Brett Halliday - Heads You Lose

Shayne slapped him. The force of his open palm slewed Markle sideways. He reached down with his left hand and gathered up a handful of the lawyer’s shirt-front, lifted him half out of his seat. He said, “This is going to cost you a whole mouthful of new teeth.”

Shayne let go and Markle slumped into his chair. His face was pasty and his eyes shifted away from Shayne’s gray and steady stare. “Think fast and give it to me straight,” Shayne warned implacably.

“I’ll have to know how you’re going to use it…”

“You don’t have to know anything except that you’re going to take one hell of a beating if you don’t come through.”

Markle’s thick lips moved and in a choked voice he said, “Kline… Dennis Kline asked me to handle the case.”

Shayne repeated, “Dennis Kline,” and nodded thoughtfully. “Might be. I had a hunch those lads were after dope when they broke into the drugstore.”

“You’ve got to promise me Kline will never find out I told you,” Markle whimpered. “If he…”

“What’s Kline’s racket now,” Shayne interrupted, “since the feds have buttoned up the dope business?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Markle said in a harassed voice. “Kline has been unjustly persecuted by the police for years. He has been acquitted every time he was dragged into court.”

“And you’ve taken a nice slice for getting him acquitted. All right, Manny.” Shayne turned away. “I’ll find out from Kline if you’re going to be coy.”

He unbolted the door and strode out without looking back. Striding down Miami Avenue, he swung into a drugstore and went to a telephone booth, called his apartment garage and ordered his car brought to the corner of Flagler and Miami Avenue. He then found Dennis Kline’s residence number in the phone book and strolled down to the appointed corner to wait for his car.

Ten minutes later he was driving north on Biscayne Boulevard. He pulled to the curb before a modern apartment house built around a patio centered with a fishpond and studded with royal palms.

Dennis Kline was a tall, spare man with an austere face. He wore a close-cropped gray mustache and there was a rim of gray hair around his bald head. He was having breakfast in the luxurious sunlit living room of his bachelor apartment when a Filipino boy ushered Shayne in. Kline was munching on a strip of crisp bacon and he waved his napkin and nodded. “Hello there, Shayne,” he called jovially, “you’re just in time for breakfast.”

Shayne tossed his hat to the boy and sauntered to the wheeled breakfast table. “I’ve had my scrambled eggs. Thanks.” He leaned over to inhale the steam rising from the spout of a silver coffee service, wrinkled his nose and said, “It is coffee. If I had my coupon book I’d join you in a cup.”

Kline swallowed, chuckled, wiped his lips and said, “Nonsense. Pull up a chair.” And to the Filipino, “Another cup.”

Shayne drew up a brocaded chair and sat down. “That’s the ultimate in hospitality. Offering a cup of coffee nowadays is something like cutting off your right arm.”

Kline dipped a piece of toast in the yolk of a fried egg. “There’s plenty of coffee on the market if you know where to look.”

“I suppose,” Shayne said noncommittally. He lit a cigarette as the boy placed a cup and saucer before him, filled the cup from the pot. Shayne tasted it and nodded appreciatively. “Tastes just as good as though it wasn’t bootlegged.”

Kline chuckled again. “Understand, I’m admitting nothing.”

“I’ve wondered what racket you’d taken up since the dope business got too hot.” Shayne flipped cigarette ashes into the exquisite chinaware saucer.

“Don’t jump to any conclusions,” Kline warned jovially.

“I’m really interested. That’s what I came to ask you.”

Dennis Kline kept his tone genial then said, “You’re an amazing man, Shayne. I’ve always said so.”

“Thanks. What are you handling besides coffee?”

“It’s a beautiful day,” Kline parried.

“Have you thought of gasoline?”

“Why beat around the bush?”

Shayne looked surprised. “I thought I was being very explicit. I’m asking you… are you handling bootleg gasoline?”

Kline’s eyes narrowed momentarily, then his face cleared, and he glanced toward the morning Herald lying on a chair nearby. “I suppose you’re chasing your tail on that murder last night.”

“Not chasing my tail, Kline. I’ve got some pretty straight dope that points to you behind the gasoline racket,” Shayne said quietly. He took a sip of coffee and inhaled the aroma.

“Is that so?” Kline finished his eggs and toast, emptied his coffee cup with a grunt of satisfaction. “You wouldn’t be needling me, would you?” he asked with gentle mockery.

“You’ll know when I start needling you,” Shayne promised.

“Would you like to search my place for the death weapon?”

“I know you don’t dirty your hands with stuff like that,” Shayne snorted. “You hire trigger boys… like the one who smashed my window with a rifle bullet this morning.”

“A rifle bullet? Indeed?” Kline shoved the breakfast away and turned his chair to face Shayne squarely.

“You’d better have your boys do some practicing.”

“If I had any boys they’d be in practice, Shayne.” Kline took a fat cigar from his breast pocket, leaned back, and lit it and let out a puff of smoke with the question, “Don’t you think you’re getting in over your depth?”

“No.”

Kline belched gently and asked, “Would you like to tell me why you’ve come to me?”

Shayne gestured toward the Herald. “I thought you’d read the story.”

“So I have.”

“Then you should be able to guess.”

Kline looked surprised. “I don’t follow you.”

“Clem Wilson talked before he was shot last night.”

“About me?”

“You’re beginning to catch on.”

“About my offer to buy his station?” Kline looked at Shayne with amusement. “Don’t tell me you think I had him killed because he refused to sell.”

Shayne lowered his eyelids to hide the leaping light of excitement in his eyes. He said, slowly, “I figure that may have been a contributing factor.”

Kline laughed outright. “You’re slipping, Shayne. You’re a fool if you think I cared that much about his site. Service stations are a drug on the market since rationing.”

“Is that the reason you’re buying them up?”

“Precisely. This war can’t last forever. It looks like a good investment.”

“But you’re not letting them stand idle as an investment,” Shayne said. “You’re operating them while other stations are closing for lack of business.”

“I’m operating some of them… yes. It doesn’t take a very smart detective to find that out. It’s a matter of record.”

“You won’t get away with it, Kline. I’ll see that the FBI gets a list of every station you own. They’ll check your supplies morning, noon, and night. This country is going to get tough on ration chiselers.”

Kline smiled genially. “I’ll be glad to co-operate with the FBI. Indeed, to make their task easier I’ll see that they’re furnished with a list of my stations.” He stood up suddenly and said, “This is very pleasant, but I’ve others things to do.”

Shayne stood up. “Sheltering an army deserter is a pretty serious business in wartime, Kline. Do you know what the penalty is?”

Dennis Kline looked at him sharply. “What are you driving at now?”

“You’d better talk it over with Manny Markle. He’s plenty good, but that’s one rap even Manny would find it hard to get you out of.” Shayne turned on his heel abruptly and strode toward the door. The Filipino glided up with his hat. He took it and went out.