Brett Halliday - Heads You Lose

Shayne said, “Thanks,” and paid the bill on his way out.

Gentry was waiting. He said, “There’s another thing… your other witness isn’t going to hold out very long.”

Shayne leaned against the building and opened the package, which contained a jar of yellowish salve. He smeared it on his lips slowly and thoughtfully, said, “You mean Carlton?”

“Yeh. He called up after reading about that rifle attack on you this morning. Wanted to know if that was a sample of the police protection I could give. And he’s called three times since noon wanting you. He’ll cave in when he hears about the fun you had at Tahiti.”

Shayne said grimly, “I’ll see that he doesn’t cave in.” He tossed the small carton toward the gutter and put the jar of salve in his pocket.

Gentry squinted up at him and asked, “What about this date you’ve got with a dame?”

“A gal I met today. A she-lawyer. One of those dames that look cold and intellectual, yet something tells you she’s nothing but a bottled-up volcano. Know what I mean? Ready to go off like a firecracker if a man lights the fuse.”

“I suppose you think you can light the fuse?”

Shayne grinned. The salve was beginning to limber his lip. He said, “I’m taking along a pocketful of matches.”

“Got anything to do with the Wilson case… or the racketeers?” Gentry asked suspiciously.

“Maybe.” He looked at his watch. “I got to be going now. See you later, Will.”

“See here, Mike,” Gentry called, but Shayne waved his hand and stalked to his car.

He drove out to Coral Gables and located the Carlton house in an exclusive residential district near the Biltmore Hotel. It was a large, two-story, Spanish-style stucco house with balconies and exterior stairways. He parked behind a police car in front and went up a flagged walk to ring the bell.

A maid opened the door and Shayne asked for Mr. Carlton. She led the way to a long library with the afternoon sun streaming through the west windows. There was a stone fireplace at one end of the room, and bookcases on either side with books which looked as though they had been read.

Carlton was seated at a desk in front of the fireplace. Another man stood beside the desk, leaning over and talking with Carlton in a low tone. In front of the windows a slender woman with a youthful face and snow-white hair reclined on a chaise longue reading a book. She looked up and Shayne met a pair of appraising blue eyes, but she made no move to greet him. Shayne was wondering why her hair was white when the maid announced:

“Mr. Shayne to see Mr. Carlton.”

Mr. Carlton pushed some papers back and got up. The other man stepped aside, thrusting his hands deep into the pockets of an untidy tan suit and looking at Shayne with an insolent frown. He was past middle age, with aquiline features and bushy black hair.

Carlton’s face looked haggard and his eyes were those of a frightened man. He said, “I’m glad to see you, Mr. Shayne. I’ve been trying to reach you by telephone.”

The white-haired lady coughed delicately. Carlton turned to her and said, “Mr. Shayne, this is Mrs. Carlton.”

She closed her book with a finger between the pages and said, “You look more like a truck driver than a detective, Mr. Shayne,” but her eyes held a pleasurable glint.

“I can drive a truck, too,” Shayne told her.

“You’ve been hurt,” she said, her blue eyes lingering on his face. “Have you had another encounter with those gangsters?”

“Yes… for heaven’s sake, Shayne,” Carlton broke in with a tremolo of fear. “You’re all battered up.”

Shayne laughed and touched his swollen, salved lip. “A bee stung me. I’m allergic to bees,” he added gravely to Mrs. Carlton.

“This is scarcely the time for joking,” Carlton reprimanded.

“I didn’t know whether you wanted to discuss business just now,” Shayne apologized. He looked at the man standing back from Carlton’s desk.

“Oh yes… Mr. Bartel knows all about it. Bartel is my compositor and pressman,” Carlton added. “He brought these items up from the office for my okay.” He indicated the litter of proofs and newspaper cuts on the desk.

Studying Bartel with intent eyes, Shayne frowned and said, “Haven’t we met before?”

“I don’t think so.” Bartel’s aloof tone indicated that he would be pleased if they didn’t meet again.

Shayne shrugged and moved close to the desk to ask, “Just what is your business, Carlton?”

“I publish the Coral Gables Trumpet.” He bent forward and opened a drawer.

“Weekly?”

“Yes.” He straightened up and offered Shayne a folded sheet of paper. “I received this threat in the morning mail.”

The threat was typed. On the same Hammond Bond which had been used for Shayne’s letter. It, too, was unsigned and read:

“Maybe your eyesight is too good for your health. You’ve got till tomorrow to decide you made a mistake last night.”

Carlton watched Shayne’s face as he read the note, then said anxiously, “I’m afraid I did make a mistake.”

“You mean you think you can’t identify the killers?”

“Precisely. I’m afraid I let my natural desire to be of help run away with me.”

Shayne laid the anonymous threat down. “You had to expect something like this. They’re not passing up any bets.”

“That’s just what I told you, Herbert,” Mrs. Carlton said sharply.

Shayne looked at the publisher’s wife. A flicker of disdain curled her unrouged lips. Bartel had quietly moved away from the desk and was sitting in a chair near the window a little behind Mrs. Carlton. He sat stiffly with his legs crossed and his arms folded, staring impassively through the window. There was a curious air of tension between the trio that made Shayne’s Irish blood pound a little faster. He studied the two by the window gravely for a moment, then turned to Carlton.

“You have a policeman on guard, haven’t you, Carlton?”

“What good is a policeman?” Carlton’s voice rose nervously. “I understand there were two on guard at your door when the rifle bullet was fired at you. I am a prisoner in my own house,” he went on fretfully. “I dare not go to my office. Though we get the Trumpet out only once a week we have a large volume of commercial printing and I can’t afford to be away from my office this way. It’s a preposterous situation.”

“It won’t last long,” Shayne said with assurance. “Another day or so and…”

“You don’t understand,” Carlton interrupted. “I’m positive I wouldn’t recognize either of those men again.”

Shayne said, “It’s cowards like you who encourage rackets and murder.”

There was a long moment of flat silence in the sunlit library. Carlton sat down heavily behind the desk. His eyes were steely and focused on Shayne. He said, “I’ll have to ask you to apologize for that, Shayne.”

“Don’t be absurd, Herbert.” Mrs. Carlton’s voice dripped malice. “Mr. Shayne is simply saying what everyone else will be thinking.”

Carlton’s face grew flaccid. He said, “Laura!” hoarsely.

“Don’t you agree with me, Mr. Bartel?” she asked.

Shayne turned again to look at them. Bartel was still staring out the window. Mrs. Carlton’s profile showed intense concentration, as though his reply mattered terribly to her.

Bartel said gruffly, “It’s not for me to say.”

Shayne didn’t see the man’s lips move, though his words came clearly across the room.

Laura Carlton turned from him and looked directly at Shayne. She said in a tired voice, “You can see how it is. I’ve tried to argue with Herbert. After all those editorials he’s written about Americanism, too. About putting shoulders to the wheel, being a good soldier on the home front, the necessity for rationing restrictions…” She paused with her voice high, as though she would add more if her memory served her.