In the emergency ward at the hospital Shayne gritted his teeth and winced when the doctor drew a strip of adhesive tape tight about his chest. “Does it have to be that tight, Doc?”
“It does. You’ve got a couple of cracked ribs to be held in place,” the doctor told him.
“Only two?” Shayne grinned. “I thought they were all busted on the right side.”
“It will likely feel that way for several days,” the doctor informed him cheerfully.
Shayne swung his legs painfully from the operating table. He could hear Will Gentry stamping around the reception room, and he grinned ruefully as he went out.
Gentry was savagely chewing on the butt of an unlit cigar. When they were in the corridor, he burst out:
“You’ve got to come clean, Mike. This is too big for one man. You can see that now.” He glared at Shayne’s mottled face.
Shayne’s lips were puffed and there was a purple bruise under his right eye. He said, “I thought I was doing all right playing it my way.”
“All right?” Gentry sputtered. “What have you accomplished except to try to get yourself killed and to look like hell?”
“I’ve got them worried,” Shayne argued. “They’re coming to me, just as I knew they would.”
“Yeh… they’re coming to you, all right. The next time will be the charm. You can’t go on shooting the triggers off guns.”
Shayne tried out another grin. He pushed the DOWN button for the elevator and said, “Something’s bound to break soon.”
“For the love of God,” Gentry pleaded, “let me take over, Mike. Tell me what you’ve got.”
Shayne shook his head stubbornly. “That would ruin everything. Right now they’re plenty panicked. They’ll quit trying to kill me after a while and come across with a proposition.”
Gentry took the cigar butt from his mouth, studied it with a heavy scowl, tossed it away and said, “You’re not waiting for that, are you?”
“I’m waiting for anything that turns up.”
Gentry hesitated, then asked, “Have you seen today’s News?”
“No.”
The elevator stopped and they got in. Gentry said in an undertone, “You’re not going to like it. Even Tim Rourke is beginning to wonder why you’re so stubborn about keeping the racket information to yourself.”
They stepped out of the elevator and Shayne said, “To hell with Rourke.”
“But that’s what everybody’s asking,” Gentry argued as they stepped out onto the street. “Look at the spot it puts me in. I let you get yourself killed… the only witness in a murder and racketeering set-up. So you’re a goddamned hero and I’m the goat. And the boys go on merrily running their Black Market.”
“We’re making progress,” Shayne assured him. “We’re smoking them out. We’ve got a description of the guy who took a pot-shot at me, and I’ll know Gene if I ever see him again. We know they use a motorboat. And you’ve got a. 45 that you can check against the bullets in that kid hobo’s body. The one who visited me early this morning. And you’ve got Pat’s corpse. Anything on him?”
“Not a damned thing. We’re checking on his prints, but as far as I know he’s not hooked up with any local outfit.”
“We wouldn’t have a damn one of those leads if I hadn’t stuck my neck out,” Shayne reminded him wearily. “You know I’m right. The minute I talk they’ll pull in their horns and go into hiding. As long as they have only one man to kill, they’ll keep on trying.”
Gentry was sullen as they walked toward Shayne’s car. He said, “I’m pulling Peterson and McNulty off their assignment. If you’re going to be a pigheaded fool there’s no use making the department look any sillier than necessary.”
“Thanks. That’ll save me the trouble of ditching them,” Shayne agreed. “I’ve got a six o’clock date and I don’t need any chaperons.”
“A date? You mean female stuff?” Gentry frowned.
“Yeh. I got to get some stuff to put on my upper lip.”
Gentry grunted. “Here’s a drugstore. I’ll wait out here while you get something to make yourself pretty.”
Shayne grinned painfully and turned into the drugstore, went back to the prescription department and spoke to the druggist. “Got anything that’ll help this lip of mine?”
The druggist examined the wound carefully, said, “I think I’ve got something that’ll fix you up.” He stepped from his cage and went to a row of shelves in the rear, took down a small carton, and handed it to Shayne. “Massage the lip at thirty-minute intervals. It’s the best thing I’ve found for bruises.”
Shayne said, “Thanks,” and paid the bill on his way out.
Gentry was waiting. He said, “There’s another thing… your other witness isn’t going to hold out very long.”
Shayne leaned against the building and opened the package, which contained a jar of yellowish salve. He smeared it on his lips slowly and thoughtfully, said, “You mean Carlton?”
“Yeh. He called up after reading about that rifle attack on you this morning. Wanted to know if that was a sample of the police protection I could give. And he’s called three times since noon wanting you. He’ll cave in when he hears about the fun you had at Tahiti.”
Shayne said grimly, “I’ll see that he doesn’t cave in.” He tossed the small carton toward the gutter and put the jar of salve in his pocket.
Gentry squinted up at him and asked, “What about this date you’ve got with a dame?”
“A gal I met today. A she-lawyer. One of those dames that look cold and intellectual, yet something tells you she’s nothing but a bottled-up volcano. Know what I mean? Ready to go off like a firecracker if a man lights the fuse.”
“I suppose you think you can light the fuse?”
Shayne grinned. The salve was beginning to limber his lip. He said, “I’m taking along a pocketful of matches.”
“Got anything to do with the Wilson case… or the racketeers?” Gentry asked suspiciously.
“Maybe.” He looked at his watch. “I got to be going now. See you later, Will.”
“See here, Mike,” Gentry called, but Shayne waved his hand and stalked to his car.
He drove out to Coral Gables and located the Carlton house in an exclusive residential district near the Biltmore Hotel. It was a large, two-story, Spanish-style stucco house with balconies and exterior stairways. He parked behind a police car in front and went up a flagged walk to ring the bell.
A maid opened the door and Shayne asked for Mr. Carlton. She led the way to a long library with the afternoon sun streaming through the west windows. There was a stone fireplace at one end of the room, and bookcases on either side with books which looked as though they had been read.
Carlton was seated at a desk in front of the fireplace. Another man stood beside the desk, leaning over and talking with Carlton in a low tone. In front of the windows a slender woman with a youthful face and snow-white hair reclined on a chaise longue reading a book. She looked up and Shayne met a pair of appraising blue eyes, but she made no move to greet him. Shayne was wondering why her hair was white when the maid announced:
“Mr. Shayne to see Mr. Carlton.”
Mr. Carlton pushed some papers back and got up. The other man stepped aside, thrusting his hands deep into the pockets of an untidy tan suit and looking at Shayne with an insolent frown. He was past middle age, with aquiline features and bushy black hair.
Carlton’s face looked haggard and his eyes were those of a frightened man. He said, “I’m glad to see you, Mr. Shayne. I’ve been trying to reach you by telephone.”
The white-haired lady coughed delicately. Carlton turned to her and said, “Mr. Shayne, this is Mrs. Carlton.”
She closed her book with a finger between the pages and said, “You look more like a truck driver than a detective, Mr. Shayne,” but her eyes held a pleasurable glint.
“I can drive a truck, too,” Shayne told her.
“You’ve been hurt,” she said, her blue eyes lingering on his face. “Have you had another encounter with those gangsters?”
“Yes… for heaven’s sake, Shayne,” Carlton broke in with a tremolo of fear. “You’re all battered up.”
Shayne laughed and touched his swollen, salved lip. “A bee stung me. I’m allergic to bees,” he added gravely to Mrs. Carlton.
“This is scarcely the time for joking,” Carlton reprimanded.
“I didn’t know whether you wanted to discuss business just now,” Shayne apologized. He looked at the man standing back from Carlton’s desk.
“Oh yes… Mr. Bartel knows all about it. Bartel is my compositor and pressman,” Carlton added. “He brought these items up from the office for my okay.” He indicated the litter of proofs and newspaper cuts on the desk.
Studying Bartel with intent eyes, Shayne frowned and said, “Haven’t we met before?”
“I don’t think so.” Bartel’s aloof tone indicated that he would be pleased if they didn’t meet again.
Shayne shrugged and moved close to the desk to ask, “Just what is your business, Carlton?”
“I publish the Coral Gables Trumpet.” He bent forward and opened a drawer.
“Weekly?”
“Yes.” He straightened up and offered Shayne a folded sheet of paper. “I received this threat in the morning mail.”
The threat was typed. On the same Hammond Bond which had been used for Shayne’s letter. It, too, was unsigned and read:
“Maybe your eyesight is too good for your health. You’ve got till tomorrow to decide you made a mistake last night.”
Carlton watched Shayne’s face as he read the note, then said anxiously, “I’m afraid I did make a mistake.”
“You mean you think you can’t identify the killers?”
“Precisely. I’m afraid I let my natural desire to be of help run away with me.”
Shayne laid the anonymous threat down. “You had to expect something like this. They’re not passing up any bets.”
“That’s just what I told you, Herbert,” Mrs. Carlton said sharply.
Shayne looked at the publisher’s wife. A flicker of disdain curled her unrouged lips. Bartel had quietly moved away from the desk and was sitting in a chair near the window a little behind Mrs. Carlton. He sat stiffly with his legs crossed and his arms folded, staring impassively through the window. There was a curious air of tension between the trio that made Shayne’s Irish blood pound a little faster. He studied the two by the window gravely for a moment, then turned to Carlton.
“You have a policeman on guard, haven’t you, Carlton?”
“What good is a policeman?” Carlton’s voice rose nervously. “I understand there were two on guard at your door when the rifle bullet was fired at you. I am a prisoner in my own house,” he went on fretfully. “I dare not go to my office. Though we get the Trumpet out only once a week we have a large volume of commercial printing and I can’t afford to be away from my office this way. It’s a preposterous situation.”
“It won’t last long,” Shayne said with assurance. “Another day or so and…”
“You don’t understand,” Carlton interrupted. “I’m positive I wouldn’t recognize either of those men again.”
Shayne said, “It’s cowards like you who encourage rackets and murder.”
There was a long moment of flat silence in the sunlit library. Carlton sat down heavily behind the desk. His eyes were steely and focused on Shayne. He said, “I’ll have to ask you to apologize for that, Shayne.”
“Don’t be absurd, Herbert.” Mrs. Carlton’s voice dripped malice. “Mr. Shayne is simply saying what everyone else will be thinking.”
Carlton’s face grew flaccid. He said, “Laura!” hoarsely.
“Don’t you agree with me, Mr. Bartel?” she asked.
Shayne turned again to look at them. Bartel was still staring out the window. Mrs. Carlton’s profile showed intense concentration, as though his reply mattered terribly to her.
Bartel said gruffly, “It’s not for me to say.”
Shayne didn’t see the man’s lips move, though his words came clearly across the room.
Laura Carlton turned from him and looked directly at Shayne. She said in a tired voice, “You can see how it is. I’ve tried to argue with Herbert. After all those editorials he’s written about Americanism, too. About putting shoulders to the wheel, being a good soldier on the home front, the necessity for rationing restrictions…” She paused with her voice high, as though she would add more if her memory served her.
Carlton flushed at his wife’s tone and put his head in his hands.
Laura went on slowly, “I was almost proud of you last night when you told me what you had done. That was foolish of me. After being married to you all these years…” Her upper lip curled away from nice teeth. She stood up suddenly and pulled a silken bell cord. “I need a drink,” she said, looking at Shayne.
He nodded. “It might help to wash the taste out.”
Turning to Bartel, she asked, “Will you join us?”
“Just a small one before I go back to the office,” he said in his odd, tight-lipped tone, and did not look at her.
The maid appeared in the doorway. Mrs. Carlton said, “Scotch, Emily… for three.”
When the maid went away Carlton lifted his head from his hands and said, “Must we quarrel before a stranger, Laura?”
“I’m not quarreling.” To Shayne she said, “I’m ashamed of my husband.”
“Would you like a cigarette?”
“Please.”
Shayne stood beside the chaise longue and she took a cigarette from his pack. The maid brought a tray holding three tall glasses, a bottle of Scotch, an icetub of cubes, a siphon, and three large ponies. As Mrs. Carlton put ice in the tall glasses, Bartel got up stiffly and said, “No soda for me.”
She filled a pony and passed it to him, then glanced up at Shayne inquiringly, tilted the bottle over his glass. He nodded when it was half full. She poured as much in her glass and filled them with soda.
Bartel drank his and set the small glass back on the tray. He said to Carlton, “You can send that stuff down after you’ve checked it,” and went out abruptly.
Laura Carlton held her glass out to touch Shayne’s and said, “Here’s to happy hunting, Mr. Shayne.”
In the silence, as they drank, Carlton snapped from the desk, “You might have some consideration for my feelings, Laura. You know I don’t approve of your drinking in the afternoon.”
She ignored his plea, raised her eyes to Shayne and said, “It must be wonderful to live dangerously.”
“It takes all kinds to make up the world,” Shayne responded genially.
“And I had to draw Herbert.” She emptied her glass and reached for the whisky bottle.
Carlton said, “Laura,” forlornly, as though he knew she would not answer.
She didn’t. She said between her teeth, “I hate little people. I detest hypocrisy. Don’t you, Mr. Shayne?”
“That gives you a lot of detesting to do,” he said.
“Do you think they’ll kill you?” she asked suddenly.
“They’ll do their best.”
“They’ll probably succeed.” She sounded very sad. “And after I’ve just met you, Michael.”
Shayne grinned. “I’m hard to kill.”
“But they’ll get you, and Herbert will keep on living. And I’ll keep on living with him, because I’m a coward, too, Michael.” Twin tears rolled down her smooth cheeks. She sank back on the chaise longue with a glass of whisky between her palms.
Shayne took out a handkerchief and wiped the tears away. He heard Carlton get up and move hesitantly toward them across the soft rose rug, but kept his back turned.
Laura caught Shayne’s wrist and held it tightly. “You’re not afraid of anything, are you?”
“Laura!” Carlton spoke harshly from close behind Shayne. “You’re making a ridiculous scene. I demand that you go to your room at once. You’re disgustingly drunk.”
“Go down and publish your paper,” she said thickly. “You know, I hate you.”
Carlton stepped forward to face Shayne. He said meekly, “Perhaps you’ll listen to reason, Shayne. Surely you can see that my wife is… indisposed.”
Shayne stood up, wincing with pain from his broken ribs. He looked at Laura Carlton as he finished his drink and thought he knew why her hair was white. He said, “I feel sorry for you, Carlton.”
“Your opinion does not interest me.”
“You were almost a man for a little while last night,” Shayne reminded him.
“The maid will show you out,” he said severely.
Mrs. Carlton pulled herself up and said tearfully, “I wish you’d stay, Michael.”
“I’ll be back and we’ll have another drink together,” he promised with a puffy smile.
Carlton seized his arm as he turned toward the door. His grip was surprisingly strong. He exclaimed, “It isn’t fair… what either of you think. I tell you I’ve decided…”
“Save it for the editorial page,” Shayne said. He shook the editor’s hand from his arm, and Carlton turned away in despair.
Laura had dropped back against the cushions and her blue eyes were closed when he said, “Good-by.”
Bending over her slightly, Shayne slid the first two fingers of one hand inside the shot glass Bartel had used, and widened them against the inner edges. He dropped the glass into his pocket, turned and went out of the library, down the wide hallway and out into the sunlight. He glanced over his shoulder and shivered as he went down the circuitous flagged walk to his car. He felt sorry as hell for Laura Carlton.
The sun was dipping low in the west as he drove to Miami police headquarters. He went directly to Chief Gentry’s private office.
Gentry looked up hopefully as Shayne walked in. “Well… well,” he began jovially.
Shayne said hastily, “I’m still fishing, Will.” He took a handkerchief from his pocket and carefully lifted the shot glass from his coat pocket. Setting it on Gentry’s desk, he explained, “A guy who says his name is Bartel drank out of this. I think he has a record. Check the prints for me, Will… and quick.”
Gentry nodded unhappily. “I sit here waiting for things to break,” he said sadly, “and you bring me a whisky glass.”
Shayne had the bottle of salve out and was smearing some of it on his upper lip. Replacing it, he said, “Well… so long.”
“Where you off to now?”
“I’ve still got that date. Remember? The she-lawyer.”
Gentry grunted. “If you walk into a bullet…”
“No woman has ever had to protect herself from me. You ought to know that, Will.” He waved a big hand and closed the door as he went out.