Again Henry said, “Yes, indeed, Mr. Shayne.” He opened a drawer and counted out four tens and two fives, wrote a memorandum on a slip of paper which he thrust in the drawer, then closed it. He counted the bills carefully and handed them to Shayne.
Shayne thrust them in his right-hand trouser pocket and went out the side door with Rourke.
“That clerk,” said the reporter, “thinks you’re a little tin god on a stick.”
“We’re old friends,” Shayne told him.
“He wouldn’t hesitate to murder a guy to create a vacancy if you needed a room.”
Shayne chuckled. “Don’t tell Painter, but it’s my private hunch that’s exactly what happened to Slocum.” He opened the door of the sedan to let Rourke in, then walked around the front to appraise the damage done to it when he crashed out of the senator’s basement garage.
The car was a late model with a lot of chromium falsework on the radiator. This was smashed in, and the left fender was curled back; but otherwise the car appeared not to be damaged.
Shayne got under the wheel and made a U-turn back toward Flagler Street. The reporter settled down comfortably in the seat beside him and began to snore gently. He had to be shaken awake when Shayne found an empty taxi at a stand on N.E. 2nd Street. “End of the line for you, Tim. Transfer here for the Beach.”
Rourke yawned and rubbed his eyes. “Thought you were going along,” he protested sleepily.
“I’m headed for some fun at the Fun Club. You get over to the Beach and keep an eye on things.”
Shayne leaned past him to open the door, gave him a gentle shove, and, when he saw Rourke get in the cab, drove on north toward 36th Street.
Chapter Twelve
There were no cars parked in front of the Fun Club, and the outside lights were turned off when Shayne reached it. A dim light shone through the front windows, however, and Shayne turned into the driveway on the chance that the proprietor had not left.
He tried the front door and found it was locked, walked to one of the windows and peered inside. Chairs were stacked on the tops of tables, and the only person he could see was the bent figure of a man mopping the floor.
Going around to the rear door, Shayne pounded on it loudly. After a time he heard a bolt slide back and the door opened to show the dark face and oily black head of the waiter he had encountered earlier in the evening.
He said, “We close up, mister. Nobody here.”
“Not even Bates?” Shayne shoved the door open and walked into the dimly lit room.
The waiter recognized him, and his black eyes widened with fright. “No. He go half hour ago,” he whimpered.
Shayne went to the bar, saying over his shoulder, “Let’s have a drink. Then you can tell me where Bates lives.”
The man shook his head vigorously. “We close up,” he insisted. “No serva drink now.” He still held the mop in one hand and gesticulated toward a wall clock with the other.
“That’s all right,” Shayne told him. “I like this. I’ll serve myself.” He went behind the bar, found a bottle of Martell and poured a couple of ounces in the glass. “I’ve got a few drinks coming to me,” he reminded the man, “from that bill your boss took off me.”
“Tony know nothin’ ’bout that, mister. Never saw boss act lika that before. He say you no pay when I take him hunner-dollar.”
Shayne walked around to the front of the bar and sat on a stool. “Put that mop down and come over here. I want to ask you some questions.”
The Italian dropped the mop and glided lazily toward the bar. He perched himself on a stool beside Shayne, watching the detective warily.
Shayne said, “Exactly how did Bates act and what did he say when you took him the bill for change?”
The waiter looked thoughtful for a moment, then said, “I give boss big bill an’ ask for change. He taka bill an’ go to safe. He stop queek and looka like thees at big bill.” Tony demonstrated, holding an imaginary bill some fifteen inches from his eyes and scowling deeply. “Boss swing ’round and say, ‘Where you get thees money? From customer out there?’ I say you,” he went on, pointing a finger at Shayne, “an’ he make me show heem. Then boss tella me go bring you to offeece,” he ended.
Tony took out cigarette papers and a sack of tobacco and started nervously making a cigarette.
“Here, have one of these,” said Shayne, and held out his pack. The waiter took one and Shayne held a light to it. “What else did he do?”
He again shook his head vigorously. “Tony not know,” he said, and crossed himself.
Shayne twirled the glass of cognac thoughtfully in his big hands. “Are you certain Bates didn’t look at a sheet of paper or something after he’d looked at the bill you gave him?”
“I no onnderstan’,” he declared, and made a gesture of complete bewilderment.
“I mean did he check the serial number of the bill with a list written on a paper, or anything like that?” Shayne repeated. “Damn it, I’m trying to find out what was the matter with that hundred-dollar bill.”
“Eet looka like other money, only we no getta many such big bills. No, no, boss no look at paper.”
“You’re positive?” Shayne asked harshly.
Tony nodded violently. “Tony sure.”
“What happened after I left?” Shayne asked.
“Boss get very mad. Then two men come in, talk to boss a minute, and run out queeck. We hear coupla car racin’ and gun go off. When he look out you gone. Mees Ross’ car gone. Boss mucha mad. He go back to offeece and shutta door-slam!”
“Where can I find Bates right now?”
“Not know. On Beach, but not know where.”
“Do you know the man who came in with Miss Ross?”
The waiter’s black eyes brightened. “Mr. Gurney? Sure. He beeg shot.”
Shayne frowned and took a sip of cognac. “Gambling in the back?”
Tony shook his head. “No, no. Mr. Gurney what you calla bookie for horse race.”
“Do Gurney and Miss Ross hang around here much?”
Again the sleek-haired little man moved his head from side to side. “One, two time a week. They drinka much lousy drink.” He curled his lips in disgust.
“Do you know Senator Irvin? Or a torpedo named Perry?”
Tony thought for a moment, his eyes puzzled, then frightened. He make a slight negative movement, slid from the stool, and picked up his mop. “Tony gotta finish mop an’ go home.”
“Wait a minute,” Shayne called. He carefully described the ex-senator and Perry, but the man disclaimed any knowledge of the two men. He denied, also, that he knew anything whatever of Bates’s personal life or habits, and said the proprietor would be in his office some time after noon.
Shayne finished his brandy while the waiter silently mopped the floor. Then he asked, “How long did Fred Gurney stay around tonight after the excitement?”
Tony thought for a moment. “Have ’nother drink-maybe two. Mr. Gurney mucha excited when gun pop off and Mees Ross go. Then he getta phone call and go out. He take taxi.”
“Do you know the driver of the taxi?”
The waiter leaned on his mop and thought for a moment. The look of fright and doubt was still in his eyes. “Taxi driver come in an’ want drink. Mr. Gurney not givva him time. He in beeg hurry.”
“Do you know his name or the taxi company he works for?”
“Pinky,” Tony told him hesitantly. “He have red hair lika you. Beeg man. Maybe Black an’ White, maybe Greena Top, maybe-”
“Maybe,” Shayne repeated disgustedly. “And maybe it was Fred Gurney’s private chauffeur driving his Packard
