Brett Halliday - Heads You Lose

“Just feminine curiosity?” His mouth curved ironically.

“It’s a lot more than that. I have to know if it’s something we can really use.”

“You’ll have to take my word for it.”

“Then he was murdered by ration racketeers?”

Shayne nodded and said curtly, “That much is free.”

Edna Taylor drew in a long breath. “It’s worth a million dollars, Michael, if we handle it right.”

“We?” He poured another drink from the shaker.

“To you… and to me.”

“What about Brannigan?”

She said swiftly, “Brannigan is out. We don’t need him.”

“So? How about his organization? He’s the president of the Motorist Protective Association.”

She made a derisive gesture. “He is a little man, Michael. He has no vision. He’s satisfied with things as they are… a paltry few thousand per year and the title of president.”

“And you?”

She got up and paced the length of the room, came back to get her bowl and poured a drink. After swallowing half of it at once, she spoke swiftly and with rising excitement:

“This thing is just beginning. In six months it can be the biggest thing in the country. Why stop with motorists? Everything else is being rationed. Why not a Consumer’s Protective League… with every citizen of the United States as a potential member? We spread out… establish key offices throughout the country. With the right sort of publicity the idea will spread like wildfire.” She paused with her head held at a dramatic angle, her eyes staring at the rafters. “Fifty million members isn’t impossible,” she ended, lowering her gaze to meet his.

“What,” asked Shayne, “do you plan to protect consumers from?”

An irritated frown flickered between her brows. “We render the same services we now render motorists. Advise them about ration problems, find legal loopholes and methods by which our membership is able to get a jump ahead of non-members.”

“Which would mean a complete breakdown in the rationing system,” Shayne stated flatly and without enthusiasm.

She drank the last of her drink and began pacing again. “No… not that at all. It’s really protection against their own ignorance. The government expects everyone to take full advantage of the law. It’s like the income tax. It isn’t unpatriotic to protect oneself by legal advice against paying excessive amounts.”

Shayne said, “All right. Granted that it’s legal, and even that it’s dubiously ethical, where do I come in?”

She stopped in front of him. “As a partner, of course. You and I together.”

“What have I got to offer? I’m a private detective.”

“You could continue running down ration frauds. That would be an important part of our service. People hesitate to report chiseling neighbors to the Government, but we would break down that prejudice so far as our organization is concerned. When you crack the Wilson case as a starter, we launch our new league on the wave of nationwide publicity that follows.”

Shayne smiled grimly. “You’re taking in a lot of territory. You’d find competitive organizations springing up everywhere, and they wouldn’t bother to be so legal. The light sentences and fines being imposed on out-and-out racketeers… and criminals of every sort… by the judges in this country encourage sabotage. The higher-ups can always produce a goat, so they have no fear of the law.”

Her shoulders drooped and she clasped her hands tightly together. She regarded him intently for a moment, then said, “We would have nothing to fear on the legal side. Don’t you think you could work with me?”

“And keep our relationship impersonal?” he asked roughly.

“Perhaps that wouldn’t be necessary,” she said quietly.

Shayne lit a cigarette and leaned back comfortably. He didn’t say anything.

She continued to stand before him. “You haven’t said no yet, have you?”

He did not look at her. His eyes were half-closed and there was a deep crease between his brows.

Suddenly she took a step backward, turned, and said, “I’m sorry I hadn’t time to change before you came. Do you mind?”

Shayne muttered, “Not at all.”

He had a hunch he ought to get the hell out before she came back, but he didn’t like to run away. He poured another drink and sipped it moodily. He should be at work. He tried to convince himself that he was at work. He knew he was getting drunk… pleasantly drunk.

He told himself he didn’t trust Edna Taylor. Not worth a damn. She had too many glib arguments. You couldn’t trust a glib woman. She was after something, he wasn’t quite sure yet what it was. She had made it sound simple enough, but he wasn’t sure it was so simple. He had never believed in the theory of income-tax experts. He had always taken his beating every March with the reassuring belief that it was the right thing to do. Maybe he was wrong.

He took another drink and ground out his cigarette. He heard Edna come into the room and turned to look at her.

She wore a pair of white satin pajamas and a hip length Mandarin coat of heavy brocaded satin. The coat had a high collar buttoned under her chin, and her feet were encased in white, furry slippers. She lowered her eyes and said, “I feel deliciously sinful.”

“You look like something good to eat,” he muttered.

She was highly rouged and her hair was combed into a mass of loose honey-curls. She asked, “Do you like this better than tweeds?”

“Much better.”

She poured a drink, complaining, “You’re not being a bit helpful.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“I don’t know,” she confessed. “I can’t quote any precedents.” She laughed shakily.

Shayne reminded her harshly, “You’re the one who’s making the propositions.”

“You’re a hard man, Michael Shayne,” she told him with a slight shudder. She emptied her bowl and walked over to set it on the mantel. It clattered to the hearth and the room rang with a gong-like sound. She giggled and said in a small voice, “I guess I’m drunk.”

Shayne remained stubbornly silent.

She came toward him, stopped close beside his chair and said, “I don’t know much about leading a man on. I thought… you might attack me.”

Shayne grinned up at her. “You’re the one who’s selling a bill of goods.”

“You’re being mean,” she accused, her eyes luminous. She lowered her hands to the arms of his chair and pressed her face against his. Her breath was hot on his cheek and she moved her face slowly until her mouth covered his. She tensed and her lips clung fiercely. His lips remained flaccid, and she drew herself upright with a choked laugh. “Aren’t you going to do anything?”

He said, “You’re doing all right.”

She backed away from him and collapsed on the divan, curling her legs under her. She said bitterly, “So you’ve made me feel like a prostitute.” She buried her face in her hands and began to cry.

Shayne watched her closely for a moment before saying, “Maybe you’re on the level. I’ll be damned if I know.”

“What do you mean?” she sobered.

Shayne made a grimace. “This whole set-up… it stinks. Why is my information on the Wilson case so important to you?”

She lifted her head and her wet hazel eyes smouldered with anger. “Get out!” she ordered between clenched teeth. “I hate you! Do you hear me… get out!”

Shayne winced with pain as he came up from the deep chair. He went over to sit on the couch beside her and laid a big hand on her shoulder. He said hoarsely, “Maybe I’m crazy,” and patted her. Abruptly he asked, “What do you know about Eddie Seeney?”

She stopped trembling and sat up to ask wonderingly, “Who?”