was a small cleared place in the center where a few couples were dancing to a hillbilly tune from the juke-box. A lot of men and some women were lined up at the slot machines, feeding coins into the machines and pulling cranks and waiting apathetically for the cylinders to stop so they could deposit another coin.
He wondered what their attitude toward the ending of the strike was… what they thought about the highway accident that had removed one of George Brand’s witnesses from the jurisdiction of the court while a second one of the trio had unaccountably disappeared. What did these people think about a police force and a judge and a small army of special deputies who acted wholly outside the law?
If the group gathered in the restaurant was representative of Centerville’s citizenry, Shayne decided that they didn’t think about things like that. Over a period of years they had probably ceased to resent being pushed around by the local authorities. Those who could, he surmised, catered to the police and tried to get in on the graft. Those not lucky enough to do that tried to avoid trouble by being passive and staying out of their way.
Lucy and Titus Tatum pushed their chairs back and got up to dance. Shayne poured more brandy in Rexard’s glass and jerked his head towards Titus.
“One of your local politicians?”
“Titus isn’t as bad as some,” Rexard told him. “Knows which side his bread is buttered on and doesn’t cause any trouble.” He hesitated, then added, “Nobody gets elected here without backing from the city hall bunch.” He accepted a cigarette from Shayne’s extended pack and confided, “Miss Lucy says you all are just driving through.”
“We might stay over a few days,” Shayne told him. “Depends on several things.”
“She didn’t say what your business might be,” Rexard probed.
“Didn’t she?” Shayne scowled into his glass for a moment, then watched the couples who were dancing.
Rexard turned in his chair, grinned broadly, said, “That Titus. He’s quite a chaser. Seems like he took a shine to Miss Lucy soon’s he saw her sitting here alone. But you needn’t make nothing out of that,” he went on hastily. “He’s a gentleman, if I do say so.”
Shayne wasn’t particularly concerned with Lucy and the Centerville Lothario. She knew when to be naive and when to get tough. He said abruptly to Rexard, “I don’t quite understand the situation here about the miners. Aren’t they affiliated with John L. Lewis’ United Mine Workers?”
“Not in Centerville. Some mines in Kentucky are organized, but not hereabouts. Organizers from outside don’t last long.”
“What happens to them?”
Rexard lifted his skinny shoulders. “Lots of things. Car runs over a cliff, maybe. Like Joe Margule this afternoon…”
“You mean they get rubbed out?” Shayne interrupted sharply, turning his gaze from the dance floor to his bald-headed companion.
Rexard moved uneasily and looked cautiously around. “For God’s sake Mr. Shayne,” he said in a low voice, “don’t say things like that out loud. It’s not healthy in Centerville. We leave well enough alone here. The mine owners don’t like union organizers, so they don’t last long.”
“George Brand lasted.”
“That’s right.”
“How?”
Rexard twirled his glass, said hesitantly, “I reckon he’s tough. Lots of people have wondered the same thing since the Roche strike started, but the management just didn’t seem to worry much.”
“But suppose Brand’s union had won?”
“They didn’t.”
“From what I hear, they might have if Charles Roche had lived a few more days,” Shayne said.
“He didn’t.”
“Was it known publicly that Roche intended to compromise with Brand and end the strike as soon as he took over control of the mine?”
“There was talk,” Rexard told him, keeping his voice low. “It wasn’t something Roche would print in the paper, I reckon.”
“What sort of woman is Ann Cornell?” Shayne asked abruptly. The music had stopped and Lucy and Tatum were feeding the slot machines. Lucy was plucking coins from Tatum’s palm, her brown eyes shining and her laughter floating across the room.
Rexard said, “Ann Cornell sets out a tasty drink of corn,” and grinned at Shayne.
“From Lafe Heddon’s still?” Shayne asked, and turned his full attention to Rexard.
The bald man narrowed his eyes. “You do get around… for a stranger.”
“It’s my business,” the detective told him cheerfully, “to get around.”
“That so?” Rexard drawled. There was fleeting suspicion in his expression. “I don’t believe you’ve said what your business is.”
“I don’t believe I have.” Shayne poured brandy into their glasses. “Aside from a drink of Lafe’s corn, what does Mrs. Cornell offer a man?”
“I wouldn’t know. I’m married and my wife’s a Methodist.”
“She must stand in with the police,” Shayne mused, “to get by the way she does. Mrs. Cornell, that is,” he added, grinning.
“She doesn’t run any house,” Rexard said with emphasis. “Maybe some men drop in for a drink, and it might be Hank Elwood likes a shot of corn as well as another. And it might be the Methodist ladies look the other way when Ann Cornell comes down the street, but that doesn’t bother her none.”
“Could Charles Roche have been visiting her instead of Brand when he left his car parked at the corner last night?”
“I wouldn’t know about that,” said Rexard blandly. “This is mighty nice drinking liquor. Imported, isn’t it?” He took a long drink, then studied the label on the bottle.
Lucy and Titus Tatum came back to the table. “We’ve been having fun,” she said gaily. “Titus promised me all he won at the slot machine, but he lost three dollars.”
“Maybe I might have better luck.” Shayne pushed his chair back and lurched to his feet, grabbing Lucy’s arm for support. He steadied himself and grinned foolishly. “That brandy sure goes to a man’s head,” he said in a loud voice. “Le’s get some change an’ try my luck.” Still holding Lucy’s arm he led her on a circuitous route, staggering around the tables, to the cashier. He got his billfold out and extracted a fifty-dollar bill. “Take out for the las’ bottle an’ gimme ’bout five bucks in change for the slot machines.”
“Sh-h-h,” Lucy whispered. “Don’t talk so loud… you sound drunk, Michael,” she added anxiously. “And don’t waste five dollars on those machines. Titus says…”
“Plenty more where that comes from,” he bragged, shaking his wallet at her. “Gotta have a high ol’ time thish evenin’.” He pulled her along with him toward a group of three machines that were idle, handed her a handful of silver and said, “You drop it in and I’ll pull the crank. That way, maybe we’ll be lucky.”
“You’re not drunk,” she accused. “Why…?”
“Act as though I am,” he said quietly, swaying against the machine and jerking the handle. “Think you could handle Titus if I get locked up in the hoosegow?”
“I could handle him with my little finger,” she assured him disdainfully. “But Mr. Rexard might be harder. He practically propositioned me while you were out. Offered to drive me back to the hotel and tuck me in if you didn’t show up soon.”
Shayne muttered, “By God, it’s going to pay off! Three dimes. The syndicate should be told about this.” He laughed drunkenly and turned to wave at the two men sitting at his table watching him.
Lucy put one of the dimes back and leaned close to him. In a frightened voice she said, “Do you realize… when they told me about that accident on the highway this afternoon…”
“You didn’t mention our having seen that so-called accident?” Shayne interrupted soberly and swiftly.
“Of course I didn’t,” she snapped. “But the more I think…”
“Then stop thinking about it.” He kept the machine clattering steadily. “I’m going to the men’s room after a time. I’ll be pretty drunk when I come out. You get up and come to the machines with me again and bring your purse with you. I’ll have a batch of stuff to put in it. Then we’ll get into an argument and I’ll stagger out alone. Pretend you’re disgusted with me and play along with those two birds as long as you want to. Then go back to your
