and that the little man knew something damaging to them which, actually, he didn’t. Then too, if they had been suspicious because of Shayne’s presence on the boat yesterday, their suspicions of Shayne, and Sylvester, must have zoomed into high when Ed met Shayne at the seance last night, assuming that Ed’s presence there was more than coincidental.
If they had felt themselves so imperiled that they had killed Sylvester, wouldn’t Shayne now be marked out for early slaughter?
The tailing cars, and the apparently innocuous seance last night, were taking on a more sinister character. Even Henlein’s murder, distant as it seemed from the three fishermen, might be interrelated some way. And Clarissa Milford. Where did she fit in this melange of murder?
Shayne stopped the car, strode across the sidewalk and moved out of sight between two weather-beaten buildings, sagging in the sun. A narrow warehouse door opened in one of them and a short, unshaven man in shirtsleeves, chewing the stump of a cold cigar, stepped out.
“All right, Harley. Where is he?”
The man removed the cigar from his mouth, spat on the sandy ground, put the cigar back and motioned over one shoulder with his thumb. “Inside.”
As Shayne moved toward the door, Harley added, “Wait a minute, shamus. I never done this before. I got a favor to ask you.”
“What is it?”
“Just don’t tell him I was in on this, see? If it got around it could ruin me.”
“All right.” Shayne turned impatiently. “Your reputation, such as it is, is safe with me.”
“To tell the truth, I’ll be glad when he’s out. He’s losin’ his shirt.”
“I thought that was how you made your living.”
“Only when they pay,” Harley said sourly. He took the cigar stump out of his mouth and spat again. “This guy gives paper no bank knows.”
At a sign from Harley to a suspicious face that had been peering at them through a sliding panel, the door opened and Shayne stepped inside.
“I’m not coming with you,” Harley muttered. “You understand?”
“How’ll I know Milford?”
“Guy in the blue shirt. At the poker table.”
Shayne lounged across the room casually, stopping at the craps table, and stood listening to the jumbled groans, chuckles and exhortations as the dice rolled. It was a game of high stakes, as most of these continuous games were, and the tension of it showed in the lined faces, sweating brows and tired eyes of the gamblers. Only the stickmen seemed unperturbed.
After a moment, the redhead wandered on to the poker table, stopping behind the chair of the man in the blue shirt.
“Move, fella, will you?” Milford said petulantly. “You’ll jinx me.”
“You’re already jinxed.” Shayne eyed the small stack of white chips. “Get yourself dealt out. I want to talk to you.”
Milford turned to look squarely at Shayne. He was heavily built, with a sad, ruddy face and pale blue eyes, a big sheep-dog of a man, neither the prototype of a murderer, nor the great lover Clarissa had led Shayne to expect.
He shook his head almost helplessly and sighed. “Deal me out, Gus.”
Leaving the few white chips lying on the table, he pushed back his chair and stood up clumsily. He was over six feet tall, his eyes on a level with Shayne’s. Like a man sleep-walking, he moved to a worn mohair davenport flanked by standing ash trays and spittoons, sat down without speaking and buried his face in his hands, the picture of a man in utter dejection and total defeat.
After a moment he raised his head slightly and looked through his fingers at Shayne. “What are you waiting for? Let’s get going.”
“Where?”
“Out to the alley. Or to the car. Or wherever you plan on doing it.”
Shayne said, “I have no plans. Who do you think I am?”
“You’re from D. L. I know.”
“No, I’m not. I came on my own to help you, or maybe to get you to help me. Someone has threatened to kill your wife.”
Milford stared. It took an instant for the words to penetrate. Shayne watched in cynical dispassion as fear and anger in slow succession, and lastly something that might have been remorse, filled the pale and red-veined eyes. Finally big tears squeezed from between his lids and rolled untended down his face.
“Oh, God!” Milford said.
10
Shayne sat down on the davenport as Milford rose and towered above him, clenching his big fists and beating them futilely against his thighs. “The bastards! I’ll kill them first!”
“One has been killed,” Shayne said evenly. “Henny Henlein.”
“Henny’s not enough. Kenny’s nothing. It’s the big ones-” Milford stopped suddenly, fighting for control.
“Did you kill Henlein?”
“No.” Sanity seemed to be returning. Milford blinked fiercely at the redhead, asking, “Who are you?”
“Mike Shayne. How long have you been sitting in this game?”
“Since before Henlein was murdered, if that’s what’s on your mind.”
“How do you know when Henlein was murdered?”
“I heard it on the radio here.”
“Can you prove it?”
Milford fastened raging eyes on Shayne, as though he were the source of all his misery. “I wish to God I had killed Henny. I wish I had, by God! He’s the one who threatened Clarissa-”
“Sending a voodoo doll doesn’t seem quite in line with Henny’s method of operation, or D. L.’s either.”
Milford stared in what seemed like genuine perplexity.
“Somebody left your wife one, stabbed through the heart with a black-headed pin.”
“God! She didn’t tell me.”
“Somebody sent Henlein a couple too-one stabbed and one strangled-and then followed it up by murdering him and leaving him with a hang-rope around his neck.”
Milford looked dazed. He rubbed his big hands over his face, pushing at his eyes, then said slowly, “De Luca told me something would happen to Clarissa if I didn’t get up the money by twelve tonight. I thought he was trying to scare me-”
“How much do you owe him?”
“Around four thousand.”
“Have you got it?”
“No, and I never will now. My luck’s gone bad.”
“You thought you’d get it here? In Harley’s rigged game?”
“I didn’t know any other way.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
Shayne was watching Milford through lidded eyes. “Your wife’s life insurance would more than cover it.”
The big man eyed Shayne with such flaming rage that for a moment the redhead thought he was going to have a fight on his hands. “Isn’t your indignation a little forced,” he prodded. “I understand you wanted a divorce-”
Milford clenched his fists so tightly the veins bulged, then suddenly his body went limp. He dropped to the davenport and sagged forward, burying his face in his hands again and speaking in a muffled voice through his
