said:
“Mr. Brannigan! I got to see you! Right away!”
“Who’s speaking?”
“Eddie. I got to see you, boss.”
“Eddie who?”
“Eddie Seeney. You know me, Mr. Brannigan.”
A short silence ensued. Brannigan said, “You must have the wrong party, Mr. Seeney.”
Shayne put the wide part of his tie over the mouthpiece and said thickly, “You’re head guy in the Motorist Protective Association, ain’t you?”
“I’m the president… yes. But I… I don’t do business after hours… in my home.”
“But this is important.” Shayne made his voice shaky and urgent. “That man… that detective is after me an’ I gotta see you.”
“Is this some kind of a joke?” Brannigan asked. “I don’t understand.”
“This here’s Eddie Seeney, see? I work for you.”
Brannigan cleared his throat. He said irritably, “You sound drunk. You certainly do not work for me.”
Shayne whined, “You can’t turn me down. I’m on the spot. You gotta help me.”
“I’ve heard enough of this nonsense.” Brannigan hung up.
Shayne tugged at his left earlobe with his right thumb and forefinger, then opened the door of the booth, dragged in a breath of fresh air and closed it again. He looked up Ponti in the phone book, running his forefinger down to F. Ponti, Res. and Serv. Sta. The address was far out on West Flagler Street. He scribbled the address in his notebook and began looking up other names on the list he had copied from Eddie Seeney’s list.
Three of those bearing checkmarks were listed as filling stations or garages. Two other checked names did not appear in the telephone book. Four of the unchecked names were in the tire or gasoline business.
He closed the telephone book with a grunt of satisfaction. Things were beginning to add up.
Hurrying out to his car he drove directly to his garage. His gauge indicated that his tank was less than half full. He called an attendant and asked, “Got a five-gallon can, Joe?”
A lanky youth who came to attend him asked, “A five-gallon can, Mr. Shayne?” in a puzzled voice.
“I want to drain the gas out of my car,” he explained.
“But that’s against the rules,” the youth protested. “You ain’t supposed to take no gas out of a tank once it’s put in.”
Shayne said impatiently, “To hell with the rules. Get me a can.”
Joe nodded and trotted off. When he brought the can, Shayne ordered, “Drain it off full and set it aside for me.”
A gleam of understanding came into the boy’s eyes. “Yes sir. You got a hot case on, Mr. Shayne?”
Shayne grinned and said, “Hot enough. I’m hunting some guy who’ll feel sorry for me having an empty gas tank.” He watched the five gallons being drained from his tank. Aware that at least two gallons was his reserve supply, he flipped the ignition switch and saw it go to “empty.”
“I get you,” Joe beamed. “You’re going after that murder case the paper said was on account of bootleg gas. Gee, I sure hope you get ’em.”
Shayne warned, “Don’t let anything happen to my gas, Joe,” and backed out.
He drove out First Street across the Florida East Coast tracks and turned onto Flagler where it became a two-way street.
Felix Ponti’s service station was on a corner on the right-hand side of the street. A neat, three-pump station, complete with grease rack and washroom.
A dark, diminutive man hurried out when Shayne stopped beside one of the pumps. Black hair fell aslant his forehead and he wore neat white overalls with F. Ponti in red lettering on the back. He flashed a white-toothed smile at Shayne and asked, “What’ll you have today?”
“I want to see the boss,” Shayne told him.
“But I am the boss,” the little man said.
“You’re Ponti?”
“You bet my life.” He smiled ingratiatingly.
Shayne lowered his voice to a confidential whisper and said rapidly, “I’m in a jam. Somebody drained my tank.”
Ponti stuck his head in the window and watched when Shayne switched on the ignition.
He saw the needle rest at empty. “The thieves been after your tank, so?”
“Like I said, I’m in a jam. I got to have a couple of gallons.”
“Sure. You got the coupon, Mister?”
“That’s the hell of it. I’ve used up my quota.”
“Ha! You try to get gas without a coupon?” Ponti shook his head emphatically. “Sorry, Mister, you come to the wrong place.”
“What am I going to do?” Shayne groaned. “It isn’t my fault some sonofabitch stole my gas. Goddamn it, I’ve got to have a couple of gallons right away.”
“You go to the board, Mister. Maybe they give you extra coupons.”
“The ration board?” Shayne laughed derisively. “Those fellows won’t listen to a man. Hell, no! They have all the gas they want to drive around in Government cars. But they tell us we can have just so much. To hell with us. What right have they got to ration gas? There’s plenty for everybody.”
“Look, Mister, I don’t like talk like that.” F. Ponti’s small dark hands doubled into fists and his black eyes snapped angrily. “They know what is best for all. You got a C card. They give you plenty.”
“Plenty hell,” Shayne argued. “I don’t get half I need.”
“By golly, I think you need somebody to tell you a few things. A fellow like you should be in jail. This country’s at war.” His black eyes narrowed. “Maybe you don’t know that,” he ended in a threatening voice.
Shayne softened his voice to a tone of anxious pleading. “Be a pal, Ponti. Just a couple of gallons. You must have some extra stashed away. I’ll give you a buck a gallon for it.”
The small dark man choked with rage. “You trying to bribe! You go on or I’ll call the police.”
Shayne laughed suddenly. He showed Ponti his badge and said, “Okay, Felix. I’m just checking up on bootleg stuff. Did you ever have any propositions made to you?”
“Detective, huh? That’s good. Sure, I have plenty chances to handle extra gas. But not me, Mister.”
“Been anybody around here lately?” Shayne described Eddie Seeney. “Has anybody answering that description been trying to sell you bootleg stuff?”
“I think you mean that fellow a coupla days ago. I told him plenty.” Ponti laughed. “I bet he won’t come back here.”
Shayne lit a cigarette, puffed thoughtfully, then said, “You may be in trouble, Felix. That gang killed a man last night. You’re next on their list. You keep a sharp lookout for them.”
“Me? No.” He laughed scornfully. “They bettern’t try nothing on me.”
Shayne started his motor. “All the same, watch your step. If they come back, don’t argue with them. Call the police.”
He rolled away, studying the list as he drove slowly. He saw that one of those checked by Seeney was a garage on the Trail a few blocks west. He cut south and stopped in front of Dexter’s garage and got out.
There were two gas pumps in front and a dim light burned inside. The doors of the garage were closed.
Shayne called, and a large man came to the door of the office. He wore a greasy mechanic’s cap and there was a stubble of black beard on his jaw. He was chewing on a matchstick.
“Yeh?” he inquired.
Shayne said rapidly, “Look, chum, I’m in a hell of a jam. Some bastard drained my tank and I’ve got to have a couple gallons. Haven’t got a coupon left.”
The man scowled and demanded, “Who sent you here?”
“Nobody. I just thought maybe… hell, you know how it is. My tank’s damn near dry. You must have a few extra gallons. How’s for helping a guy out? It’ll be worth plenty to me.”
The man shook his head. “Sorry, but I can’t do it. God, if you knew how they check up on us you’d know I ain’t got no extra. We got to account for every gallon we put out. And they ’low damn little for evaporation. I’m
