Quinlan wants you.”
Shayne considered for a moment, then nodded. “I’ll go along. I’ve had a tough night.” He tenderly touched the lump on his head.
Greetin grinned. “It must’ve been. No hard feelings, you understand.”
“Hell, no. You’ve got a job.” Shayne stepped inside and the city detective followed him.
“I’ve heard about you,” Greetin told him. “I been wondering how’s it for a private eye. Big money?”
“Better stay on a regular payroll,” Shayne advised. “How about a cup of coffee before we go?”
Greetin looked uncertain and somewhat uneasy. He said, “Well-don’t mind if I do,” and went with Shayne to the kitchen. He sat down on the only chair and studied the redhead curiously while the coffee brewed.
When it was ready to pour Shayne took down a bottle of brandy and asked, “How about a coffee royal?” He poured his mug a third full of brandy and filled it with hot coffee.
Greetin sniffed the aroma and said, “Don’t care if I do, but make it light.”
They took the mugs to the living-room and sat down. Shayne asked, “You’re sure you don’t know what’s up at headquarters?”
Greetin relaxed after a noisy swig of coffee royal. “Not a damned thing. Say, this coffee is all right. I hear you drink a lot when you’re on a case.”
Shayne grinned. “A snort of brandy puts me in touch with the cosmic forces.”
Greetin looked puzzled. “What you mean by that?” Shayne hid another grin of amusement behind the rim of his mug. “It’s this way. When things get to happening fast you have to give the subconscious time to put things it already knows together-figure them out-so you can tie it all in with what happens next.” Greetin nodded slightly, his eyes still puzzled. “I don’t get it. You’re not going to try to pull a fast one on me? I’ve heard about that, too.”
“Hell, no. We’d better get going. I want to know what’s cooking.”
“Yeh. We’d better.” Greetin finished his coffee. “Quinlan’s liable to send somebody to check on me.”
Shayne swung into his top coat, carefully arranged his hat at a cocky angle to keep pressure from the lump on his head, and they went out to his car.
Inspector Quinlan was alone in his office twiddling a fountain pen and there was impatience in his cold blue eyes. He looked up at Greetin and said, “It took you long enough,” when they walked in.
“This bird just got home,” Greetin told him. “He’ll tell you himself.”
Shayne said, “That’s right, Inspector.”
“Better beat it, then, and get some sleep, Greetin,” the inspector snapped.
Shayne sat down across the desk and lit a cigarette. “How official is this?” he asked.
“Homicide,” Quinlan said curtly. “You can talk it over with me alone, or you can have a transcript made for the record. Or you can refuse to answer questions without the advice of counsel.”
“Who’s been bumped off?” Shayne blew a smoke cloud and looked up at it.
“Dan Trueman.”
Shayne met Quinlan’s stony eyes. He reached up and eased his hat from his head and said bluntly, “I’ll talk for the record.”
“Good enough.” The inspector pressed a button on his desk and presently a gray-haired man limped into the room carrying a notebook. He sat down beside the desk and took a pencil from behind his ear.
Shayne grinned at Quinlan and droned, “Michael Shayne-thirty-nine-occupation, private detective. Now, ask me some questions, Inspector.”
“Just this. Where were you last night and what did you do?”
“From when on?”
“Take it from dinner.”
Shayne studied another spiral of smoke, then began an easy recital of picking Lana Moore up at the Laurel Club.
“I walked into something, but I don’t know what,” he ended after several minutes. “I got socked and kicked around and I passed out without seeing the guy. I woke up half an hour ago in her apartment. Lana was passed out on the floor. I left her like that and went home.”
Quinlan had watched him closely during the recital but he picked up the fountain pen again and twiddled it. Shayne could tell nothing of his thoughts when he said, “You’ll take an oath-swear that’s the truth?”
“I’ll sign it when it’s typed.”
“All the truth?” Quinlan asked warningly. “You’ve nothing to add to it.”
Shayne’s fingertips ran around his injury. “Well-there was a little trouble at the club early in the evening. It ties in with a job I’m on and I’ll have to hold it out.”
“The Lomax job?” Quinlan asked too casually.
“That’s all for the record,” Shayne said, glancing at the man with the notebook. “Let’s just say one of my cases.”
Quinlan dismissed the court reporter and leaned back.
“Would you by any chance be referring to the little matter of getting thrown out of Dan Trueman’s office?”
“I walked out.”
“And threatened to come back while two of his boys hustled you away?”
“Maybe I said something like that. I was sore.”
Inspector Quinlan consulted a sheaf of data before him, then read from it: “‘Next time I come back there’ll be trouble.’ Did you tell Trueman that?”
“I might have. I was sore.”
“What about?”
Shayne shook his red head stubbornly. “I’ll have to protect my client.”
“Witnesses heard Trueman tell you to get out and quit beefing about your losses.”
“Trueman was covering up. Hell, I’d just won over a grand with Laurel dice. I’ve got it in my pocket. If you know so damned much you ought to know that, too.”
“I do. That’s what I couldn’t figure. I’ve been wondering why you went back and beat Dan Trueman to death.”
“So that’s the lay. I beat him to death.”
“You took the guns off the two bouncers when they threw you out. They were not armed when you came back later and you didn’t have much trouble. All I need is your motive, Shayne, and I think I’ve got that.”
“You’re forgetting my alibi,” Shayne ground out his cigarette and lit another.
Quinlan flipped a switch on his desk and picked up a telephone. Into the mouthpiece he gave Lana Moore’s address and said, “Bring her in. Don’t tell her anything, and look over her apartment carefully while you’re there.”
Shayne took a deep drag on his cigarette, exhaled slowly and said, “You know I didn’t kill Trueman.”
“I’ve practically got you sewed up on it.”
“But you know I didn’t kill him,” Shayne said curtly.
Inspector Quinlan considered for a moment, then said, “I’m going to be honest with you. It looks like the kind of job you might do, Shayne. This isn’t girl-murder like the Margo Macon case. Trueman was killed in a rough-and- tumble fight. He wasn’t a coward and he fought back. Maybe it wasn’t murder. Maybe you had a hell of a good reason for going back and tangling with him. If you give it to me straight, I’ll swing you all the breaks I can. If you can turn it into self-defense-” He shrugged and took a cigar from his breast pocket.
“I didn’t go back. The girl will alibi me.”
“I’ll still have to hold you,” Quinlan told him. “Look at it yourself, Shayne. You threatened him. You took his boys’ pistols-and they were legal, by the way. They had permits for those guns. Night watchmen. After pulling their teeth you waited until the joint was closed and went back. Why?”
“Any witnesses?”
“Sure. Plenty. And you admitted it.”
“Any witnesses to the killing? Anyone say I went back there later?”
“You know damned well you took care of that. When you went in the side entrance and knocked both the boys out.”
“I didn’t know there was a side entrance,” Shayne said patiently.
