“I don’t admit a goddamned thing,” Shayne growled. “I don’t even know what lies Thomas told. Maybe he killed Grange. He’s so damned interested. Maybe he’s just trying to hang it on me.”
Again Painter replaced the receiver after a brief colloquy. Returning, a look of uncertainty clouded his dark, finely chiseled face. Addressing Gentry, he wet his lips and said, “Of course, we have only Shayne’s word for where he found the other pistol. We haven’t checked it with the death bullet yet.”
“You’re going to,” Shayne told him sharply. “Just because you found out who belongs to that pistol is not going to keep you from checking on it.”
Painter moved around Shayne and sank into a chair. He was perspiring freely, and dabbed at his forehead close to the edge of his smooth black hair. When the handkerchief was fastidiously restored to his outer coat pocket, he said to Gentry:
“That was my office. The pistol is registered under John Marco’s name.”
Shayne snorted like a mad bull, then lifted his glass and drank deeply.
“Councilman John Marco, eh? Another one of the mugs who’s been running around swearing out affidavits against me. Now that gives you something to cogitate on, my fine-feathered friend. It does me. But you can do your cogitating out of my sight.”
Painter touched the tip of a shaking forefinger to his mustache.
“I’m taking the pistol with me,” he warned.
“Hell, yes,” Shayne agreed. “I’m as interested in the ballistics test as you are. If you still don’t know who killed Harry Grange, I’ll see if I can dig up some more evidence. But I’m too damned sleepy right now to do any more detecting for you.”
He waited while Painter got a silk handkerchief from his hip pocket and picked up the Marco pistol.
Will Gentry pulled himself heavily from the chair, and Shayne accompanied them to the door and shut it firmly behind them.
Returning to the center of the room, he stood for a moment in deep thought, then went to the telephone and called one of the daily newspapers. He asked for the sports editor, and after a brief wait, asked, “Do you know anything about a horse named Banjo Boy that came in at Hialeah a few days ago?”
“Banjo Boy? Sure thing. That’s the nag they’re making such a stink about. Who’s speaking?”
“Michael Shayne. Who’s the owner of the horse?”
“From the Masiot stables. Elliot Thomas is the owner. The racing commission is conducting an investigation into the race.”
“What are they investigating?”
“They want to know why Banjo Boy limped in a poor last every start this year until last Friday when he went in at twenty to one and showed his heels to the pack.”
“Is that all they’ve got to go on?”
“No. They wouldn’t have suspected anything if he hadn’t been backed so heavily. By post time, the odds were pounded down to eight to one by money mostly telegraphed in from out-of-town bookies who were protecting themselves. Money is laid at the track in cases like that in a ratio of about three to one. Which means that plenty of grands of wise money knew Banjo Boy was due to click in that particular race.”
Shayne said, “I see.” Then he asked what the commission had found out with their investigation.
“It looks bad for the trainer, Jake Kilgore. He caught a Pan-Am plane for South America the evening after the race was won. Some think Thomas was maybe in on it and laid his sugar on the line with bookies around the country to keep the odds up, but not many people take that seriously. He’s got a good rep with his stable.”
Shayne started to hang up, then paused to ask one more question, “Do you happen to know whether John Marco spends much through the mutuels?”
“He used to practically keep them oiled,” was the chuckled response. “I think he got tired of losing, a couple of years ago, and decided to get on the receiving end of a roulette wheel. I haven’t heard of him plunging any on the races lately.”
Shayne said, “Thanks a lot,” and hung up. He went back and poured himself a drink, then looked up a telephone number and called it.
After a long time a voice answered, and he said, “This is Michael Shayne speaking. I want to speak to Mr. Thomas.”
“I don’t think Mr. Thomas will wish to be disturbed,” the voice said.
“I don’t care what you think,” Shayne said curtly. “Thomas will talk to me. Tell him it’s Shayne.”
“Very well, sir.”
Shayne waited a long time. At last Thomas’s irritable voice came over the wire.
“Mr. Shayne? What the deuce-?”
Shayne cut him off with a growl. “Yesterday evening you were mighty anxious to get hold of something in Harry Grange’s possession. Do you still want it?”
“Why-of course, but-”
“Then get over to my apartment in a hurry. I don’t know how long I can stay out of jail.” Shayne gave his address, and when Thomas seemed disposed to discuss the matter further, cut him off short-“I’ll expect you within the hour,” and pressed the prongs down.
Releasing them after a moment, he called the Kincaid residence, and when Helen answered, said, “I’m sorry to be so late-but we’re ready to go. Can you get here in half an hour-dressed in your snappiest outfit?”
“Yes-but-”
“No buts. Grab a taxi and get here as quick as you can.” He hung up again. A feverish glitter was in his eyes. Going back to the table, he finished his drink and poured another. Sipping it, he checked over his plans with dissatisfaction, realizing that success depended on a dozen maybes-and he didn’t like that way of doing things.
But he had to work fast, because Painter already had Marco’s automatic.
And there was Larry Kincaid to think about. Where the devil was Larry?
He sank into a brown study, wondering where in hell the whole thing would lead.
Chapter Fourteen: THE WOMAN TO BE SCORNED
Shayne was in the bathroom, gingerly removing some of the unnecessary bandages from his face and cursing in a loud voice, when Helen Kincaid knocked on his door. He hurried out to admit her.
He could not restrain a grunt of admiring astonishment when he saw the transformation she had effected in a few hours. An upsweep hair-do added inches to her height and took years from her age. A light coral evening wrap of sheer velvet fell gracefully from her shoulders and a shirred collar of the material stood up regally, framing her dark hair and face. Her black lace evening gown accentuated curves where he hadn’t expected them after seeing her in the loose gingham house dress. A white gardenia was modestly nestled in the vee between her breasts.
The greatest and truest transformation was in her features. Her normally large eyes were lighted with a luminous glow tonight that made them appear enormous. There was poise and determination in her carriage, and a flush far back on her thin cheeks lent them a soft roundness wholly unexpected by the detective.
Before he could speak, Helen Kincaid stepped close to him and asked, “Will I do?”
A slow grin spread over his face as he took in every detail offered for his inspection.
“In a great big way, if I’m not badly mistaken in my man. You look-Good God, Helen! you look so thoroughly seducible I’m almost tempted-”
Helen looked up into his face gravely, shaking her head.
“That’s not why you had me come.”
“No,” Shayne admitted, “and I’ll have to work hard at keeping that in mind.”
She moved past him into the room, whirled about suddenly to face him.
“I did a lot of thinking after you left, Michael. You said some harsh things but I sat down with myself and came to the conclusion that I deserved them all. You hinted that Larry is in some dreadful danger. I can see, now, how I may be to blame. I-give me a chance to make amends for what I’ve done to our marriage.” Her voice throbbed with a deep note of sincerity.
Shayne’s eyes held hers steadily.
