Brett Halliday - In a Deadly Vein

Windrow stared at him from under heavy thatched brows. Cal Strenk cackled and raked the tips of his fingers through his straggly beard. He told Shayne, “The only settlin’ up Jasper likes is when he’s on the takin’-in end.”

The detective waggled his red head back and forth. “I’m not talking about that kind of settlement.”

In a low voice that was hoarse with fury, Windrow snarled, “Nobody here is interested in what you’re talking about. You’re not wanted here. Nor in Central City either.”

Shayne smiled and rubbed his lean jaw. He protested, “I thought you’d be glad to know I’m just about set to clean up a couple of murders here. Thought perhaps you and Cal would like to contribute toward a fund the grateful citizens are making up for me.”

“You and your snooping,” snarled Windrow. His bulky body shook and his features darkened. “I said you weren’t wanted here.”

Shayne smiled and took out a cigarette. “I’m staying.”

“No, you’re not.” Windrow’s chair crashed to the floor behind him. He leaned over the desk. His eyes were mad. “Do I have to throw you out?”

Shayne lit a cigarette. He said earnestly, “I won’t stay out. I’m a tough guy to bounce when I smell a profit.”

Jasper Windrow was moving around his desk. Cal Strenk got up hastily, his shrewd eyes studying Shayne’s unconcerned face. He said, “I wouldn’t, Jasper. Damn it, I wouldn’t if I was you.”

Windrow swung his big body toward Strenk. “You owe him the same as I do. If he hadn’t dug up that tobacco can last night nobody could never have proved who Screwloose was.”

“The tobacco can,” said Shayne, “is what I came to talk about.”

Windrow swerved toward him, shaking his head like a maddened bull. “What is there to talk about now? The harm’s already done.”

Shayne said, “Maybe not.” His calm gaze held Windrow’s bloodshot eyes.

Strenk exclaimed, “By golly, Jasper. Wait. Don’t go off half-cocked. Remember what them fellers from Denver was tellin’ about him this mornin’? They say he’s slicker’n greased lightnin’ when it comes to a way of figurin’ out how to make hisse’f some cash money.”

“He won’t get any money from me,” Windrow growled. “His long nose has already cost us Pete’s share in the mine.” He took another step forward with knotted fists swinging.

Strenk caught his coat-tail with both hands, begging, “No need to rush things. Let him have his say. I figger mebby he’s got a proposition.”

Shayne tilted his head up at Windrow and laughed, letting smoke trail from flared nostrils. “I thought you were a businessman,” he mocked.

Windrow was breathing stertorously. He allowed Strenk to pull him back. “What kind of business have you got with me?”

Shayne said, “It would be an admirable example of civic spirit if you and Mr. Strenk each made a donation of, say, a thousand dollars for the work I’ve done investigating the death of your partner.”

Windrow’s hands clenched themselves into fists again. “If that’s all you’ve got to say—”

“Of course,” Shayne interrupted, “I might be moved by such a generous and freehearted gesture to forget about the tobacco can I dug up in Pete’s cabin last night.”

There was flat silence inside the office. Then Windrow let out his breath in a long wheeze. One hand groped out to the desk for support.

Cal Strenk slid back into his chair against the wall. His laughter had an obscene sound. “What’d I tell you ’bout him, Jasper? What’d I tell you?”

Windrow moved back and picked up his chair. He resettled his solid bulk in it, leaned forward with hairy forearms flat in front of him. He demanded, “Are you offering to suppress that evidence for a cash payment of two thousand dollars?”

Shayne looked at him in surprise. “Now, where in hell did you get that idea?”

Windrow started to go apoplectic again. “You just said—”

“I said,” Shayne told him coldly, “that if you and Strenk wish to do the generous thing and each put up a thousand dollars as my fee on this case, I might reciprocate by forgetting about the evidence we found indicating that Pete was the father of the murdered girl.”

“Hell,” snarled Windrow, “it’s the same thing.”

Pinpoints of anger flickered in Shayne’s eyes. “It’s a long way from being the same thing. You’re talking about a bribe, and, by God, that’s something I’ve never taken.” His voice had a ring of passionate sincerity.

Windrow’s upper lip curled away from his teeth. “Have it your own way.”

“It’s going to be my way or not at all.”

“All right. But how do we know you won’t spring the stuff later?”

Shayne pulled the tobacco can from his pocket. “We three and Two-Deck Bryant are the only ones who know about this stuff. If we burn them right now, no one else will ever know.”

“But how about that Bryant fellow?”

Shayne eyed him coldly. “I don’t believe Bryant will make any trouble. Suppose he does? We three can deny it. The word of an ex-con like Bryant wouldn’t be worth a damn in court anyhow.”

“But there are other clippings, probably other pictures just like that one,” Windrow remonstrated.

“Sure, there are. But they, of themselves, don’t prove anything. No one can identify Screwloose Pete from the old pictures. You said so yourself last night. The only value of the stuff as evidence is because it was found in Pete’s cabin where he had hidden it away.”

“That’s right, by golly.” Strenk slapped his thigh and laughed excitedly.

But Jasper’s suspicious gaze continued to bore into Shayne’s face. “Don’t think I’ll be fool enough to trust you. What’s to prevent you from getting up in court later and swearing you found them there?”

Shayne stood up and threw his cigarette butt on the floor. “To hell with this. You’ve got a chance to buy a third interest in a million-dollar mine for two lousy G’s. You haven’t brains enough to realize I’d be in no position to testify later about evidence which I’d have to admit I destroyed.” He slid the tobacco can in his pocket and started out.

Cal Strenk leaped up with remarkable agility and caught his coat sleeve. “Don’t go. Say something, Jasper. He’s right. If he burns the stuff now he won’t have a leg to stand on later.”

“Well — maybe,” Windrow agreed doubtfully as Shayne stopped in the doorway.

“Maybe, hell,” growled Shayne. “Yes or no?”

“He means yes,” Strenk chattered, pulling at Shayne’s coat sleeve. “No use gettin’ mad.”

Shayne let himself be drawn back into the office. “It’ll be my way or not at all.” He stared at Windrow coldly, planting his feet wide apart. “Cash on the barrelhead along with a written notation to the effect that it is a fee paid me outright for my services, with no strings attached.”

Beads of sweat formed on Windrow’s forehead. “I can’t raise that much cash.”

“How much can you raise?”

“Not more than a few hundred — until we can realize something on the mine.”

“I heard that Pete turned down a cold hundred thousand for his one-third share.”

“That’s true, but—”

“Tell you what,” offered Shayne generously. “I’ll take a gambler’s chance. You two make over a tenth share in the property to me. I’ll take it in lieu of cash.”

“A tenth? But that’s—”

“It’s a lot less than the third share you stand to lose unless this stuff is burned,” Shayne pointed out. “And I’ll protect you further by inserting a clause in the deed to the effect that it becomes void if any share of the property goes to Peter Dalcor’s heirs. That way, you can’t lose.”