3:10 A.M.
Hehired a taxi to lead him to Oskar’s, the after-hours club on Larue Place. After they found it, Shayne signaled the driver to follow him until he found a better place to park. Then he transferred to the cab for the brief trip back.
“Will I have any trouble getting in?”
“Not if you’re not a cop,” the driver said cheerfully. He was short and fat, with a dead cigar clamped between his teeth. “And a cop wouldn’t have to pay cab fare to find it, would he?”
“I got the address from a bellhop,” Shayne said. “It sounded OK, but I don’t like the looks of the neighborhood. I never appreciate getting rolled.”
“Who does? You won’t get rolled inside; they run a pretty clean operation. It’s after you leave you want to keep your eyes open. I mean, don’t let anybody inveigle you into a hallway.”
Shayne checked the license posted on the back of the front seat. The driver’s name was Edward Siemanski.
“I’ll buy you a drink, Ed,” he suggested. “Plus a buck for your waiting time. Then we can pick up the Ford and you can show me how to get back to my hotel.”
“Sure, glad to. I’m knocking off in fifteen minutes anyway.”
He put up his windows and checked the locks all around after he parked. Shayne waited on the sidewalk, rattling the change in his pockets. The only indication that drinks were on sale in No. 17 was the number over the door: it was much larger and more conspicuous than the numbers on nearby buildings. The door was several steps below street level. On one side was a store selling trusses, crutches, and artificial limbs. The building on the other side was empty, with white crosses on the windows, marking it for the wreckers. On the corner there was a theatre specializing in nudist movies. Except for a prowling cat, nothing moved anywhere on the block.
“Let’s go,” the driver said. “And remind me to come out to look every couple of minutes, so they don’t steal the paint job off me. Not that it’s my cab.”
He knocked at the door beneath the big 17, and a moment later it opened. This was Shayne’s night for running into big men. The blond man in the doorway wasn’t as tall as Stevens, but he was equally broad through the chest. He looked like a guard or a tackle on a good pro football team: A pair of muscular arms bulged out below the rolled-up sleeves of a blue work shirt. One of the forearms was tattooed with a snake and an American flag.
“Hey, Pete,” the driver said. “We’re thirsty.”
“Eddie,” the doorman replied. “Who’s your friend?”
“He’s OK. I only met him ten minutes ago, but from what I know about human nature, he’s no cop.”
The big blond gave Shayne a hard look. “That’ll be one dollar membership.”
Shayne paid him and they were allowed to enter a large air-conditioned room. The air was damp and clammy. Shayne glanced around quickly, without seeing Senator Wall. Several couples were dancing to music from a jukebox at the far end of the room. The customers were all surprisingly well dressed, having started the evening in other parts of town. Some of them were having a very good time, others seemed to be contemplating suicide. At this time of night there was nothing in between.
Eddie started for the bar, but Shayne pointed toward an empty table. “Let’s get comfortable.”
“Why not?” Eddie agreed.
A waitress came over to take their orders. Her straw-colored hair was nicely arranged and her black uniform did everything that could be done for her sturdy figure. Her arms were nearly as muscular as the doorman’s. Her face also resembled his, with heavy blonde brows and craggy cheekbones.
“Old Granddad on the rocks,” Eddie said.
She looked at Shayne. He said, “Isn’t your name Olga Szep?”
Her reaction seemed considerably overdone. She drew in a sharp breath and put her hand to her throat.
“Now, listen,” Eddie said. “If you’ve been conning me, I mean if you’re working some kind of an angle here, you’d better change your mind right now. These guys are selling liquor against the law. They can’t afford to kid.”
“I didn’t insult anybody,” Shayne said. “All I did was ask her if her name was Olga Szep.”
The girl’s Adam’s apple went up and down. Eddie called after her as she turned, “Anyway, get my bourbon.”
The bartender met her at the service end of the bar. She spoke to him quietly.
“I’m going to be marked lousy in here from now on,” Eddie complained. “I should have asked for your fingerprints. What did you have to pick on me for?”
“Relax,” Shayne told him. “You’ll get your drink. If they won’t serve you, I’ve got a bottle of rotgut in the car.”
The bartender came out, drying his hands on his apron. There was no doubt that this was a family business. He was six or seven years older than Pete, just as blond and powerful, but without the tattoos.
“Don’t look at me, Oskar,” Eddie said. “I don’t know the guy from Adam. He said he got the address from a bellhop. It sounded legit.”
“That was just to get in,” Shayne said easily. “My name’s Michael Shayne, and if you want to sell drinks the full twenty-four hours it’s OK with me. I’m trying to locate a guy. From the way your sister is acting, I think he was in here earlier.”
Oskar jerked his thumb toward the door. “Outside.”
“In a minute,” Shayne said lazily. “You probably have to pay the precinct a good percentage of the gross to stay open this late. But is that kind of street-level protection going to help you if a United States Senator has any trouble in here?”
Reaching out, he squeezed Oskar’s knuckles, which were scuffed and inflamed. Oskar jerked his hand away, wincing.
“Better put some iodine on that,” Shayne said. “It’s recent, isn’t it?”
“What are you talking about, a United States Senator?”
“Tom Wall is his name,” Shayne said, “and it’s true he doesn’t look like a Senator. Very wound up and jerky. Little mustache.”
“No Senator come in here,” Olga said sullenly.
Pete had moved into position beside his brother. The resemblance between them was very marked.
“Let’s heave this guy,” Oskar said. “He don’t want to use his own legs, he wants to make it tough for himself.”
“Before you throw me out,” Shayne said, “I’d like to ask your sister a few questions about a diary.”
Olga gasped. “Oskar, maybe we ought to-” she began, but her brother cut her off.
“No questions,” he said savagely. “This is my place, and I make the rules.” To Shayne: “Get out. On your own steam or Peter and me help you.”
Shayne reached inside his coat. Pete twitched toward him. Moving slowly, the redhead took out his wallet.
“I want to pay for Eddie’s drink.”
He put a dollar on the table. Oskar said, “That’ll be two and a quarter.”
“Pour him a dollar’s worth,” Shayne said, standing up. Olga, nervously plucking at her white collar, refused to meet his eyes. The jukebox was still playing, but no one was dancing.
“I’ll tell you what I think happened,” Shayne said. “I think Wall barged in here with his mustache going up and down and tried to get Olga to tell him what happened with Mrs. Masterson’s diary. That seems to be a hot subject around here. Maybe he didn’t tell you he was a Senator, or maybe you didn’t believe him. You told him to shut up and go home. No Senator likes being talked to like that. They take themselves seriously. So you probably had to slug him, didn’t you?”
“There wasn’t any Senator,” Olga repeated.
“OK, there wasn’t any Senator. Give Eddie his drink.”
“Why don’t you go on ahead?” Eddie said. “I’ll stick around and enjoy it.”
Shayne shook his head curtly. He was badly outnumbered, about to be bounced, but Eddie stood up without hesitation. Oskar returned to the bar and filled a shot-glass with whiskey, which Eddie knocked back in one swallow. Pete went with them and waited till the cab was moving before going back inside.
“I told you,” Eddie said. “You have to be careful with those guys.”
“I was careful. Let’s look around. Just cruise.”
“You really think they bounced a Senator?”
“They bounced somebody. The blood on his knuckles isn’t dry yet. That happened in the last half-hour.”
Eddie drove slowly to the corner. At a signal from Shayne he turned off into Ninth Street. Shayne studied the cheap storefronts and hallways. Two middle-aged women holding beer cans sat on a low stoop, talking. A drunk lay curled up on newspapers in front of a dark candy store. Eddie turned again at the next corner.
“They wouldn’t bring him this far.”
Shayne pointed to a narrow opening between a warehouse and a blighted tenement. “What’s in there?”
“Don’t ask me. And I’m not going in to find out.”
“I want to take a look. I’ll need your headlights.”
Eddie maneuvered the cab around and flicked his lights up to high beam when they pointed into the opening. It was five feet wide, littered with bottles, old tires, parts of cars and other debris. Ten feet or so in, Shayne saw what seemed to be a long heap of rags.
“If you get in any trouble,” Eddie said as Shayne got out, “don’t expect me to wait for you. I’m taking off.”
The detective’s enormous shadow filled the opening. A huge gray rat leaped at him from the shadows, scraped his leg, and was gone. His foot clanged against a rusty oil drum. As he moved closer to the pile of rags it turned into a man’s body, fully dressed but without shoes. One of the feet pointed straight upward, the other was twisted at an awkward angle.
Shayne had been in the presence of violent death often enough so he knew at a glance that this was no sleeping drunk. Glass crunched under his feet. The smell of liquor was very strong. He squatted beside the body, taking his lighter out of his coat pocket. He spun the wheel and a little flare of light fell on the dead man’s face.
It was Ronald Bixler.