Brett Halliday - Heads You Lose

Driving back on Biscayne Boulevard, Shayne stopped at the first drugstore and called Chief Gentry from a telephone booth. He said, “Will, did you know Dennis Kline was going into the service station business in a big way?”

“Kline? That you, Mike?”

“Right. I just thought you might be interested.” He kept his lips close to the mouthpiece and spoke very softly.

There was a short silence, then Gentry asked, “What cooks now?”

“That’s what I’m wondering. Kline is a smart operator. Yet it doesn’t look smart to jump into a business that’s been dead for months.”

“Maybe Kline figured out an angle.”

“I think maybe he has,” Shayne agreed wryly. “What gets me is that he isn’t covering up. He doesn’t seem to be worried about an investigation.”

“He’ll never get by with it if he’s figuring on handling bootleg stuff. We’ll start checking his stations.”

“Sure. Kline knows we will. I imagine you’ll find everything in apple-pie order.”

“What the hell are you getting at, Mike?” Gentry’s voice came louder, baffled and aggrieved. “Damn you, first you act like you’ve got a smart tip, and then you hedge.”

“I’m just giving you the dope I got,” Shayne assured him. “But I wish you would go to the records and get a list of every filling station he’s bought or leased. Manny Markle is probably handling the deals for him.”

“Sure. I’ll do that. Are you getting anywhere on the Wilson murder?”

“I’m learning things,” Shayne admitted cautiously. “For instance, Kline has been trying to buy Clem Wilson out, and Clem wouldn’t sell.”

“What does that mean? You don’t think Dennis Kline is fool enough to kill a man just for a service station site?”

Shayne said, “No. But it’s something to think about, Will.” He grinned as he hung up and cut off Will Gentry’s angry sputtering.

Roger, the day clerk, was on duty when Shayne got back to his hotel apartment. He raised his eyebrows and motioned to the switchboard where a girl operator was on duty. “I think Gladys has a call for you on the wire right now, Mr. Shayne. Want to take it here?”

Shayne said to Gladys, “Switch it to the booth,” and went into the tiny compartment and closed the door.

An unctuous voice came over the wire. “Mr. Shayne, this is Mr. Brannigan speaking… of the Motorist Protective Association.”

Shayne said, “I don’t know you, do I?”

“I believe not, but I hope you will. I wonder if you could drop into my office for a conference?”

“What about?” Shayne asked.

There was a slight hesitation at the other end of the line. Then Mr. Brannigan said heartily, “I think we should get together, Mr. Shayne. It appears to me we might be of mutual benefit to each other.”

“How?”

Mr. Brannigan’s soft laughter gurgled soothingly over the wire, like thick oil bubbling from a bottle on a cold morning. “You are certainly forthright, Mr. Shayne. I’d like for us to discuss certain information in your possession regarding what the morning paper calls a ration racket.”

Shayne grinned. He said, “I’m open to suggestions.”

“Good. I’d like to see you at once.” Brannigan quit purring and became brisk as he continued, “Our offices are in the Biscayne Building.” He gave a fourth-floor number and asked, “May I expect to see you soon?”

“Right away.” Shayne hung up and stared at the inanimate instrument for an instant, then emerged from the booth worrying his left earlobe. He stopped, turned back, and riffled through the pages of the telephone book until he found Motorist Protective Association listed at the address Brannigan had given him.

Shayne went out and started to get into his car, checked the gasoline by turning on the ignition, returned the keys to his pocket and walked with long, swift strides to the Biscayne Building between First and Miami Avenues.

The lettering on the frosted glass door of the Motorist Protective Association looked fresh and neat. He went into a reception room containing new furniture, a soft blue rug, and attractive seascapes adorning the wall. A trim receptionist looked up from her desk and smiled at him, and asked, “What can I do for you?”

“I’m to see Mr. Brannigan,” Shayne told her.

“The name, please?”

“Mike Shayne.”

“Oh,” she said, and smiled again. “You’re to go right in, Mr. Shayne.” She sprang up and preceded him to a door chastely lettered, “President, Private.”

The private office was newly decorated in pastel shades with long windows veiled by half-closed Venetian blinds. Soft lights reflected on an immaculate glass-topped desk and the man sitting behind it.

Brannigan wore a double-breasted pongee suit, and the red carnation in the buttonhole matched his tie. His head was square, and the short stubble of dark hair standing up from a low forehead enhanced the squareness. His upper lip was too short, almost cherubic, but his chin was forceful. His blue eyes twinkled, and as he stood up to greet Shayne effusively, he smoothed his coat down over a hint of a paunch.

“Well, well, Mr. Shayne, you are very prompt. I like a man to be prompt. I do, indeed.”

Shayne grinned and pulled up a leather-cushioned chair. He said, “You’re Brannigan, of course?”

“That’s correct, Mr. Shayne.” He sat down and folded his hands on the glass-topped desk. “You are doubtless familiar with the work of our organization.”

“Never heard of it,” Shayne said. “It’s a new racket to me.”

A look of pain flitted over the president’s face. “I’m afraid you have the wrong impression, Mr. Shayne.”

“It’s new, isn’t it?” Shayne’s gray eyes roved around the immaculate room, taking in the shining newness of everything in the office.

“We’ve been operating only a short time… yes. But our work certainly cannot be considered a racket. It is, in fact, the exact opposite.”

Shayne tipped his chair back and crossed his legs. “Just what is your line?”

“Line? Oh, we don’t carry a line, Mr. Shayne. You see, we are organized to fill a very real need during this period of wartime restrictions. We offer sympathetic counsel and guidance to every motorist who is patriotically co-operating with the Government to conserve gasoline and rubber so vitally needed by our armed forces.” The words rolled sonorously off Brannigan’s tongue.

Shayne lit a cigarette and tossed the match on the deep, wine-colored rug. “What kind of counsel and guidance?”

“We show them how to stretch their gasoline allowance in innumerable ways by maintaining a corps of specialists who advise in methods of gasoline conservation. With a legal department which studies the individual problems of our members and makes recommendations toward applications for supplemental allowances. By skilled field workers who assist in the preparation of budgets for essential driving needs. The organization of the share-the-rides clubs among our membership. These are only a few of the services we offer.”

“Sounds fair enough. But why did you want to see me?”

Brannigan leaned forward eagerly. “Another service we plan is a drive against all forms of ration racketeering. Every gallon of gasoline and every tire diverted to illicit channels leaves that much less to go around among our membership. We feel it is our duty to ruthlessly stamp out all such practices.”

“Isn’t that a police job?” Shayne asked. “Or a matter for the FBI?”

Brannigan laughed indulgently. “I can see you are a very practical man, Shayne. But… you should know how far the local police and the FBI have gone in meeting the problem. Thus far there has not been a single arrest in the city of Miami… yet it is well known that an extensive Black Market exists here. You and I know there is an organized ring of gasoline thieves who bootleg their stolen stuff at an enormous profit. The police seem powerless to stamp it out. And lately…” he paused to give his words emphasis, “… I’ve heard rumors of a counterfeiting ring offering forged ration books for sale.” Brannigan’s eyes were no longer twinkling. They were cold and demanding. “Have you heard any such rumors?”