“Hell, no. A slug of brandy if you’ve got it.”
“No brandy.”
“Whiskey, then,” Shayne said impatiently. “A double shot of Old Granddad.”
“We don’t sell it here, Mister. It ain’t allowed.”
Shayne looked at the row of sealed bottles behind the bar, then down the counter at shot-glasses in front of the customers. He asked, “Are these men drinking beer out of one-ounce glasses?”
“Outta their own bottles,” the bartender explained apathetically. “You wanta buy a bottle, I’ll loan you a glass.”
Shayne’s brow furrowed. “You mean I can’t buy a drink and pay for it and walk out. What is this?”
“This here,” the man beside him said gruffly, “is Centerville. They figure a man drinks more iffen he buys a whole bottle. That a-way they sell more whiskey.” He didn’t sound bitter. He was merely explaining a fact.
Shayne said, “All right. Where’s a place I can go and take a lady to buy a bottle and have a drink?”
“Try the Eustis Restaurant,” the man in the middle of the row said. “That’s about the best…”
“That son-of-a-bitch Hank Bellow and his old woman,” said the man next to Shayne flatly, “is working right with ’em, I’m tellin’ you. They turned in Pete Jonas t’other day.”
“Pete shouldn’t’ve flashed that roll,” the man at the end of the line put in. “Ain’t a place in town won’t phone the cops once a man’s through spendin’ an’ got some left. Hank ain’t no worse’n any t’others.”
There was a general mutter of agreement. Shayne was puzzled as to the exact meaning they were trying to convey, but he did gather that it was the consensus that the Eustis Restaurant was as good as any in Centerville. He got directions for finding it, and went out.
Three uniformed deputies were in a group in front of his car, gawking at the Florida license plate and at Lucy. They all watched him silently as he crossed the sidewalk and got behind the steering wheel.
Lucy said, “You took long enough. Was the cognac good?”
Shayne said, “Fair,” and started the motor. “How long have those monkeys been standing there?” He backed away from the curb.
“They came up right after you went in. Just stood there and stared at the car and the license plate and me. I couldn’t hear what they said. They were talking low.” Lucy put her hand on his arm. “Let’s get out of here, Michael. There’s something terribly wrong about this town. I can feel it all around me. Those men back on the road…”
“They’ve been having a local strike here and have sworn in a bunch of special deputies,” Shayne interrupted soothingly, “that’s all.” But he knew it wasn’t all. He knew it went a great deal deeper than that. There were hatreds of long standing stalking the streets of Centerville, perhaps for a hundred years, handed down from father to son, pent up in their untutored minds, and now, with the new order of things, ready to come to the surface with disastrous explosiveness.
Shayne was not ignorant of the situation. He had kept in touch with the labor crises all over the country. But he had no acquaintance with the people themselves. He had been too busy with thieves and bums and murderers, and the bigoted wealthy men and women whom they murdered and stole from. He knew he had a lot to learn here in the Kentucky mountains.
“I haven’t talked to Roche yet,” he went on quietly to Lucy as he turned onto a roughly paved sidestreet. “Chances are I’ll turn the case down and we can clear out after I do. But I do have to see him. I’ve already cashed his check.”
He stopped near the end of the block in front of the Eustis Restaurant. Here, there was no bar, but an array of bottles on the shelves behind the quick-lunch stand. Square tables occupied the center of the spacious restaurant with a row of booths along the right-hand wall. A dozen slot machines were located strategically near the entrance… and exit… and a brightly lighted jukebox was playing a mournful tune.
Shayne led Lucy toward a vacant table in the rear. When the waiter came Shayne said, “Bring us a bottle of the best brandy you have, two glasses of ice, a bottle of soda, and two glasses of ice water.”
When the waiter went away Shayne said to Lucy, “I’ll try to get Roche again. Must be half an hour since I called.” He strolled to the cigar stand to get change for a dollar by purchasing a copy of the afternoon Centerville Gazette.
He glanced casually at the front page while waiting for his change. He didn’t look up when the clerk said, “Here you are, suh,” but held his palm out, felt the coins drop into it, put them in his pocket and turned slowly back to the table.
Lucy looked up to see the bleak expression in his eyes. “Michael! What’s the matter? You didn’t even go to the phone booth.”
Shayne shook his red head slowly and sat down. “No, Lucy. I guess I won’t have to bother, about that… now.” He laid the paper on the table and ran a knobby forefinger along the headline sweeping across the page. There were two lines in inch-high type:
PROCOMMUNIST LABOR AGITATOR ARRESTED IN MURDER
They bent their heads together, leaning over the paper, and read:
“Mr. Charles Roche, heir to the Roche Mining Properties was fatally shot early this morning…”
4
“Charles Roche… murdered!” Lucy cried out.
Shayne said, “S-h-h.” He looked around, troubled, but the noise appeared to have drowned out her words. Someone had selected a boogy-woogy record and the rasping sound filled the room. He put his mouth close to her ear and said, “I cashed his check for five grand in Miami. I wonder if it had time to clear through his bank?”
“What?”
“The check,” he said impatiently. “If he was killed before it went through, they won’t honor it.”
She looked into his eyes, horrified. “Michael Shayne! You sit here worrying about a check when your client has been murdered!”
“Somebody has to pay for this trip,” he told her harshly. “A man’s bank account is immediately frozen on his death, and you have to monkey around with court orders to get a clearance.”
“It seems to me,” said Lucy icily, “that you wouldn’t have any right to keep it, since you got here too late to do him any good.”
“But I’ve already cashed it,” he remonstrated in her ear.
She drew away from him, her brown eyes misty. “I want to read about it,” she told him.
Shayne put his arm around her. Her body stiffened.
“Don’t be like that, Angel. Let’s read it together.”
Lucy slowly relaxed, and they bent over the front page spread out on the table. Her left cheek rested lightly against the short sleeve of his polo shirt, and they continued the story:
“Charles Roche’s body was discovered at 6:00 A.M. near the intersection of Twelfth Street and Magnolia Avenue by Raoul J. King, a truck farmer from Lynn Acres, who was driving into Centerville with a load of produce. The body was lying in a clump of weeds on the right-hand side of Magnolia Avenue, about a hundred feet from Twelfth Street where Mr. Roche’s car was parked.
“‘I just happened to notice something lying there as I drove past,’ Mr. King told a Gazette reporter. ‘It was good sunup and I thinks to myself, by golly, if that don’t look like a man lying there. I stopped my truck and got out and looked, and sure enough it was. Whole back of his head was blown off and I sure knew he was dead, without touching him. I left him right like that and ran back to my truck and told the first policeman I came to. I didn’t know it was Mr. Roche till later.’
“Officer Harold Dixon turned in the alarm and hurried to investigate. He was soon joined by Police Chief Henry Elwood and other members of Centerville’s efficient force. Chief Elwood assumed personal charge of the investigation into the murder of one of our city’s most respected citizens, and issued the following statement to the press at 10:00 o’clock this morning:
“‘Charles Roche was shot once behind the right ear with a. 44 caliber Colt’s revolver. A similar weapon was
