not. Don’t touch a thing in here. I’ll get the police up to look for fingerprints. What name did he sign?”
“I’m not sure.” The subdued clerk followed Shayne out. “We can look in the file.”
The file was not very helpful. It supplied the name of B. Antrim, New York City. Shayne pocketed the card over a protest from the clerk and after showing his badge. He called Will Gentry and told him what had happened and suggested locating the taxi driver as a possible means of tracing the would-be assassin.
The early edition of the Herald was delivered to the hotel while Shayne was phoning Gentry. It had already been on the streets for more than an hour.
Shayne bought a copy and went back to his apartment.
CHAPTER 5
Tommy had a copy of The Herald spread out on the desk when Shayne went into the lobby. He looked up from the headline which read: MIKE SHAYNE REFUSES TO REVEAL RATION RACKET, and his face was clouded. “Gee, they sure make it look bad for you here in the paper.”
“Do they?”
Tommy said angrily, “Looks like the newspapers and the cops’d learn to lay off when you’re working on a murder case. Don’t you always get your man, Mr. Shayne?”
Shayne grinned. “Newspapers have to have headlines and the cops have to hold their jobs. By the way, you’ll have to get a new pane put in my bedroom window right away.”
“Did something happen? What’d you go running out for just now?” the young clerk asked eagerly.
“Chasing a clue,” Shayne called on his way to the elevator.
A stench filled his apartment when he opened the door. Shayne swore under his breath and longlegged to the kitchenette. The water had boiled out of the percolator and the vile odor of burning coffee was stifling. He snatched it from the fire, turned off the heat, and went back to the living room to spread out the front page of the morning Herald.
There was a photograph of himself beside a picture of Herbert P. Carlton. Below them was a faded likeness of Clem Wilson and an exterior shot of the filling station on the Tamiami Trail.
Shayne shucked off his coat and sat down; he tugged at his earlobe as he glanced over the newspaper story. The facts were, as a whole, correct, but they were presented in a manner to intimate that the detective had a sinister personal motive in suppressing what Wilson had told him over the telephone. His supposed association with criminal elements in the city was recalled to readers, and the entire story was couched in phrases to make it appear that Shayne was circumventing justice by refusing to turn his information over to the authorities.
Chief Will Gentry came in for his share of castigation for not taking more effective measures to force Shayne to reveal the facts in his possession.
Shayne grinned as he finished reading the story. The Herald had been after his scalp for a long time because he had let Timothy Rourke scoop them on the News. This was too good a chance to pass up.
At that, he reflected grimly, it wasn’t a bad angle to consider. If the gang could be led to believe that he was holding out for a pay-off, they might decide to make him an offer rather than waste time and bullets trying to kill him.
Brushing the sheet aside, he went into the bedroom and put on a clean shirt, adjusted a belt about his lean hips inside his trousers to permit a holster to lie flat against the front of his right thigh. After buckling his pants over the holster he went to the bathroom, found a used razor blade, and cut the right pocket out of his pants. He slid the. 38 through the opening into the holster, pressing it down and out of sight to a point of instant availability. He knotted his tie before the bathroom mirror, put on his coat and hat and went out.
Shayne scowled heavily when he saw Detective Sergeant Grayson at the desk in the lobby. Grayson was leaning negligently against the desk, facing the elevator. He gave Shayne a thin smile and said, “Let’s go down to headquarters.”
“Is it a pinch?”
“Not unless you make it one.”
Shayne sighed. “We’ll keep it friendly, then. Where’s your car?”
“I’m walking,” Grayson told him. They went out together and turned toward Flagler Street.
Chief Gentry was alone in his office when Grayson and Shayne entered the room. Gentry said, “That’s all, Sergeant,” and waited until the door closed before barking at Shayne, “Well, are you ready to start talking?”
Shayne pulled up a chair in front of the battered oak desk and asked, “What about?”
Gentry choked over a soggy cigar butt. He flung it toward a cuspidor and said, “I thought maybe that bullet would scare some sense into your thick head.”
“It wasn’t even close,” Shayne scoffed.
Gentry folded his massive arms on the desk and implored, “Mother of God, Mike, get wise to yourself. Those boys aren’t fooling. That hood checked into the room opposite yours at six twenty-two, just twenty-two minutes after the first edition of the Herald hit the streets. They didn’t lose any time.”
“That’s what I hoped they’d do,” Shayne protested.
“It’s your own neck,” Gentry growled. “I’m damned if I care whether you get it chopped off or not. But give me something to go on after they get you. That’s all I ask.”
Shayne lit a cigarette and said blandly, “You’ll never learn, Will.”
“We’ve worked together,” Gentry argued evenly, “and you know I can keep it under my hat till it’s time to go.”
Shayne moved his red head stubbornly from side to side. “They’re going to be watching close for any sign that I’ve squawked. As long as I’m the only one who knows, they’ll keep on gunning for me.”
Gentry relaxed, took a fat cigar from his pocket, sank his teeth into it and struck a match. He asked, “That your only reason for clamming up, Mike?”
“Can you think of any other?”
“Maybe I can’t, but other people can. The Herald.”
“To hell with the Herald.”
“People read it. Lots of people… like the State’s Attorney.”
Shayne stared at Gentry. “Has Osgood been after you?”
“He phoned me a little while ago wanting to know what the hell I mean letting you get away with it. He’s always suspected you had your hand out for dirty money, but he never suspected you’d cover up murder and sabotage for a price.”
“He thinks that, does he?” Shayne’s voice was hard.
“Hell, you know how Osgood is. You can’t buck a thing like that. Everybody’ll be thinking you’re holding out for a cut-in on the racket.”
“Everybody thinks too damned much,” Shayne grated, “including Osgood. Let them think.”
“It’s not that easy. Osgood wants you over at his office.”
“Okay.” Shayne stood up. “Let’s go.”
Gentry remained solidly in his chair. “I think you’re right, Mike. That rifle bullet shows they’re plenty scared of what you know. But Osgood isn’t going to see in that way. I’m warning you.”
Shayne said, “Let’s go.”
Gentry sighed heavily. His telephone buzzed. He lifted the receiver and flipped a connection, grunted into the mouthpiece and listened. After a time he said, “You don’t need me on every kid bum that gets bumped off,” and hung up. “Now, look, Mike…”
“What was that call?” Shayne asked.
“Some hobo out near the railroad yards. Drilled with a forty-five. I tell you…”
“What did the kid look like?” Shayne dropped into his chair and leaned toward Gentry.
“That was just a routine report. I didn’t get a full description.”
“Call back and get the details… a description of the hobo, Will. Find out if he had pimples and a buck in his pocket. And if he was skinny and dirty and wore a cap.” Shayne spoke swiftly and earnestly.
As Gentry dialed a number, he asked, “Why are you so worked up over it?”
