couldn’t be sure whether she was looking at him or Rourke, but her gaze did not waver before his challenging stare. She had half a dozen assorted chips spread out across the board, and her low-browed companion placed three blues carefully on Number 30.
The wheel went around and the croupier spun the ivory ball. All eyes except those of the tall blond girl were focused on it eagerly. She continued to stare at Shayne and Timothy Rourke. The ball dropped into the Number 16 slot and the croupier raked in a lot of chips, and doled out a few.
Shayne played EVEN half a dozen rolls, and was down to his last chip. He placed it on Number 14 and waited.
The ball rolled into the 24 slot. Shayne put a cigarette between his lips and struck a match to it, turning his head away slightly while the croupier raked in and paid off. He waited until the ball was lifted from its resting place before simulating a start of surprise and exclaiming angrily, “How about paying me off? I was on Number 14.”
“But 24 was the winning number,” the croupier assured him softly.
“The hell it was,” raged Shayne. “What sort of game are you running here? Can’t you win sucker money fast enough on your crooked wheel without pulling a gyp like that?”
There was a murmur of polite protest from the other players, and Timothy Rourke complained thickly, “For crissakes, Mike-” but Shayne continued his angry protests, leaning forward to shake his finger in the croupier’s face.
A bulky man came up behind him and placed a firm hand on his shoulder. A harsh and grating voice said, “Maybe you’d like to take your kick to the boss.”
“I sure as hell would,” Shayne told him violently, turning about to meet a pair of cold eyes level with his own. “If he’s running this sort of gyp game I intend to call his hand.”
“Take it easy, pal,” the burly man muttered, tightening his fingers on Shayne’s shoulder and putting 220 pounds into a pull that moved Shayne away from the table.
Shayne shoved the big hand off angrily and stalked behind the man while the other gamblers looked on in disapproving silence. They stopped at a steel door down the hall marked Private, and cleverly painted and grained to look like oak. The man knuckled the door and turned the knob.
Shayne pushed past him into a brightly lighted office. The bouncer stuck his head in and growled, “This guy has got a wrong beef, boss, and-”
He didn’t get any further with his explanation. Shayne hit the inner edge of the door with his shoulder and the bouncer jerked his head back to avoid being struck.
Shayne slammed the door shut and slid a heavy steel bolt on the inside. He turned to look into the muzzle of a. 45 in the hand of Arnold Barbizon, who was standing in a half-crouch behind a shining mahogany desk in the center of the room.
Chapter Three: THE STAGE IS SET
The manager of the play-mor club straightened quickly from his crouched position. His breathing was rapid and audible, but he managed to say with some dignity, “Shayne-what’s all this fuss about?”
At the instant Barbizon spoke the doorknob rattled on the outside and the bouncer’s gruff voice dimly penetrated the steel door. “What goes, boss? Should I bust in?”
Shayne shook his red head gravely at Arnold Barbizon. “You’d better talk with me privately,” he said. His eyes darted around the room. There was one other door to the left, an ordinary door with a Yale lock. He had no way of knowing whether it would open from the outside or not.
Barbizon moved forward, the gun steady in his hand and pointed at Shayne’s belly. He lifted his voice and said, “It’s all right, Smithy. Just an old friend pulling a gag on me.”
The gambler was a slim man of medium height with an olive complexion. His full lips were red, as though delicately rouged; his eyes were startlingly pale in color. He wore a carefully tailored Palm Beach suit, a tan shirt, and a four-in-hand tie to match. His cold pale eyes regarded Shayne steadily, but the fear had gone away from them. He said, “Well, Shamus?” His lips scarcely moved.
“Put down the rod and we’ll have a talk,” Shayne snapped.
Barbizon moved his head negatively and almost imperceptibly. “I like it better this way. What’s your gripe?” His voice was low and harsh.
Shayne took a deliberate step toward him. “I’ve got a couple of friends outside waiting for me. They know I’m here with you.” He kept moving forward, circling around the desk.
Barbizon’s red lips tightened against his teeth. He hunched forward a trifle more, then slowly sank into his chair. He laid the. 45 carefully on the desk and said, “So, we’ll talk.”
Shayne stopped and eased his right hip onto a corner of the desk. He said, “I just donated forty bucks to your crooked wheel.” He took out a pack of cigarettes, shook one loose and offered it to Barbizon.
The gambler accepted it with a murmur of thanks, produced a lighter from his pocket, lit Shayne’s cigarette and then his own. He leaned back and exhaled smoke through his nostrils and said in a tone of dry amusement, “You’re supposed to be dry behind the ears.”
“I’m supposed to be,” Shayne agreed.
Barbizon sighed heavily. There was a short silence between them, smoke rolling from the nostrils of each. Then the gambler slid his hand inside his coat pocket and brought out a billfold. He extracted four bills-a twenty, a ten, and two fives-shoved them toward Shayne and asked, “That fix it?”
Shayne said, “That’s generous of you.” He picked up the bills, creased them thoughtfully, flipped one five back. “I had a couple of cheap drinks and a swell dinner on you,” he explained.
Barbizon nodded pleasantly and put the five back in the billfold. “Are we through talking?”
“We haven’t started yet. I’ll take the ten-grand marker you’re holding on Christine Hudson.”
The suave gambler’s cigarette stopped a couple of inches from his parted lips. His hand was steady. A slight widening of his strangely pale eyes was his only indication of surprise. He said, “Come again.”
“Mrs. Hudson’s IOU for ten thousand. I want it.”
“The hell you do.” His lips smiled in faint amusement as he placed the cigarette between them.
“Make it easy on yourself,” said Shayne casually. His hand darted out and caught up the. 45. It was a double-action Colt. He broke it and pressed the plunger that dropped six cartridges into his palm. He pocketed the cartridges and laid the empty gun back on the desk.
Barbizon, leaning back comfortably in his chair, did not move, but murderous rage glittered in his eyes. He said, “You’ve got a way of making yourself at home.”
“I’ll take that marker,” Shayne growled.
“Is this a pay-off?”
“It’s a brush-off,” Shayne told him easily. He held out a broad palm. “Give.”
The gambler’s hand trembled when he tried to put the cigarette to his lips again. He ground it savagely in an ash tray.
“You can’t get away with this,” he said in a low and furious voice.
“My friends who are waiting for me,” Shayne told him quietly, “are an ex-cop and a newspaper reporter. We’ll do a job on this place if you want it that way.”
Barbizon drew in a long breath and exhaled slowly. “How do you figure in it?”
“Christine Hudson is a friend of mine,” Shayne told him. “She’s in a jam and I’m getting her out of it.”
Barbizon’s eyes narrowed a trifle. “What makes you think I’ve got a thing like that here?”
“The pay-off was set for tonight. Here.”
The gambler shrugged his padded shoulders, leaned forward and opened a drawer on the right-hand side of his desk. He took a key ring from his pocket and inserted a flat key in the lock of a long steel box. The top jumped open. He reached inside and drew out a doubled sheet of heavy note paper. His only expression was complete boredom as he pushed the paper toward Shayne.
Shayne unfolded it. Engraved across the top was “Mrs. Leslie Hudson, 139 Magnolia Lane, Miami Beach, Florida.” Below, written in blue ink, in a firm and clear handwriting, was “IOU $10,000.” It was signed, “Mrs. Leslie Hudson.”
