“Mike Shayne.”
“Oh,” she said, and smiled again. “You’re to go right in, Mr. Shayne.” She sprang up and preceded him to a door chastely lettered, “President, Private.”
The private office was newly decorated in pastel shades with long windows veiled by half-closed Venetian blinds. Soft lights reflected on an immaculate glass-topped desk and the man sitting behind it.
Brannigan wore a double-breasted pongee suit, and the red carnation in the buttonhole matched his tie. His head was square, and the short stubble of dark hair standing up from a low forehead enhanced the squareness. His upper lip was too short, almost cherubic, but his chin was forceful. His blue eyes twinkled, and as he stood up to greet Shayne effusively, he smoothed his coat down over a hint of a paunch.
“Well, well, Mr. Shayne, you are very prompt. I like a man to be prompt. I do, indeed.”
Shayne grinned and pulled up a leather-cushioned chair. He said, “You’re Brannigan, of course?”
“That’s correct, Mr. Shayne.” He sat down and folded his hands on the glass-topped desk. “You are doubtless familiar with the work of our organization.”
“Never heard of it,” Shayne said. “It’s a new racket to me.”
A look of pain flitted over the president’s face. “I’m afraid you have the wrong impression, Mr. Shayne.”
“It’s new, isn’t it?” Shayne’s gray eyes roved around the immaculate room, taking in the shining newness of everything in the office.
“We’ve been operating only a short time… yes. But our work certainly cannot be considered a racket. It is, in fact, the exact opposite.”
Shayne tipped his chair back and crossed his legs. “Just what is your line?”
“Line? Oh, we don’t carry a line, Mr. Shayne. You see, we are organized to fill a very real need during this period of wartime restrictions. We offer sympathetic counsel and guidance to every motorist who is patriotically co-operating with the Government to conserve gasoline and rubber so vitally needed by our armed forces.” The words rolled sonorously off Brannigan’s tongue.
Shayne lit a cigarette and tossed the match on the deep, wine-colored rug. “What kind of counsel and guidance?”
“We show them how to stretch their gasoline allowance in innumerable ways by maintaining a corps of specialists who advise in methods of gasoline conservation. With a legal department which studies the individual problems of our members and makes recommendations toward applications for supplemental allowances. By skilled field workers who assist in the preparation of budgets for essential driving needs. The organization of the share- the-rides clubs among our membership. These are only a few of the services we offer.”
“Sounds fair enough. But why did you want to see me?”
Brannigan leaned forward eagerly. “Another service we plan is a drive against all forms of ration racketeering. Every gallon of gasoline and every tire diverted to illicit channels leaves that much less to go around among our membership. We feel it is our duty to ruthlessly stamp out all such practices.”
“Isn’t that a police job?” Shayne asked. “Or a matter for the FBI?”
Brannigan laughed indulgently. “I can see you are a very practical man, Shayne. But… you should know how far the local police and the FBI have gone in meeting the problem. Thus far there has not been a single arrest in the city of Miami… yet it is well known that an extensive Black Market exists here. You and I know there is an organized ring of gasoline thieves who bootleg their stolen stuff at an enormous profit. The police seem powerless to stamp it out. And lately…” he paused to give his words emphasis, “… I’ve heard rumors of a counterfeiting ring offering forged ration books for sale.” Brannigan’s eyes were no longer twinkling. They were cold and demanding. “Have you heard any such rumors?”
Shayne took his cigarette from his mouth and studied the burning tip. He said, “Whether I have or haven’t, how do you propose to use such information?”
Mr. Brannigan fitted the fingertips of his hands together. “We plan to make that one of the outstanding services of the Motorist Protective Association. With our vastly expanding membership, soon to include every motorist on the Eastern Seaboard, we have an unparalleled opportunity for public service. Each member will be urged to report every person who approaches him with a scheme for rationing violation.”
“But I still don’t see where I come in,” Shayne said.
“According to this morning’s paper the murder last night was committed by members of a gang who sought to force Wilson to deal with them.”
“That,” said Shayne, “is true.”
Brannigan nodded. “And it appears that you possess information about the scheme, perhaps even the identity of the actual murderer or murderers.”
Shayne murmured, “Perhaps.” His eyes were very bright but his angular face remained impassive.
“Don’t you see how important that is?” Brannigan’s soft fist struck the desk. “What wonderful publicity it would be for our organization if we could expose the racket!”
Shayne took a final drag on his cigarette and ground it out in a shining brass tray on the desk. “What’s your idea on it?” he asked.
Brannigan folded his arms on the desk and leaned toward Shayne in a confidential attitude. “I wonder if you could be induced to share your information with us, Mr. Shayne? With our facilities it is likely we could promptly smash the racket and obtain the arrest of Wilson’s murderer. We could even prevent further murders brought on by gasoline racketeering.”
Shayne said, “It would depend on the inducement you offer.”
Again a pained expression flitted over Brannigan’s face. “It’s a great opportunity for public service. In times like these no loyal citizen can conscientiously put a price on patriotism.”
“I suppose you’re going to tell me that your organization operates on an altruistic set-up,” Shayne said bluntly.
Dejection covered the square face of the president. “There are certain expenses connected with such an organization as ours,” he said with stiff dignity. “We have a large overhead and a salaried staff.”
“You don’t look exactly ill-fed, Brannigan.” Shayne held up a big palm to stop a protest, and continued, “Let’s drop the preliminaries and get down to business. You’ve got a good thing here. It looks legitimate and your members probably get what they pay for. But that’s beside the point. If you could get the credit for rounding up a gang of murderers and gas racketeers it’d be worth a million dollars in publicity. New members would flock to join you. Isn’t that true?”
“Well…” Brannigan squirmed. “Presumably, yes.”
“All right. How much?”
The president spread out his smooth white hands. “Really, Mr. Shayne, how do I know how much your information is worth until I know what it is?”
“You don’t.”
“I assure you we’ll be fair. If you could only give me an inkling.”
Shayne said, “No.” He made himself comfortable and lit another cigarette. “I’m playing for high stakes, too.”
“Surely you have no thought of dealing with those scoundrels,” Brannigan said in a trembling voice. “You wouldn’t take a bribe from them?”
“I’d rather get paid for turning them in than accept their proposition, Brannigan. After all, Clem Wilson was my friend.”
“But don’t you see how impossible it is to judge what your information is worth as long as I don’t know what it is?” Brannigan argued.
Shayne laughed harshly. “You and the gang are in the same boat. They don’t know how much Wilson told me before he died, either.”
“Does it concern forged ration books?”
Shayne’s gray eyes were hard as he looked squarely at Brannigan. “I’ll have to see some money before I start talking.”
“Very well. A thousand dollars… payable when and if the gang is apprehended and our association receives appropriate credit for their capture.”
Shayne laughed scornfully. “A grand is peanuts. How many members have you?”
Brannigan blinked. “Some eight thousand at present.”
