounts.”

  Shayne said, “All right. Granted that it’s legal, and even that it’s dubiously ethical, where do I come in?”

  She stopped in front of him. “As a partner, of course. You and I together.”

  “What have I got to offer? I’m a private detective.”

  “You could continue running down ration frauds. That would be an important part of our service. People hesitate to report chiseling neighbors to the Government, but we would break down that prejudice so far as our organization is concerned. When you crack the Wilson case as a starter, we launch our new league on the wave of nationwide publicity that follows.”

  Shayne smiled grimly. “You’re taking in a lot of territory. You’d find competitive organizations springing up everywhere, and they wouldn’t bother to be so legal. The light sentences and fines being imposed on out-and-out racketeers… and criminals of every sort… by the judges in this country encourage sabotage. The higher-ups can always produce a goat, so they have no fear of the law.”

  Her shoulders drooped and she clasped her hands tightly together. She regarded him intently for a moment, then said, “We would have nothing to fear on the legal side. Don’t you think you could work with me?”

  “And keep our relationship impersonal?” he asked roughly.

  “Perhaps that wouldn’t be necessary,” she said quietly.

  Shayne lit a cigarette and leaned back comfortably. He didn’t say anything.

  She continued to stand before him. “You haven’t said no yet, have you?”

  He did not look at her. His eyes were half-closed and there was a deep crease between his brows.

  Suddenly she took a step backward, turned, and said, “I’m sorry I hadn’t time to change before you came. Do you mind?”

  Shayne muttered, “Not at all.”

  He had a hunch he ought to get the hell out before she came back, but he didn’t like to run away. He poured another drink and sipped it moodily. He should be at work. He tried to convince himself that he was at work. He knew he was getting drunk… pleasantly drunk.

  He told himself he didn’t trust Edna Taylor. Not worth a damn. She had too many glib arguments. You couldn’t trust a glib woman. She was after something, he wasn’t quite sure yet what it was. She had made it sound simple enough, but he wasn’t sure it was so simple. He had never believed in the theory of income-tax experts. He had always taken his beating every March with the reassuring belief that it was the right thing to do. Maybe he was wrong.

  He took another drink and ground out his cigarette. He heard Edna come into the room and turned to look at her.

  She wore a pair of white satin pajamas and a hip length Mandarin coat of heavy brocaded satin. The coat had a high collar buttoned under her chin, and her feet were encased in white, furry slippers. She lowered her eyes and said, “I feel deliciously sinful.”

  “You look like something good to eat,” he muttered.

  She was highly rouged and her hair was combed into a mass of loose honey-curls. She asked, “Do you like this better than tweeds?”

  “Much better.”

  She poured a drink, complaining, “You’re not being a bit helpful.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “I don’t know,” she confessed. “I can’t quote any precedents.” She laughed shakily.

  Shayne reminded her harshly, “You’re the one who’s making the propositions.”

  “You’re a hard man, Michael Shayne,” she told him with a slight shudder. She emptied her bowl and walked over to set it on the mantel. It clattered to the hearth and the room rang with a gong-like sound. She giggled and said in a small voice, “I guess I’m drunk.”

  Shayne remained stubbornly silent.

  She came toward him, stopped close beside his chair and said, “I don’t know much about leading a man on. I thought… you might attack me.”

  Shayne grinned up at her. “You’re the one who’s selling a bill of goods.”

  “You’re being mean,” she accused, her eyes luminous. She lowered her hands to the arms of his chair and pressed her face against his. Her breath was hot on his cheek and she moved her face slowly until her mouth covered his. She tensed and her lips clung fiercely. His lips remained flaccid, and she drew herself upright with a choked laugh. “Aren’t you going to do anything?”

  He said, “You’re doing all right.”

  She backed away from him and collapsed on the divan, curling her legs under her. She said bitterly, “So you’ve made me feel like a prostitute.” She buried her face in her hands and began to cry.

  Shayne watched her closely for a moment before saying, “Maybe you’re on the level. I’ll be damned if I know.”

  “What do you mean?” she sobered.

  Shayne made a grimace. “This whole set-up… it stinks. Why is my information on the Wilson case so important to you?”

  She lifted her head and her wet hazel eyes smouldered with anger. “Get out!” she ordered between clenched teeth. “I hate you! Do you hear me… get out!”

  Shayne winced with pain as he came up from the deep chair. He went over to sit on the couch beside her and laid a big hand on her shoulder. He said hoarsely, “Maybe I’m crazy,” and patted her. Abruptly he asked, “What do you know about Eddie Seeney?”

  She stopped trembling and sat up to ask wonderingly, “Who?”

  “Eddie Seeney. He works for your outfit, doesn’t he?”

  She worked her lips together to moisten them. Her eyes were blank and bewildered. “I don’t know… what you mean.”

  Shayne’s hand was still on her shoulder. She caught it and pulled it gently around her neck and snuggled against it.

  “I guess we were both fools,” she murmured. “It simply wouldn’t work, would it? I’ve spent too much time pouring over law books to know how to be alluring. And you… you’ve lived on the edge of suspicion too long. You can’t let go, no matter how hard you try.” She pressed his hand down hard against her body and he felt the throbbing of her hot flesh beneath his palm.

  Her other arm curved up around his neck. She pulled his face down to hers and widened her moist lips to receive his kiss. They stayed like that for a long time, then she sighed and her lips slid away from his. She twisted her body to press her face against his chest. “So, it’s like this,” she murmured. “I’ve been missing a lot, haven’t I?”

  Shayne winced with pain as she pressed against him. He asked, “How old are you?”

  “Thirty-two, Michael. Thirty-two empty years behind me. Don’t ever let me go. I’ve dreamt of this… through lonely nights.”

  Shayne cautiously pressed her body with his left arm, and pain shot through the area of the broken ribs on his right side.

  She looked up at him and whispered, “You haven’t said no, have you, Michael? You’re not going to say no.”

  “You’re offering some good arguments,” he confessed. His face was bleak in the yellow light of the ship’s lanterns.

  She sighed and closed her eyes. “I’m glad,” she said simply, and snuggled comfortably in his arms.

  The silence was broken by a thumping on the front door. An insistent sound, made by the heavy iron knocker.

  Edna stiffened and sat up. Her hazel eyes grew black with the dilated pu
pils filling the iris. “What… who is it?”

  Shayne grimaced. “Maybe it’s Barnacle Bill.” The trenches in his cheeks deepened and his eyes were suddenly wary.

  She said, “I don’t know… who it could be.”

  “Don’t you?”

  She winced and shrank from him at the rough savagery in his voice. “Michael! You don’t think I…”

  “There’s one way to find out.” He started to get up.

  She clung to him in panic. “Don’t… don’t answer it! Whoever it is will go away. Don’t go to the door, darling. Everything will be spoiled.”

  He took her clutching hands from his arm, saying, “You can hide under the bed. I’m going to see who’s at that door.”

  As he moved toward it his hand slid into his pocket and drew out the. 38. He cocked the weapon and held it with no effort at concealment as he opened the door.

  A dark-featured young man stood on the threshold. His jaw gaped open when he saw the gun in Shayne’s hand and he swayed backward, throwing one hand out to grasp the door frame for support. The reek of liquor came from him and he appeared to be very drunk.

  Shayne heard a choked cry from Edna Taylor. He half-turned and saw her rushing toward him.

  Shayne said to the man, “Well, what do you want? Who are you?”

  The man leered vacantly and said, “I’m comin’ in.” His voice was thick, but he straightened himself and started forward.

  Shayne lowered his gun and took a step back.

  Edna cried, “No!” She snatched the pistol from Shayne’s lax grasp. Before he could stop her she swung it up and fired pointblank at the intruder.

  He collapsed on the threshold and lay still.

  Shayne threw Edna back angrily, closing his big hand over hers and wresting the weapon from her. “You fool!” he grated. “Why did you do that?”

  She swayed back against a chair and covered her face. “He was coming in, Michael. He was coming right at you.”

  Shayne knelt beside the man and turned him over. He tore his coat and shirt open, nodded somberly at the sight of blood oozing from a small hole in his chest. “You shot him right through the heart. You’ve played hell now.”

  “Who is it?” she whimpered. “Do you know him? I didn’t know what I was doing, Michael. Everything went blank when I saw him coming in. Is he… dead?”

  “Plenty.” Shayne stood up, frowning down at the lifeless body. “I think his name is Eddie Seeney. You wouldn’t know about that, I suppose?”

  “Why should I? I don’t understand.”

  Shayne said, “Neither do I… yet.” He turned away from the open door. “Where’s your telephone?”

  “Why? What are you going to do?” She straightened up and stared at him.

  “Call the police. Where’s your phone?”

  “Please… wait,” she cried. “Do you have to?”

  “It’s customary when there’s been a murder.”

  “Murder?” She sank into the chair which she had backed against, her face going white. “It isn’t murder. He was forcing his way into my house. I fired in self-defense. You know I did.”

  Shayne growled. “Maybe. We’ll find out. Maybe you arranged to have him come here.”

  She sobbed, “Michael… you’re so strange… and cold. Can’t you get him away from here? Don’t you see what will happen if you call the police? Everything will be ruined. Don’t you love me… a little bit?”

  “Love you?” He laughed shortly. “Just because you made me want you a little while ago?”

  “Oh God! And I thought…”

  “Where’s your telephone?”

  She came to him again and pressed her body wantonly against him, crying, “I can make you want me again. You’ll hate yourself if you call the police. It’ll turn this into something ugly…”

  “… And make very bad publicity,” Shayne interrupted with harsh irony. He put her away from him, saying, “I’m going to call the police. You can do as you please, but if you’re smart you’ll get into some clothes fast.” He turned away, searching the room for the telephone.

  There was no instrument visible. He went into a bedroom and turned on the light. A French phone stood on a table beside the bed.

  He dialed Will Gentry’s number. Edna came back into the room as he waited for an answer. He kept his back toward her, and when Gentry answered, said:

  “Mike Shayne talking. I want to report a homicide.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Will Gentry turned away from the body and the small group of men clustered in the doorway of Edna Taylor’s living room. He said, “You can take him away now.” He moved heavily to a small table and dumped out a handful of trifles taken from the dead man’s pockets. He folded his arms and teetered back and forth on widespread feet, addressed Shayne who sat slouched in a chair.

  “Well… let’s have it, Mike.”

  “Is his name Edward Seeney?”

  “That’s right. The fellow you phoned me about. What makes?”

  Shayne glanced behind him and saw the front door closing behind Gentry’s men and their limp burden. He said, “I haven’t introduced you to our hostess. Chief Gentry, Miss Taylor.” In a gently mocking tone, he went on, “Miss Taylor is a she-lawyer, Will. Vice-president of the Motorist Protective Association.”

  Gentry looked with new interest at the slender woman sitting stiffly erect on the couch. She had changed to the gray tweed suit, and appeared composed with her hands folded in her lap. She nodded and said, “How do you do, Chief Gentry.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Miss Taylor,” Gentry rumbled, and after a searching scrutiny he turned his attention to Shayne. “This time you’re going to put your cards on the table, Mike. Four men have died while you horsed around and acted mysterious.”

  Shayne said, “Sit down, Will. I’m ready to do a lot of talking. How about pouring us a drink, Edna?”

  She said, “Of course. I’ll mix some more,” and got up.

  Gentry watched her admiringly as she swung out of the room. “She the one you figured was ready to go off like a firecracker?” A faint smile of amusement quirked his mouth.

  “I forgot my matches,” Shayne grinned.

  Gentry lowered his big body into a chair, stripped cellophane from a cigar and lit it, then said, “I’m listening.”

  “I want Miss Taylor in on this,” Shayne told him.

  She returned in a few moments with a fresh shaker of cocktails and an extra hammered copper bowl for Gentry. She poured three drinks and went back to the couch.

  Shayne said, “Miss Taylor and I were having cocktails when this man came to the door. Perhaps you’d better give him your version first, Edna.”

  In a calm voice she said, “I didn’t know who it could be. I have no friends here… very few acquaintances. I wasn’t expecting anyone. I asked Michael not to answer the door, but he insisted. He drew a gun from his pocket when he went to answer the door. I looked out and saw that man, a complete stranger, trying to force his way in. I could see he was horribly drunk, and he began cursing and threatening us. When he started in, I guess I was frantic with fear. I hardly know what I did, but I have a confused impression of grabbing Michael’s gun to defend myself and my home. There was a shot… and that’s all.”

  Gentry looked at Shayne. “That’s the way of it?”

  Shayne said gravely, “Miss Taylor would make a good witness. I have a couple of corrections. Eddie Seeney didn’t curse or threaten us, and he didn’t try to force his way in. He didn’t have time. He merely said, ‘I’m coming in,’ and started forward. Miss Taylor snatched my gun and shot him before I could stop her.”

  Gentry rolled his cigar across his mouth and rubbed his blunt jaw. He did not see the flare of anger in Edna Taylor’s eyes before she swiftly lowered her lids.

  He turned to her and asked slowly, “You’re sure you didn’t know Seeney?”

  “I never saw him before,” she avowed.

  “Ever hear of him?”

  She
hesitated for a moment, looking at Shayne, then said bitterly, “Mr. Shayne asked me if I knew him… a little while before it happened.”

  “That right, Mike?”

  “Sure.”

  “How’d you come to ask her that?”

  “I wanted to find out.”

  Gentry spread out his broad hands and rumbled, “Quit playing hide and seek with me, Mike. Who was Seeney? Why did you ask me to pick him up a couple of hours ago?”

  “He may very well be Clem Wilson’s murderer. Or one of the men at the filling station. That is, if there were two men.”

  Gentry asked, “What do you mean…?”

  “Seeney’s wife paid me a visit this afternoon,” Shayne interrupted. “I called you right after that. Now that list of names, with Clem Wilson’s crossed off, sounded like it might be the real thing,” he ended. “I’d give a lot to get the other names off it.”

  “Seems to me like you’re doing a lot of guesswork,” Gentry growled. He got up with Shayne and they went to the pile of the dead man’s belongings. Gentry picked up a creased and worn sheet of Hammond Bond typewriter paper. He smoothed it out, explaining, “I noticed a bunch of names but didn’t look at them careful.”

  “This is it.” Shayne pointed to the middle of the list. “Clem Wilson… with a pencil line drawn through it. And there’s the other one his wife mentioned… Felix Ponti. Several others with check marks and some not marked at all.”

  “What do you make of it?” Gentry asked.

  “I don’t know. I’d like to have this list.”

  Gentry shook his head emphatically. “Not until you tell me a lot more than you have.”

  “Then let me copy the names.” Before Gentry could remonstrate, Shayne got out a pencil and notebook and began jotting down the names on the list, noting the same check marks as were on Seeney’s list.