Brett Halliday - Heads You Lose

Carlton flushed at his wife’s tone and put his head in his hands.

Laura went on slowly, “I was almost proud of you last night when you told me what you had done. That was foolish of me. After being married to you all these years…” Her upper lip curled away from nice teeth. She stood up suddenly and pulled a silken bell cord. “I need a drink,” she said, looking at Shayne.

He nodded. “It might help to wash the taste out.”

Turning to Bartel, she asked, “Will you join us?”

“Just a small one before I go back to the office,” he said in his odd, tight-lipped tone, and did not look at her.

The maid appeared in the doorway. Mrs. Carlton said, “Scotch, Emily… for three.”

When the maid went away Carlton lifted his head from his hands and said, “Must we quarrel before a stranger, Laura?”

“I’m not quarreling.” To Shayne she said, “I’m ashamed of my husband.”

“Would you like a cigarette?”

“Please.”

Shayne stood beside the chaise longue and she took a cigarette from his pack. The maid brought a tray holding three tall glasses, a bottle of Scotch, an icetub of cubes, a siphon, and three large ponies. As Mrs. Carlton put ice in the tall glasses, Bartel got up stiffly and said, “No soda for me.”

She filled a pony and passed it to him, then glanced up at Shayne inquiringly, tilted the bottle over his glass. He nodded when it was half full. She poured as much in her glass and filled them with soda.

Bartel drank his and set the small glass back on the tray. He said to Carlton, “You can send that stuff down after you’ve checked it,” and went out abruptly.

Laura Carlton held her glass out to touch Shayne’s and said, “Here’s to happy hunting, Mr. Shayne.”

In the silence, as they drank, Carlton snapped from the desk, “You might have some consideration for my feelings, Laura. You know I don’t approve of your drinking in the afternoon.”

She ignored his plea, raised her eyes to Shayne and said, “It must be wonderful to live dangerously.”

“It takes all kinds to make up the world,” Shayne responded genially.

“And I had to draw Herbert.” She emptied her glass and reached for the whisky bottle.

Carlton said, “Laura,” forlornly, as though he knew she would not answer.

She didn’t. She said between her teeth, “I hate little people. I detest hypocrisy. Don’t you, Mr. Shayne?”

“That gives you a lot of detesting to do,” he said.

“Do you think they’ll kill you?” she asked suddenly.

“They’ll do their best.”

“They’ll probably succeed.” She sounded very sad. “And after I’ve just met you, Michael.”

Shayne grinned. “I’m hard to kill.”

“But they’ll get you, and Herbert will keep on living. And I’ll keep on living with him, because I’m a coward, too, Michael.” Twin tears rolled down her smooth cheeks. She sank back on the chaise longue with a glass of whisky between her palms.

Shayne took out a handkerchief and wiped the tears away. He heard Carlton get up and move hesitantly toward them across the soft rose rug, but kept his back turned.

Laura caught Shayne’s wrist and held it tightly. “You’re not afraid of anything, are you?”

“Laura!” Carlton spoke harshly from close behind Shayne. “You’re making a ridiculous scene. I demand that you go to your room at once. You’re disgustingly drunk.”

“Go down and publish your paper,” she said thickly. “You know, I hate you.”

Carlton stepped forward to face Shayne. He said meekly, “Perhaps you’ll listen to reason, Shayne. Surely you can see that my wife is… indisposed.”

Shayne stood up, wincing with pain from his broken ribs. He looked at Laura Carlton as he finished his drink and thought he knew why her hair was white. He said, “I feel sorry for you, Carlton.”

“Your opinion does not interest me.”

“You were almost a man for a little while last night,” Shayne reminded him.

“The maid will show you out,” he said severely.

Mrs. Carlton pulled herself up and said tearfully, “I wish you’d stay, Michael.”

“I’ll be back and we’ll have another drink together,” he promised with a puffy smile.

Carlton seized his arm as he turned toward the door. His grip was surprisingly strong. He exclaimed, “It isn’t fair… what either of you think. I tell you I’ve decided…”

“Save it for the editorial page,” Shayne said. He shook the editor’s hand from his arm, and Carlton turned away in despair.

Laura had dropped back against the cushions and her blue eyes were closed when he said, “Good-by.”

Bending over her slightly, Shayne slid the first two fingers of one hand inside the shot glass Bartel had used, and widened them against the inner edges. He dropped the glass into his pocket, turned and went out of the library, down the wide hallway and out into the sunlight. He glanced over his shoulder and shivered as he went down the circuitous flagged walk to his car. He felt sorry as hell for Laura Carlton.

The sun was dipping low in the west as he drove to Miami police headquarters. He went directly to Chief Gentry’s private office.

Gentry looked up hopefully as Shayne walked in. “Well… well,” he began jovially.

Shayne said hastily, “I’m still fishing, Will.” He took a handkerchief from his pocket and carefully lifted the shot glass from his coat pocket. Setting it on Gentry’s desk, he explained, “A guy who says his name is Bartel drank out of this. I think he has a record. Check the prints for me, Will… and quick.”

Gentry nodded unhappily. “I sit here waiting for things to break,” he said sadly, “and you bring me a whisky glass.”

Shayne had the bottle of salve out and was smearing some of it on his upper lip. Replacing it, he said, “Well… so long.”

“Where you off to now?”

“I’ve still got that date. Remember? The she-lawyer.”

Gentry grunted. “If you walk into a bullet…”

“No woman has ever had to protect herself from me. You ought to know that, Will.” He waved a big hand and closed the door as he went out.

When Shayne entered the hotel-apartment lobby, Roger, the day clerk, reached into a pigeonhole and took out several slips of paper. He beckoned to Shayne, winked significantly, and handed him a handful of papers.

“There’s a lady waiting to see you,” Roger whispered. “She’s on that couch between the two palms.”

Shayne fanned the slips of paper out. All were telephone messages, and all from Herbert Carlton. He turned slowly, leaning an elbow on the desk, and looked toward the couch.

He had never seen the girl who sat there. She wore a plain cloth hat with the brim rolled in the back and pulled down over her forehead, partially obscuring her face. Her dress was of some cheap material with red flowers and a white belt drawn tight around her slim waist. The skirt was short and skimpy and she kept pulling it down over her bony knees. Thin legs stretched out in front of her, her match-stick ankles were crossed. She wore red shoes with absurdly high heels. Her hands were folded in her lap and she appeared to stare fixedly down at the tips of the stocking toes sticking from the open-toed shoes.

Shayne studied her for a moment before asking Roger, “Did she give any name?”

“No sir. She’s been sitting there an hour maybe. Made me promise I’d tell her the minute you came in. She said she’d wait all night if she had to,” he went on excitedly, “when I told her you mightn’t be back this afternoon.” He kept looking at Shayne’s bruised face and swollen lips, but didn’t ask any questions.

Shayne dropped the telephone messages into the wastebasket, lit a cigarette, and walked across to the girl. He said, “The clerk says you’re waiting for me.”