Too Friendly, Too Dead ms-44

by Brett Halliday

  Shayne selected two of the clearest shots and pocketed them. “All right, Linda. Keep your chin up and I’ll be in touch.”

  9

  There were at least a dozen cars parked in front of the Sporting Club when Shayne drew up this time, and the bar was doing a brisk pre-luncheon business when he stepped inside. There was a younger bartender now on duty near the front of the bar, and Shayne saw Horseface working the farther end.

  He turned to the left away from the bar, into a small anteroom with a wide stairway leading to the second floor. There was a velvet rope at the foot of the stairway which Shayne unhooked and then refastened behind him.

  He went up to the top of the stairs where heavy double doors were closed and barred to shut off the gaming room beyond. He went down a narrow hallway to a closed door that was marked PRIVATE, turned the knob and walked in without knocking.

  Pete Elston was alone in the office, seated behind a big desk checking entries in a ledger. He was a solid, stocky man in his forties with an unruly shock of very black hair, and he wore black-rimmed glasses while he did his paper work. He looked up at Shayne with a scowl which did not become more welcoming as he recognzed the redhead. He said,

  “Don’t you knock when you walk into a private office?”

  Shayne said, “Sometimes, Pete. But only when I’m pretty sure I’ll be welcome.”

  Elston shrugged and pushed the ledger back. He removed his glasses. “Some special reason why you shouldn’t be welcome here this morning?”

  “Actually, no. In fact, I’m here to do you a big favor. But that horsefaced ape on the bar downstairs tried to give me the bum’s rush when I was here earlier.”

  “Barney? You know how it is with a place like this, Shayne. We’re pretty careful about our clientele. It wouldn’t be good for business to have a private eye hanging out here.”

  Shayne pulled a chair closer to the desk and sat down, stretching his long legs out in front of him. He said, “Barney should have been more careful about his clientele last night.”

  “That so?” Elston’s eyes became alert, questioning.

  “Yeh. And maybe you should tell him to be more careful about the kind of Mickeys he feeds his customers. It’s not going to do your business one bit of good to have it get around that a guy’s in danger of getting doped and mugged when he has a drink downstairs.”

  Elston sat very still, his solid features hardening. “How is that story likely to get around, Shamus?”

  Shayne said, “I’ll make it my business to see that it does unless Barney comes clean with me. Get him up here.” Their eyes locked across the desk.

  Elston said softly, “Like that, huh?”

  Shayne said, “Like that. I mentioned a favor. This is it. A man named Jerome Fitzgilpin was fed dope in your bar last night. He was rolled outside, and died about a block down the street. You probably read about it in the paper.”

  “Yeh. I read about it. Not that he was in my place first, though.”

  “Maybe you won’t have to read about that… if you play ball with me.”

  “Is that a threat, Shayne?”

  “It sure as hell is.”

  Elston sighed and relaxed. “I like to get things straight and clear. Have a drink?” He swivelled about to a small bar at his right.

  Shayne said, “Get Barney up here.”

  “Sure, Mike.” Elston’s voice was mild and placating. “If anything like that has been going on in my bar I want to know it as much as you do.” He turned and set two glasses and a bottle of cognac on the desk. “I haven’t gotten ice this morning. You want Barney should bring some up?”

  Shayne relaxed with a grin. “A tall glass with water will be fine.”

  Elston unhooked a microphone from beneath his desk and pressed a buzzer. He said, “Barney. I got a guest. Bring up a bucket of ice and a pitcher of water.” He replaced the microphone and said worriedly, “You’re sure about this, Shayne?”

  “Just tell Barney to give me straight answers this time. If you’re lucky we may be able to keep the cops out of it.”

  “Yeh. I knew they were here earlier asking questions. Barney swore to me he never saw the dead man in here.”

  Shayne said flatly, “He lied.”

  Elston shook his head sadly and said, “You know how it is. One thing I won’t stand for is any stuff like that downstairs. If Barney has been getting out of line, I’m the one who wants to know it.”

  “I figured it that way,” Shayne told him amiably. “That’s why I came to you instead of the cops.” Elston poured cognac in the two glasses and pushed one toward the redhead. There were footsteps in the hallway outside and the horsefaced bartender came in the door carrying a bucket of ice cubes and a pitcher of water. He stopped abruptly when he saw the detective, and said, “Hey, Boss. This here guy…”

  “This here guy,” Elston interrupted him smoothly, “is a good friend of mine. Pour him a glass of ice water.”

  “Well, sure,” said Barney uneasily. “But he comes in here with a newspaper reporter making trouble…”

  Elston said, “Skip it.” He leaned back in his chair while Barney nervously poured Shayne a glass of water.

  “Now. Answer his questions… straight. I’m anxious to hear the answers myself.”

  Shayne got the two snapshots out of his pocket and laid them on the desk. “Take a good look at this man, Barney. And tell me the last time you saw him in the bar.”

  Barney leaned over the desk and looked at the pictures of Fitzgilpin, his long, bony face becoming grayish. “I never saw him in my life,” he stated positively. “Not that I know of, that is. Maybe he has been in here some time, but I never noticed him. You know how it is when you’re working the bar, Boss. You don’t look at the guys on the other side.”

  Shayne said, “This one, you’d notice and remember, Barney. He’s a very friendly type that gets into conversation with anybody. He’s been dropping in here at least once a week for a few beers and conversation during the past few months. He was in here last night about eleven o’clock. Did you feed him the Mickey that killed him, Barney?”

  The bartender drew back, sweating profusely. “I swear I never. Maybe I mixed him a drink or two… yeh, I guess maybe I do remember seeing him around now. But I swear I never…”

  Elston stood up swiftly and leaned over the desk and swung the flat of his right hand against Barney’s face with force enough to swing him around.

  “I told you straight answers,” he snarled. “Goddamn your soul. I want to know what’s been going on in my place. Start talking before I come around the desk and stomp the truth out of you.”

  “Sure, Boss. Sure. Whatever you say. But when them cops first come around this morning asking questions I figured you wouldn’t want me to tell ’em nothing. And then this tough eye from Miami…”

  “Shut up,” snapped Elston. “Excuses aren’t any good now. You admit you knew this Fitzgilpin… that he was in last night?”

  “I never knew his name,” defended Barney. “Sure, he usta come in for a few beers. Nice little fellow. Quiet and friendly. I guess I did see him last night, but the place was crowded and I didn’t notice him special.”

  “What was he drinking?” cut in Shayne.

  “I don’t know. Beer, I guess. Wait a minute though.” Barney paused and mopped sweat from his face, darting a frightened and agonized look at Elston. “I remember there was a kinda crowd around him at that end of the bar. But that wasn’t unusual because he was always friendly and talky like I said. But I don’t believe he was drinking beer last night. I think I kinda noticed he’d switched to hard liquor.”

  “Who was buying them for him?” demanded Shayne. He added in an aside to Elston, “Fitzgilpin had an aversion to paying out good money for hard drinks in a bar.”

  “Well, I don’t know about that. Maybe somebody was buying.”

  “He was staggering when he left your bar,” Shayne charged. “Practically out on his feet. Don’t tell me you didn’t notice
that much.”

  “Well, I guess he maybe was pretty well lit up,” admitted Barney sourly. “But I figured it was just from switching from beer to hard liquor. If anybody fed him a Mickey, it sure wasn’t me,” he ended virtuously.

  “Now you’ve admitted he was here and was drunk when he went out,” Shayne pointed out harshly. “That’s a big jump from denying you’d ever seen the man. Give us the rest of it. Who followed him out? Was he flashing a roll at the bar? Who saw him… and decided he was an easy mark?”

  “I didn’t see him flashing no roll. Maybe he was, but I didn’t see it. I do recollect now that that Timmy the Twist and Ox Yokum were hanging around about then. I didn’t for sure see them follow him outside, but I guess maybe I didn’t see them around the bar no more afterward.”

  “Timmy the Twist and Ox Yokum,” exclaimed Elston in an outraged voice. “You let a pair like that hang out downstairs? Goddamnit to hell, Barney. You know my orders. What the hell do I hire you for? This isn’t any mugger’s hangout.”

  “Timmy the Twist and Ox Yokum?” said Shayne with interest. “They’re new to me.”

  “Just a couple of chiseling, small-time punks,” snarled Elston. “They couldn’t buy a drink in half the decent bars on the Beach. And now, by God, I find out they’re headquartering at my place.” He looked across the desk wonderingly at Barney. “What else has been going on downstairs that I don’t know about?”

  “Nothing, Boss. I swear it. It ain’t like they headquarter here. Come in sometimes is more like it. Last night I guess they was in. That’s all. If this fellow was rolled after he went out… well, maybe they done it.”

  “Where will I find them?” Shayne asked grimly.

  “I dunno. They’re the kinda creeps that stay inside while it’s daylight.” Barney spread out his hands with a placating smile. “They’re no friends of mine.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” said Elston venomously. “I’d look for them down around South Beach,” he told Shayne in an aside. “Depending how much your man was carrying. Was it real money?”

  “Couple of hundred.”

  “They wouldn’t take it on the lam with that. But you can put it in your hat, Shayne, those two would roll a drunk, sure, but the way I get it… this was murder. You can count those two punks out on that score.”

  “Sure. That’s right,” agreed Barney earnestly and righteously. “That’s why I never thought to mention them right off. Them two would run like hell from a killing.”

  Shayne said, “All right. I’ll have a talk with them. Now then. Do either one of you know a man named George Nourse?”

  Both looked at him blankly and slowly shook their heads.

  “A gambler,” Shayne amplified. “Hasn’t been around town for maybe a year or so.”

  “Nourse?” Pete Elston frowned. “Wait a minute. I think I make him. A smooth type. Plenty hot with his own pair of dice in floating crap games. Strictly illegit. Sure, Barney. George Nourse. He was on our list a couple years ago. We were off-bounds to him along with all the other straight places on the Beach.”

  “Nourse? Maybe,” conceded Barney. “Tall guy? Pretty much the ladies’ man?”

  “That would be Nourse,” agreed Shayne. “He’s back in town. Was he in last night?”

  “I’ll swear he wasn’t. I remember him now. I’d of made him fast if he’d showed last night.”

  “You lied to me once before,” Shayne reminded him icily. “Don’t make the same mistake again.”

  “Listen to the man,” Elston told him. “If you’re holding out one Goddamned thing…”

  “I swear I’m not. I’ll ask around,” Barney went on hastily. “If he is back, some of the boys’ll know.”

  “Pass the word around,” Shayne told him. “I want Nourse. I want him bad.”

  Elston said, “I’ll see the right people get the word, Shayne. Anything else you want from Barney?”

  “I guess that’s about it.”

  “All right. Get back down to the bar,” snarled Elston at his bartender. “You and I’ll have a long talk later on today when business eases off.”

  Barney nodded unhappily and went out.

  “How do you like that?” exclaimed Elston wonderingly. “By God, you just don’t ever know, do you? Here, I try to run a clean straight joint downstairs. Keep the suckers happy so they won’t mind dropping a few bucks at the tables. One thing that’d ruin me would be a reputation for running a clip-joint. And so, by God, what does my bartender do? Lets characters like Timmy the Twist and Ox Yokum hang out downstairs. How the hell do you like that?” He thumped his fist solidly on the desk.

  “It’s tough trying to make an honest dollar,” agreed Shayne with a grin. He tossed off his cognac and chased it with a sip of ice water, stood up purposefully. “If I get Nourse I may have this thing cleaned up without pulling the Club into it.”

  “In the meantime you gotta go after those two punks? If they just rolled him, maybe…” said Elston anxiously.

  “I’m going after them,” Shayne said. “Sooner we turn Nourse up, maybe the better.” He went out of the gambler’s office with a wave of his big hand.

  10

  It took Michael Shayne slightly less than an hour to locate Timmy the Twist and Ox Yokum. He went about the job methodically, starting on South Beach as Elston had suggested, working his way up and down the street, buying a drink here and there and asking questions in the right places.

  He had no difficulty immediately getting a line on the pair. They appeared to be fairly well-known by others of their ilk, and were regarded with a sort of amused tolerance by others slightly higher up on the criminal scale than they. Timmy was the brains of the pair, Shayne soon learned (although no great shakes at that) while Ox supplied the muscle for their small-time operation which consisted mostly of rolling drunks for any sum from five bucks up, a spot of pimping on the side, and an occasional go at peddling marijuana.

  They had been seen around that morning, and it was generally agreed that they must have made some sort of hit the preceding night, though no one professed any knowledge of how it had come about.

  Shayne finally came up with them in a crap game in the back room of Renaldo’s. Joe Renaldo himself gave him the office when Shayne dropped into the dingy bar and ordered a drink of California brandy, the best the place could offer. Joe served him, and leaned over the bar to say out of the side of his mouth, “Word’s got around that you’re looking for a confab with Timmy the Twist and his partner.” Shayne nodded and sipped the brandy.

  “Back there. Craps.” Renaldo jerked his head toward a closed door at the rear of the bar. “Keep it quiet, huh? You could of got the info a dozen other places.”

  Shayne said heartily, “Sure. That’s why I dropped in.” He slid a ten-spot on the bar which Joe’s hand covered quickly, and pushed back the rest of his brandy. For the benefit of three patrons a few bar stools removed, he said loudly, “That’s lousy brandy, Joe. I was told there was a little game in back where a real hot dice shooter might pick up some easy dough.”

  “You feelin’ hot today, Mike?” Renaldo picked up his cue faultlessly.

  “That, I am.” Shayne strolled back past the trio who had overheard the exchange, opened the door and walked into a small room murky with smoke. There were half a dozen dice players squatting and kneeling in a circle around a blanket spread out on the floor. There were crumpled bills and silver in front of each man, and a half a dozen dollar bills were in the middle of the blanket while the shooter tried to make his point.

  From descriptions he’d gotten, Shayne recognized the shooter was Timmy. The lunkhead on his left must be Ox, he thought. He vaguely recognized the faces of a couple of the other players, though he could not have put names with them.

  None of them looked up at Shayne as he entered quietly and closed the door behind him. Timmy’s point was evidently a nine and he exhorted the dice fervently each time they left his hand.

  He sevened out while Shayne stood there wi
th his back to the door watching. One of the men across the blanket took the money, and Ox swept the pair of dice up into his hamlike hand.

  Shayne said, “Fun’s over, boys.” And they all froze in curious attitudes, turning their heads to look at him. First one and then another of the players scooped up the money in front of him and got to his feet. Shayne opened the door and held it with his hand on the knob.

  “The rest of you beat it. Timmy and Ox have got some talking to do.”

  Ox Yokum was a broad-faced, stupid-looking gorilla. He lumbered to his feet with a displeased scowl on his face, looking around, in consternation, at the others who were quietly gathering up their money.

  “Hey, youse guys. Who’s this smart guy comin’ in to bust up a friendly game? I’m twenny bucks behind, by Christ!”

  One of the departing players said shortly, “That’s Mike Shayne, dim-wit.”

  Timmy came to his feet swiftly when he heard the name. He had narrow, ratlike features with yellow teeth that showed behind tight, thin lips.

  “Mike Shayne? Ox and me, we got no talk for you. C’mon, Ox. We’re going out with the others.” Three of them hurried past Shayne through the door with averted faces, and Ox made a guttural sound deep in his throat and came behind them with big fists belligerently swinging at the end of long arms. Timmy was close behind him, and the sixth player unhappily brought up the rear.

  Shayne’s eyes narrowed and he shifted his weight to his left foot. He gauged the distance carefully, swung his right foot up and planted it with ramrod force in the big man’s belly. Ox grunted and doubled forward, and Shayne smashed a right to his jaw as he went down.

  Timmy ducked his head and attempted to dart past the redhead to safety. Shayne blocked him halfway through the doorway, put both hands around his neck and lifted him bodily, flung him back into the room. He held the door open and said to the last man, “Beat it,” and he scampered through the door without looking back.

  Shayne closed it behind him, found a key conveniently in the lock and turned it. He dropped the key into his pocket and turned around to see Timmy on his hands and knees staring at him fearfully. Ox lay on his side groaning, trying fitfully to raise up to a sitting position.