Brett Halliday - Heads You Lose

Shayne drew in a lungful of smoke. “I haven’t made any decision. I’ve been waiting for the right kind of an offer.”

“He has a preposterous idea of what his information is worth to us,” Brannigan complained.

Edna puckered her mouth so that a dimple came to her smooth cheek when she blew smoke through her lips. “Perhaps I could persuade you, Michael Shayne.”

“I’m not easily persuaded,” he warned.

“So?” Her eyes were provocative. “Let’s see… I’m frightfully busy with a brief today. Perhaps we could discuss it over a cocktail.”

“A lot of cocktails,” Shayne amended. “About six this afternoon?”

She nodded slowly. “If you’ll call for me.” She gave him an address on the Bayfront.

Shayne took a notebook from his pocket and wrote the address.

Miss Taylor moved back to Brannigan’s chair and put the tips of her fingers on his shoulder. She said, “As soon as you look this over I’d like to discuss it with you.” Coming back past Shayne she said, “Bye… now. See you later,” and went out.

Brannigan muttered, “Wonderful woman,” without lifting his eyes from the papers she had laid before him. “Wonderful legal mind. I’m sure she’ll present some arguments you’ll be unable to resist, Mr. Shayne.”

“I have a hunch,” said Shayne as he picked up his hat, “she will.”

Detectives Peterson and McNulty greeted Shayne reproachfully in the lobby when he returned to his hotel-apartment.

“That was a fine stunt to pull,” McNulty complained, and Peterson added mournfully, “Did we get chewed up by the Chief! As if we could of kept that guy from shooting at you in the bedroom even if we’d been camped across from the right door ’stead of being one flight up.”

The two officers closed in on Shayne and marched him to the elevator.

Shayne grinned and asked, “Did you sit up all night watching that door? Didn’t Gentry tell you I had moved to my old apartment?”

“Nobody told us anything except to tail you,” Peterson said. “Sure we stayed up there watching your apartment. Gentry had a conniption when we called and said you hadn’t left your apartment when you was spreadin’ yourself all over town.”

Shayne turned his face away to grin. He said, “I’ll make it up to you boys,” when the elevator stopped on the second floor. He led the way down the hall to his office-apartment. “Come on in. I’ve got a deck of cards and we’ll dig up a bottle. How’s that?”

“It’s okay by us, but what about Gentry?” McNulty said sadly.

They entered the room and looked around suspiciously. Peterson went to the table and tilted the cognac bottle up to the light. He asked, “Is this the bottle you were talking about?”

Shayne went to a cabinet in the kitchenette and brought out a full bottle and set it on the table. He said, “Make yourselves at home, boys,” and yawned widely. “I’ve got some sleeping to do.”

In the bedroom he pulled the shade down over the broken pane, stripped off his tie and shirt, and lay down on the bed. His body went limp and he closed his eyes. He could hear Peterson and McNulty arguing in a desultory way in the other room.

Then he heard nothing.

He slept a couple of hours. The telephone wakened him. He lay on his back and heard McNulty saying gruffly, “Just a minute and I’ll get him.”

Shayne sat up when the police detective came in. Pitching his voice high, McNulty shouted, “Paging Mr. Shayne… telephone for Mr. Shayne,” and held out his hand for a tip.

Shayne caught his hand and pulled himself from the bed, saying, “You can make my bed now, boy,” and went in to the telephone.

An unfamiliar voice asked, “This Mike Shayne?”

“Yeh,” Shayne answered, yawning into the mouthpiece.

“Who was that answered the phone?”

“That,” said Shayne pleasantly, “was the Blue Fairy. Who the hell is this?”

“Look, Shayne,” the voice grated, “you alone?”

“Practically. Couple of dicks here but they’re not very bright.”

“Can you ditch ’em?”

“Sure. Why?”

“If you’re smart you’ll get rid of ’em. Maybe you’re ready to do some business.”

“What kind of business?”

“Listen, Shayne… this is the pay-off.”

“In that case,” Shayne said, “I’m always glad to talk things over.”

“You’re pretty smart, but we ain’t dumb either, see? Here’s the way you’ll do it. Get this, and get it straight.”

“I’ll get it,” Shayne said impatiently.

“Go to the post office and there’s a letter for you in General Delivery. It tells you what to do. You’ll be watched while you get the letter and from then on. If you say anything to anybody or signal anybody or are followed when you leave the post office, the deal’s off. And the next bullet won’t miss.”

Shayne said, “It’s a date.” He hung up, turned around and grinned at Peterson and McNulty, ruffling his hair. “I wish to God dames would let me alone when I’m on a case.”

“That dame,” McNulty observed, “ought to do somethin’ about her voice.”

“She’s got a bad cold,” Shayne told him. He went into the bathroom and soused water over his face and head. In the bedroom he replaced his shirt and tie, fingered the gun in the holster nestling against his right groin, came out and picked up his hat.

McNulty and Peterson ranged themselves alongside him. Peterson said, “Maybe she’s got a couple of girl friends, so we’ll just tag along.”

“They wouldn’t be your type, boys,” Shayne argued.

“With my charm,” said McNulty, “I’ll get along okay.”

The trio moved out of the room and down the hall. McNulty said to Peterson, “Stick close to him, Pete, and maybe some of Mike’s Irish luck’ll rub off on us.”

Peterson nodded happily. “I’m curious. I’ve allus wondered what kind of dame would spread for a Shamus.”

“Trouble with you boys,” Shayne said, “is you don’t ever get down on your knees at night and pray.”

A derisive grunt came from the two men as the elevator stopped. They went down, marched through the lobby with him and out to his car. Shayne slid under the wheel, his face impassive. He waited for them to get in beside him, then drove up Third Avenue a couple of blocks beyond Flagler. He stopped in front of a bar and said:

“We’ve got some time to kill before I keep my date.”

He parked his car where it couldn’t be seen from the interior, got out and strolled in.

McNulty and Peterson followed him with grim determination.

Shayne said to the bartender, “Set out a bottle of cognac for me, Louis,” and went on to a rear booth. The two detectives stalked back with him and squeezed into the seat across the table.

Louis came back with a fifth of cognac, a four-ounce glass and a tumbler of ice water.

McNulty said, “What’s the idea? Two more glasses, Louis.”

Shayne said, “Hell, no. You guys buy your own drinks.” He carefully filled his glass to the brim.

“Beer for me,” said Peterson with resignation and disgust, and McNulty nodded confirmation to the bartender.

Shayne lifted his brimming glass in both hands and passed it back and forth beneath his flared nostrils, breathing deeply of the aroma, then drank a small portion.

Louis brought two beers and set them before the police detectives.

“Look, Mike,” McNulty exploded, “what’s the dope? Who was on the phone back there?”

“Her name,” said Shayne dreamily, “is Geraldine.”

“To hell with that!” McNulty thumped his beer mug down. “I answered the phone. You’re figuring on pulling another disappearing act.”

“Listen, boys,” Shayne said seriously, “I know how Gentry is. I wouldn’t let you down.” He toyed with his glass a moment, then refilled it.