“They grabbed a guilty plea and didn’t stand trial,” Shayne reminded him. “One of your stinking private deals with Osgood.”
The lawyer’s expression did not change. He puffed on a cigar and let half an inch of ashes drop on his coat.
“Who paid your fee on that case?” Shayne demanded.
Markle’s thick lips smiled coldly. “Is that the information you’re after?”
“That’s it.”
“You’re wasting your time, Shamus. How should I know? A year ago? I should remember so long.”
“It’ll be in your records.”
“I don’t keep records.”
Shayne said, “I’ve got to know who was backing those three punks. Someone who paid you money to fix up a deal and keep them out of court so they couldn’t testify.”
“Aren’t you building up a lot of hypothesis out of a little conjecture?”
“I don’t think so.”
Markle said again, “You’re wasting your time… and mine.” He picked up some typewritten sheets and started to look at them.
Shayne’s features tightened. He reached out a big hand and slapped the papers from the attorney’s hand. “I’m not kidding, Markle. I want that name.”
Manny’s eyes became venomous. “Don’t try to push me around, Shayne. I’m warning you. Don’t do it.” He spoke with passionate sincerity.
Shayne’s hand doubled into a fist on the desk. He growled, “I’ll push this down your throat if you don’t give… and fast.”
Markle leaned back in his chair. “You’re making a mistake,” he warned. “You’re just a punk and you don’t know it. You’ve been smart for a long time, Shayne. You’ve kept out of my way. That’s the only reason you’ve lasted this long.”
With one movement Shayne got up and kicked his chair from under him. He turned and deliberately pushed the iron bolt, locking the door on the inside. When he turned back, Markle was reaching for the telephone. Shayne warned flatly, “Don’t make that mistake. I’ll break every bone in your body before anybody can get in here to you.”
Manny’s breath wheezed in between his stained teeth. He sat with his arm outstretched for the telephone, studying Shayne’s set face intently. “Do you realize what you’re doing?”
Shayne advanced toward him slowly with flared nostrils and upper lip drawn back. “I got socked in the puss last night by a cop. And I dodged a rifle bullet this morning. I’m playing for keeps, Markle. You’re going to give me that name, so make it easy on yourself. Personally, I don’t care. I’d like to smash your damned face. I don’t like it.”
Markle’s face turned ashen. He pushed his chair back, holding up a long-fingered hand as though to fend off a blow, and ejaculated, “I believe you’re crazy, Shayne.”
Shayne laughed without moving his lips. He stopped beside the desk, towering over the attorney. “Who were you fronting for, Manny, when you represented Garson and Axtell and Dimoff?”
“That’s something I couldn’t tell you if I knew,” Markle panted. “Confidential between a client…”
Shayne slapped him. The force of his open palm slewed Markle sideways. He reached down with his left hand and gathered up a handful of the lawyer’s shirt-front, lifted him half out of his seat. He said, “This is going to cost you a whole mouthful of new teeth.”
Shayne let go and Markle slumped into his chair. His face was pasty and his eyes shifted away from Shayne’s gray and steady stare. “Think fast and give it to me straight,” Shayne warned implacably.
“I’ll have to know how you’re going to use it…”
“You don’t have to know anything except that you’re going to take one hell of a beating if you don’t come through.”
Markle’s thick lips moved and in a choked voice he said, “Kline… Dennis Kline asked me to handle the case.”
Shayne repeated, “Dennis Kline,” and nodded thoughtfully. “Might be. I had a hunch those lads were after dope when they broke into the drugstore.”
“You’ve got to promise me Kline will never find out I told you,” Markle whimpered. “If he…”
“What’s Kline’s racket now,” Shayne interrupted, “since the feds have buttoned up the dope business?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Markle said in a harassed voice. “Kline has been unjustly persecuted by the police for years. He has been acquitted every time he was dragged into court.”
“And you’ve taken a nice slice for getting him acquitted. All right, Manny.” Shayne turned away. “I’ll find out from Kline if you’re going to be coy.”
He unbolted the door and strode out without looking back. Striding down Miami Avenue, he swung into a drugstore and went to a telephone booth, called his apartment garage and ordered his car brought to the corner of Flagler and Miami Avenue. He then found Dennis Kline’s residence number in the phone book and strolled down to the appointed corner to wait for his car.
Ten minutes later he was driving north on Biscayne Boulevard. He pulled to the curb before a modern apartment house built around a patio centered with a fishpond and studded with royal palms.
Dennis Kline was a tall, spare man with an austere face. He wore a close-cropped gray mustache and there was a rim of gray hair around his bald head. He was having breakfast in the luxurious sunlit living room of his bachelor apartment when a Filipino boy ushered Shayne in. Kline was munching on a strip of crisp bacon and he waved his napkin and nodded. “Hello there, Shayne,” he called jovially, “you’re just in time for breakfast.”
Shayne tossed his hat to the boy and sauntered to the wheeled breakfast table. “I’ve had my scrambled eggs. Thanks.” He leaned over to inhale the steam rising from the spout of a silver coffee service, wrinkled his nose and said, “It is coffee. If I had my coupon book I’d join you in a cup.”
Kline swallowed, chuckled, wiped his lips and said, “Nonsense. Pull up a chair.” And to the Filipino, “Another cup.”
Shayne drew up a brocaded chair and sat down. “That’s the ultimate in hospitality. Offering a cup of coffee nowadays is something like cutting off your right arm.”
Kline dipped a piece of toast in the yolk of a fried egg. “There’s plenty of coffee on the market if you know where to look.”
“I suppose,” Shayne said noncommittally. He lit a cigarette as the boy placed a cup and saucer before him, filled the cup from the pot. Shayne tasted it and nodded appreciatively. “Tastes just as good as though it wasn’t bootlegged.”
Kline chuckled again. “Understand, I’m admitting nothing.”
“I’ve wondered what racket you’d taken up since the dope business got too hot.” Shayne flipped cigarette ashes into the exquisite chinaware saucer.
“Don’t jump to any conclusions,” Kline warned jovially.
“I’m really interested. That’s what I came to ask you.”
Dennis Kline kept his tone genial then said, “You’re an amazing man, Shayne. I’ve always said so.”
“Thanks. What are you handling besides coffee?”
“It’s a beautiful day,” Kline parried.
“Have you thought of gasoline?”
“Why beat around the bush?”
Shayne looked surprised. “I thought I was being very explicit. I’m asking you… are you handling bootleg gasoline?”
Kline’s eyes narrowed momentarily, then his face cleared, and he glanced toward the morning Herald lying on a chair nearby. “I suppose you’re chasing your tail on that murder last night.”
“Not chasing my tail, Kline. I’ve got some pretty straight dope that points to you behind the gasoline racket,” Shayne said quietly. He took a sip of coffee and inhaled the aroma.
“Is that so?” Kline finished his eggs and toast, emptied his coffee cup with a grunt of satisfaction. “You wouldn’t be needling me, would you?” he asked with gentle mockery.
“You’ll know when I start needling you,” Shayne promised.
