Brett Halliday - Heads You Lose

Shayne got up. “I’ll stay in jail as long as it takes my lawyer to get a writ of habeas corpus.”

“Now look, Mike,” Gentry interposed, but Shayne interrupted him wearily:

“Osgood is bluffing. He’s not going to arrest me. He’s got enough sense to realize his only chance to crack this thing is to leave me in circulation where Wilson’s murderers can get a crack at me.” He turned and stalked out, leaving the State’s Attorney’s face a mottled red.

Outside the door of Osgood’s private office his arm was seized by Timothy Rourke, his long-time friend and a reporter for the afternoon News.

“Just got a tip Osgood had you on the grill,” Rourke ejaculated, his nose twitching like a bloodhound’s on a hot scene. “What’s up, Mike?”

Shayne advised, “Ask Osgood,” and went down the hallway.

Rourke went with him, complaining, “All I know is what I read in the Herald. Give me an angle, Mike.”

“Play up the Herald angle,” Shayne said. “It’s a good one.” He stopped at the elevator shaft and pushed the DOWN button.

“But I figured on busting that story wide open,” Rourke said cheerfully. “Hell, it was practically libelous. They all but accused you of holding out for a bribe from the murderer for keeping your mouth shut.”

Shayne’s wide mouth twisted into a sour grin. “Maybe I could use a bribe.” An elevator stopped and he got in.

Rourke went in with him. “Don’t give me that. I made the mistake of falling for a shenanigan like that once before.”

When they got out on the ground floor Shayne took Rourke’s arm and guided him to the Flagler exit of the building. “Had breakfast yet?”

“No. I’ve been chasing around trying to dig up some dope.”

“And I’ve been dodging bullets and State’s Attorneys.” They went into a small restaurant and took a table for two in the rear. “Sit down and spread your ears, Tim. You can do something for me if I’m still alive when you go to press this afternoon.”

After breakfast Shayne and Rourke argued on the sidewalk outside the restaurant. Rourke was disgruntled and adamant, demanding a headline that had at least a hint of the truth in it.

“Sorry,” Shayne said, “but that’s the way it has to be,” and made his way to an old building on Miami Avenue.

A sardonic grin twisted his features as he entered and walked up two nights, turned to the right in the dark corridor and stopped before a wooden door on which a painted shingle read, MANUEL P. MARKLE, Atty. at Law.

Manny Markle was the shrewdest criminal lawyer in Miami. His clientele included the wealthiest crooks of the nation who flocked to the sunny, semi-tropical playground during the season. But Shayne knew that his expert legal mind was as dirty as the offices he maintained.

He turned the knob and entered a dingy room which appeared crowded with a desk and four chairs. It was unoccupied.

An inner door was marked PRIVATE. Shayne opened it and walked into an office twice the size of the reception room. It was lined with law books. Near the windows was a scarred desk which was dusty and cluttered with papers. A squat iron safe stood open behind it.

Manny Markle was alone in the office. He looked up from his desk and said, “Hello, Shayne,” without cordiality. His face was thin, almost gaunt, except for thick lips which looked puffed by comparison. His eyes were a pale, cold blue and predatory, overshadowed by heavy brows. A wisp of long hair made a grayish-brown strip across the top of his bald, pointed head. He wore a rumpled Palm Beach suit smeared with ashes.

“Hello, Manny,” Shayne responded. Upon closing the door marked PRIVATE he noted that it had a rusty iron bolt on the inside. “Your secretary taking the day off?”

“She hasn’t come down yet. The third girl I’ve had in three weeks and they get progressively worse. They try on jobs like they try on hats. Sit down,” he ended negligently.

Shayne sat down and leaned forward with his forearms on the attorney’s desk. He said, “I need a little information, Manny.”

“My fee is fifty dollars in advance.”

Shayne said, “This information isn’t going to cost me anything. I’m not trying to beat a rap.”

Markle rustled some papers in front of him and murmured, “You know I’m always willing to co-operate with the dicks.”

“Sure. I know that, Manny. That’s why this is going to come easy. It goes back a year. You represented three punks on a breaking and entering charge. A drugstore on Miami Avenue. They were Garson, Axtell, and Dimoff.”

Markle’s eyes were fixed on Shayne’s face, cold and inscrutable, telling him nothing.

“Do you recall the case?” Shayne prompted.

“Maybe I do… maybe I don’t.”

“They grabbed a guilty plea and didn’t stand trial,” Shayne reminded him. “One of your stinking private deals with Osgood.”

The lawyer’s expression did not change. He puffed on a cigar and let half an inch of ashes drop on his coat.

“Who paid your fee on that case?” Shayne demanded.

Markle’s thick lips smiled coldly. “Is that the information you’re after?”

“That’s it.”

“You’re wasting your time, Shamus. How should I know? A year ago? I should remember so long.”

“It’ll be in your records.”

“I don’t keep records.”

Shayne said, “I’ve got to know who was backing those three punks. Someone who paid you money to fix up a deal and keep them out of court so they couldn’t testify.”

“Aren’t you building up a lot of hypothesis out of a little conjecture?”

“I don’t think so.”

Markle said again, “You’re wasting your time… and mine.” He picked up some typewritten sheets and started to look at them.

Shayne’s features tightened. He reached out a big hand and slapped the papers from the attorney’s hand. “I’m not kidding, Markle. I want that name.”

Manny’s eyes became venomous. “Don’t try to push me around, Shayne. I’m warning you. Don’t do it.” He spoke with passionate sincerity.

Shayne’s hand doubled into a fist on the desk. He growled, “I’ll push this down your throat if you don’t give… and fast.”

Markle leaned back in his chair. “You’re making a mistake,” he warned. “You’re just a punk and you don’t know it. You’ve been smart for a long time, Shayne. You’ve kept out of my way. That’s the only reason you’ve lasted this long.”

With one movement Shayne got up and kicked his chair from under him. He turned and deliberately pushed the iron bolt, locking the door on the inside. When he turned back, Markle was reaching for the telephone. Shayne warned flatly, “Don’t make that mistake. I’ll break every bone in your body before anybody can get in here to you.”

Manny’s breath wheezed in between his stained teeth. He sat with his arm outstretched for the telephone, studying Shayne’s set face intently. “Do you realize what you’re doing?”

Shayne advanced toward him slowly with flared nostrils and upper lip drawn back. “I got socked in the puss last night by a cop. And I dodged a rifle bullet this morning. I’m playing for keeps, Markle. You’re going to give me that name, so make it easy on yourself. Personally, I don’t care. I’d like to smash your damned face. I don’t like it.”

Markle’s face turned ashen. He pushed his chair back, holding up a long-fingered hand as though to fend off a blow, and ejaculated, “I believe you’re crazy, Shayne.”

Shayne laughed without moving his lips. He stopped beside the desk, towering over the attorney. “Who were you fronting for, Manny, when you represented Garson and Axtell and Dimoff?”

“That’s something I couldn’t tell you if I knew,” Markle panted. “Confidential between a client…”