“Take his marker up to one grand, but if he tries to go past that, send him in to me.”
The man nodded and started out. Shayne put out a long arm to block his exit and said, “I’m looking for Miss Sara Morton. Has she been around tonight?”
The man paused and turned to glance at Gannet.
“She hasn’t been in tonight and she won’t be in,” said Gannet. “Get back to your tables, Breen.”
Shayne let the man go and walked over to the desk to face the gambler, who asked, “What do you want, Shayne?”
“Miss Morton.” Shayne grinned down into the softly solemn eyes, stepped aside and hooked the toe of his shoe around a chair leg, dragged it across the rich, red carpet, and sat down.
“She’s not here tonight,” the gambler told him in a tone that could have been mistaken for deep regret.
“I didn’t think she was,” Shayne admitted, “when I saw you were running again. How do you know she won’t be in?”
“Because she won’t be able to get past the front door in the future.” Leo Gannet sighed and leaned back in his swivel chair. “Women reformers,” he murmured. “What’s she to you, Shayne?”
“Somebody’s trying to run her out of town.”
“Give her some advice from me. Tell her she’ll run like hell if she’s smart.”
“And if she isn’t smart?” Shayne lit a cigarette and narrowed his eyes at Gannet through a cloud of smoke blown in his direction.
“I know for a fact,” said the gambler dispassionately, “that if she keeps on poking her nose into things that don’t concern her she has a fair chance of never leaving town.”
“Is that a threat?”
“Advice.”
“Do any of your boys spend their spare time cutting out paper dolls?” Shayne asked blandly.
“I wouldn’t be surprised. Some of the punks you get nowadays-” He slowly straightened in his chair and rested his elbows on the desk. “What’s that crack got to do with anything?”
“It just occurred to me, when I saw Mart-”
The door was suddenly and violently flung open and Miss Lally stumbled in, then fell sprawling on the rug from the force of a shove. Her glasses fell off, and she slowly rose to her knees sobbing angrily while a heavy man with colorless, pig-like eyes explained:
“Here’s one of that Morton dame’s stooges, Chief. You told us-”
Shayne was on his feet, but stayed where he was when he saw the gun in Leo Gannet’s hand, knowing that the soft glow in his eyes and the gentle smile on his lips were more dangerous than the stupid leer and twisted mouth of the punk who had shoved the girl into the room.
“Take it easy, Shayne, while we talk this thing over,” said Gannet quietly.
Chapter Three
Shayne remained standing and kept a wary eye on the gun. “You aren’t playing this very smart, Gannet.”
“I’m playing it my way,” he said, regret in his tone as he leaned forward with the gun pointed at Shayne’s midriff.
Miss Lally stopped sobbing and wiped her eyes. With the light coat clutched in her arm, she retrieved her glasses, smoothed her disheveled hair with her fingers, and attained a measure of prim dignity the instant she slid the glasses in place, in spite of her crouched, undignified position.
The man who had shoved her into the room looked even less intelligent than Mart. He was beginning to recover from his surprise at seeing Shayne, and muttered hoarsely:
“I didn’ know you had comp’ny, Chief. You told me if the Morton dame stuck her nose in we was to give her the works.”
“It’s okay, Henry,” Gannet assured him, “if you’re right about Miss Morton sending this woman here.” He kept his eyes on the redhead as he spoke, then asked, “Is he right, Shayne?”
“I sent Miss Lally in here to look around,” he answered.
Miss Lally started to rise from her knees and Shayne went over, took her hand, and pulled her to her feet
Henry started toward him with a muttered oath. Shayne stepped swiftly in front of her to face Henry, balanced lightly on the balls of his feet, his upper lip curled back and baring his teeth. His right hand was balled into a big fist against his thigh. “Try shoving somebody nearer your size this time,” he said happily.
Henry stopped, glanced at Gannet for a signal, and the gambler said, “Close the door first, and take him if he wants it that way,” with a gentle sigh of resignation.
Henry turned to close the door. As he swung back Shayne saw the glitter of brass knuckles from his right hand and stepping in fast, hit him hard on the jaw before he completed the turn.
He heard a cry of warning or of terror from Beatrice Lally. His first surprise blow sent Henry reeling and, enraged by the knuckles, he drove three more jolting blows against the man’s chin. Henry slumped against the closed door, and as he slowly sagged to the floor Shayne delivered a left, a right, and another left, and was only vaguely aware of the smothered oaths and sounds of a struggle behind him. Henry’s knees gave way and he slid to the floor, a grotesque figure with his heavy shoulders supported by the door and his head hanging limply forward.
Shayne whirled around with both hands clenched, stopped and stared in disbelief, then his mouth twitched into an appreciative grin at Beatrice Lally standing behind Gannet’s swivel chair. Her coat covered Gannet’s face and neck, drawn tight by the sleeves which she was inexorably twisting and tightening while the gambler groaned and gasped for air.
Two swift, long-legged strides carried Shayne to the desk, where he twitched the wildly waving automatic from Gannet’s hand. “Better let him come up for air now, Miss Lally,” he said, forcing the grin from his face as she released the sleeves and stepped back.
Shayne had the loaded clip out of the gun and in his pocket and was ejecting the cartridge from under the firing-pin when Gannet finally clawed the garment from his head. His face was flushed and his breathing hard. He massaged his thin neck with a thin hand, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly.
“I-thought he was going to shoot you when you hit that man,” faltered the girl. “I didn’t know what to do.”
“You did all right,” Shayne told her, grinning. He laid the empty automatic on the desk. “If Miss Lally hadn’t thought fast, you might have plugged me, Gannet.”
“Am I-supposed to thank-her for that?” he gasped.
“You could do worse,” Shayne told him dryly. He turned to look at the recumbent Henry, who was beginning to groan, trying to lift his square, hairy hand to his pulpy face. “Another paper-doll cutter,” he muttered, turning back to Miss Lally, who had retrieved her coat once more and was attempting to smooth out the twisted wrinkles in the sleeves. “What did you find out in the gambling-room? And why did that gorilla jump you?”
“It’s quite evident they reopened the gaming-room only this evening,” she said, ignoring Gannet’s presence, and speaking in her normal low, assured voice. “I was moving about talking to people as you told me to when I ran into Carl Garvin. I tried to avoid him, but he recognized me and asked in a rather loud voice if Miss Morton was with me. I tried to shush him, but he had been drinking. Then that man interfered.” She pointed to Henry, who now had both hands to his face and moaned spasmodically.
“He asked Mr. Garvin if he meant Sara Morton and he said he did, and that I was her secretary. Then that man grabbed my arm and pulled me away. Said Mr. Gannet wanted to see me in his office. He hurt me,” she ended in a hurt, girlish tone, sliding the glasses off and looking up at Shayne with round, naked, and sooty eyes.
Shayne grinned briefly and jerked his red head meaningfully at the groaning man, then asked gravely, “Who is Carl Garvin?”
