“Would you like to search my place for the death weapon?”
“I know you don’t dirty your hands with stuff like that,” Shayne snorted. “You hire trigger boys… like the one who smashed my window with a rifle bullet this morning.”
“A rifle bullet? Indeed?” Kline shoved the breakfast away and turned his chair to face Shayne squarely.
“You’d better have your boys do some practicing.”
“If I had any boys they’d be in practice, Shayne.” Kline took a fat cigar from his breast pocket, leaned back, and lit it and let out a puff of smoke with the question, “Don’t you think you’re getting in over your depth?”
“No.”
Kline belched gently and asked, “Would you like to tell me why you’ve come to me?”
Shayne gestured toward the Herald. “I thought you’d read the story.”
“So I have.”
“Then you should be able to guess.”
Kline looked surprised. “I don’t follow you.”
“Clem Wilson talked before he was shot last night.”
“About me?”
“You’re beginning to catch on.”
“About my offer to buy his station?” Kline looked at Shayne with amusement. “Don’t tell me you think I had him killed because he refused to sell.”
Shayne lowered his eyelids to hide the leaping light of excitement in his eyes. He said, slowly, “I figure that may have been a contributing factor.”
Kline laughed outright. “You’re slipping, Shayne. You’re a fool if you think I cared that much about his site. Service stations are a drug on the market since rationing.”
“Is that the reason you’re buying them up?”
“Precisely. This war can’t last forever. It looks like a good investment.”
“But you’re not letting them stand idle as an investment,” Shayne said. “You’re operating them while other stations are closing for lack of business.”
“I’m operating some of them… yes. It doesn’t take a very smart detective to find that out. It’s a matter of record.”
“You won’t get away with it, Kline. I’ll see that the FBI gets a list of every station you own. They’ll check your supplies morning, noon, and night. This country is going to get tough on ration chiselers.”
Kline smiled genially. “I’ll be glad to co-operate with the FBI. Indeed, to make their task easier I’ll see that they’re furnished with a list of my stations.” He stood up suddenly and said, “This is very pleasant, but I’ve others things to do.”
Shayne stood up. “Sheltering an army deserter is a pretty serious business in wartime, Kline. Do you know what the penalty is?”
Dennis Kline looked at him sharply. “What are you driving at now?”
“You’d better talk it over with Manny Markle. He’s plenty good, but that’s one rap even Manny would find it hard to get you out of.” Shayne turned on his heel abruptly and strode toward the door. The Filipino glided up with his hat. He took it and went out.
Driving back on Biscayne Boulevard, Shayne stopped at the first drugstore and called Chief Gentry from a telephone booth. He said, “Will, did you know Dennis Kline was going into the service station business in a big way?”
“Kline? That you, Mike?”
“Right. I just thought you might be interested.” He kept his lips close to the mouthpiece and spoke very softly.
There was a short silence, then Gentry asked, “What cooks now?”
“That’s what I’m wondering. Kline is a smart operator. Yet it doesn’t look smart to jump into a business that’s been dead for months.”
“Maybe Kline figured out an angle.”
“I think maybe he has,” Shayne agreed wryly. “What gets me is that he isn’t covering up. He doesn’t seem to be worried about an investigation.”
“He’ll never get by with it if he’s figuring on handling bootleg stuff. We’ll start checking his stations.”
“Sure. Kline knows we will. I imagine you’ll find everything in apple-pie order.”
“What the hell are you getting at, Mike?” Gentry’s voice came louder, baffled and aggrieved. “Damn you, first you act like you’ve got a smart tip, and then you hedge.”
“I’m just giving you the dope I got,” Shayne assured him. “But I wish you would go to the records and get a list of every filling station he’s bought or leased. Manny Markle is probably handling the deals for him.”
“Sure. I’ll do that. Are you getting anywhere on the Wilson murder?”
“I’m learning things,” Shayne admitted cautiously. “For instance, Kline has been trying to buy Clem Wilson out, and Clem wouldn’t sell.”
“What does that mean? You don’t think Dennis Kline is fool enough to kill a man just for a service station site?”
Shayne said, “No. But it’s something to think about, Will.” He grinned as he hung up and cut off Will Gentry’s angry sputtering.
CHAPTER 7
Roger, the day clerk, was on duty when Shayne got back to his hotel apartment. He raised his eyebrows and motioned to the switchboard where a girl operator was on duty. “I think Gladys has a call for you on the wire right now, Mr. Shayne. Want to take it here?”
Shayne said to Gladys, “Switch it to the booth,” and went into the tiny compartment and closed the door.
An unctuous voice came over the wire. “Mr. Shayne, this is Mr. Brannigan speaking… of the Motorist Protective Association.”
Shayne said, “I don’t know you, do I?”
“I believe not, but I hope you will. I wonder if you could drop into my office for a conference?”
“What about?” Shayne asked.
There was a slight hesitation at the other end of the line. Then Mr. Brannigan said heartily, “I think we should get together, Mr. Shayne. It appears to me we might be of mutual benefit to each other.”
“How?”
Mr. Brannigan’s soft laughter gurgled soothingly over the wire, like thick oil bubbling from a bottle on a cold morning. “You are certainly forthright, Mr. Shayne. I’d like for us to discuss certain information in your possession regarding what the morning paper calls a ration racket.”
Shayne grinned. He said, “I’m open to suggestions.”
“Good. I’d like to see you at once.” Brannigan quit purring and became brisk as he continued, “Our offices are in the Biscayne Building.” He gave a fourth-floor number and asked, “May I expect to see you soon?”
“Right away.” Shayne hung up and stared at the inanimate instrument for an instant, then emerged from the booth worrying his left earlobe. He stopped, turned back, and riffled through the pages of the telephone book until he found Motorist Protective Association listed at the address Brannigan had given him.
Shayne went out and started to get into his car, checked the gasoline by turning on the ignition, returned the keys to his pocket and walked with long, swift strides to the Biscayne Building between First and Miami Avenues.
The lettering on the frosted glass door of the Motorist Protective Association looked fresh and neat. He went into a reception room containing new furniture, a soft blue rug, and attractive seascapes adorning the wall. A trim receptionist looked up from her desk and smiled at him, and asked, “What can I do for you?”
“I’m to see Mr. Brannigan,” Shayne told her.
“The name, please?”
