westward toward the bay.
Rourke followed a winding course, checking street signs, and finally pulled off and stopped in the middle of a block of quiet homes on a street that dead-ended against the bay a couple of blocks ahead.
Shayne pulled up behind him and they got out and walked forward in front of Rourke’s car where chalk marks on the edge of the pavement indicated the position of Fitzgilpin’s parked car, then on ten or fifteen feet to a chalked arrow pointing off to the side where the body had evidently been found. There were many tracks back and forth across the soft shoulder here showing that the police had made an intensive search of the scene, and Shayne shrugged and glanced up and down the residential block, muttering, “These people are the kind to all be in bed and asleep by midnight. Painter’s men will have been ringing doorbells up and down, but I doubt that he’ll get anything.”
“Nothing had come in worth a damn by the time I left his office,” Rourke agreed.
Shayne stood there and looked toward the bay in the bright sunlight at a large, two-story stucco building built adjacent to the water’s edge. “Isn’t that Pete Elston’s Sporting Club up ahead?”
Rourke glanced in that direction and nodded. “He’s got a nice quiet little bar downstairs,” he suggested hopefully. “And Fitzgilpin’s insurance office isn’t too far from here, from the address I got. Might be a place he’d stop in at on his way home.”
Shayne said, “I could use a drink about now. How about you?”
“Why not? The one you paid for at Jim’s was my first this morning.”
Without more ado they both got in their cars and drove up to the Sporting Club and parked in front where only one other car stood at this hour of the morning. There was a neon light on over the door to indicate the place was open for business, however, so they got out and went in purposefully together.
5
The interior of the Sporting Club bar had subdued lighting and a quiet decor. It was not one of the garish, chromium and red leather cocktail lounges that are characteristic of Miami Beach, but had a homey quality about it that was more like the atmosphere of a neighborhood bar in a small town.
There were two men seated at the far end of the bar when Shayne and Rourke went in. They had beers in front of them and were engaged in earnest, low-voiced conversation. None of the tables or booths was occupied.
Shayne and Rourke took the first two stools and the bartender moved in front of them with an indifferent, almost hostile, expression on his horselike face. He had a protruding Adam’s apple, a bald head, and his small eyes were set too close together.
He swiped a damp cloth across the bar in front of them and asked, “What’ll it be, gents?”
Shayne said, “A bourbon and water for my friend. Old Crow. And a cognac and water on the side for me. Martel,” he added glancing at the row of bottles behind the bar.
Shayne lit a cigarette and blew out the match as the bartender set their drinks in front of them. He said, “Had some excitement around here last night, didn’t you?”
“Huh?” The bartender blinked at him suspiciously. “I don’t recollect any.”
“Were you on duty last night?”
“Sure was. Right up to quitting time.” Horseface started to turn away, but Shayne stopped him by asking, “What about the stiff they found down the street this morning? Was he passed out when he left here?”
“Look here, Mister. I don’t know nothing about a stiff down the street. We run a quiet place here, and nobody passes out if I’m serving him drinks. Get that straight. I already told the cops nobody answering his description was in here last night.”
Shayne said quietly, “We’re not cops.”
“Then how come you’re around asking questions?” The bartender seemed unduly belligerent and his close-set eyes were slitted as he glared at the two men.
“Rourke here is a reporter covering the case,” Shayne told him evenly. “He’d like a quote from you.”
“Quote, I don’t know nothing about the stiff, unquote,” snapped Horseface showing his teeth in what was intended to be a grin but came out a sort of sneer. “Say! You’re that private eye from Miami, ain’t you?”
Shayne nodded. “I’m working on the case. The way I get it, Fitzgilpin used to drop in here for a couple of beers in an evening.”
“That his name? Fitzgilpin? Never heard it before. Like I already told the cops…”
“But we’re not cops,” Shayne reminded him gently. He had his wallet out and he extracted a twenty-dollar bill and laid it on the counter. “We’re willing to pay for information. You notice a short, plump-faced guy in around midnight flashing a roll?”
“Friday nights are busy and the joint was jumping,” Horseface told him shortly. He turned away with the bill in his hand and rang up the price of their two drinks, turned back and ostentatiously counted out the exact change in front of Shayne. “No charge for that info. And it makes me nervous having reporters and private snoopers hanging around. Boss don’t like it either.”
Shayne said, “We’re not interested in Pete Elston’s gambling room upstairs. What we want…”
“You already got all you’re gonna get,” snapped the bartender. He turned his back on them and strolled down the bar to stand in front of the two beer-drinkers and rest his elbows on the bar.
Timothy Rourke grinned sideways at the redhead as he sipped his bourbon and water with relish. “Methinks our friend protests too much.”
Shayne shrugged his wide shoulders. “Elston wouldn’t like it one little bit if a guy were mugged after drinking down here. He pays plenty for protection, but not to Homicide.” He finished his drink and picked up a half-dollar and rapped sharply on the bar. The two other patrons glanced up the bar at them, but Horseface kept his back turned to them.
Shayne called loudly, “Two more, bartender.” He continued to keep his back turned.
The grin faded from Rourke’s face as Shayne slid off the bar stool and stalked back to confront the bartender. The reporter remained seated on his stool, turning his head to observe Shayne going into action with pleasure and interest.
The two beer-drinkers sat rigid, staring down into their glasses with complete absorption as Shayne stopped beside them. Horseface pretended not to notice his presence. He was talking fast in a low voice, “… so there was this dame, see? And she says to me…”
Shayne reached over the bar and tapped him lightly on the shoulder. “My friend and I would like another round.”
Without turning his head, the bartender snapped, “I said you already got all you’re gonna get in here. Can’t you take a hint? No private snoops or reporters wanted.”
Shayne’s voice remained dangerously calm. “You’re getting out of your depth, bud.”
“Am I?” The bartender turned his head to sneer at the rangy redhead. “I gotta right to refuse service to anyone. See that sign back there?” He jerked his thumb back over his shoulder. “Strikes me you had enough already, Mister. I wouldn’t want you passin’ out in my place and then maybe getting rolled down the street. Law says I ain’t allowed to serve no drink to a drunk.” He spread his lips wide and smirked across the bar at Shayne. “So whyn’t you just go on quiet and pass out some other place?” He slid his right elbow off the bar as he spoke, and his hand disappeared under the mahogany.
Shayne’s left hand shot out and his fingers closed around the bartender’s scrawny neck. Horseface gurgled and tried to back away, his right hand coming up from under the bar swinging a two-foot length of leaded pool cue.
Shayne laughed shortly and released his neck to clamp his big left hand about the man’s wrist.
The weighted cue was interrupted in mid-swing. Shayne put pressure on the wrist and the bartender gasped loudly in pain and the cue clattered down to the mahogany.
Shayne released his wrist and stepped back. He said, “Two more of the same,” and strode back to seat himself beside Rourke again.
The bartender hesitated a long moment, his bony face working convulsively, then sullenly moved up behind
