Brett Halliday - Heads You Lose

Carlton looked from Gentry to the dead man, moistened his lips, and took a step backward. “It isn’t up to me,” he burst out. “I’m a private citizen. It’s police work… dealing with murderers.” He turned toward the door.

“Wait a minute,” Shayne called harshly. “This is more than a police job. Clem Wilson was murdered because he had guts enough to stand up for what’s right. For his country, by God. He died fighting an enemy that’s just as dangerous as any Jap or German. It is up to you, Carlton. It’s up to every citizen to help us catch his killers.”

Chief Gentry frowned and demanded of Shayne, “What are you talking about? Some sort of subversive activity connected with this killing?”

Shayne gestured savagely toward the crumpled corpse. “What do you make of it? Don’t you get the picture? A couple of mugs come here and argue with Clem. As soon as they pull away he rushes in to call me. They come back and catch him at the telephone and blast him through the door without asking any questions, then come in and give him another slug just to make sure. Sweet Christ, do you need a diagram, Will?”

Gentry mumbled, “Keep talking.”

“If you’d known Wilson personally, you’d know what I mean. We were talking only yesterday and he told me about veiled propositions he’s been receiving since gas and tire rationing. Black market gas and hot tires. Schemes to beat the rationing rules. It made Clem’s American blood boil. He considered anyone with a scheme like that a traitor. Clem Wilson had one boy killed in the Pacific. His second boy is waiting to be shipped overseas. There’s your answer, Will.”

“You think that’s what those two hoods were about tonight?” Gentry asked heavily.

“I know it was,” Shayne growled.

Chief Gentry rolled a coldly suspicious eye up at Shayne. “How much did Wilson tell you on the phone before he was murdered?”

Shayne’s expression hardened. “I’ll keep that information to myself for a while.” His gray eyes brooded over Clem Wilson’s body.

“The hell you will,” Gentry roared. His florid face darkened. “Give… if you’ve got anything.”

Shayne shook his head stubbornly and emphatically. “I’ll handle this my own way.”

“This is police business, Mike,” Gentry said persuasively.

“Not yet. Not till I do some work on it.”

Herbert P. Carlton stood stiffly erect on the spot where Shayne had stopped him. His eyes stared coldly as the two men argued. The other officers lounged against the counter looking bored, and Mrs. Wilson sat huddled in the only chair the room afforded, her face buried in her work-roughened hands. The kid reporter’s eyes were round and popping and his pink ears appeared to spread. He chewed gently on his pencil eraser.

Gentry’s breathing became audible again. A scowl brought his bushy brows together. There was no hint of persuasion in his voice when he said, “I’ve stood for a lot from you in the past, Mike. I won’t stand for a cover-up.”

Shayne laughed harshly. “Turn what I’ve got over to you and let you mess it up? No.”

Will Gentry warned, “There are ways to make you talk.”

“They don’t work on me. Be reasonable, Will.” Shayne softened his tone. “You know I’m right. You’re a cop and there’s been murder committed. All right. It’s your job to arrest the killer. If I sing, that’s just what you’ll do, and it’ll end there. This thing is big, and it’s vicious. Chiseling on gasoline rationing is sabotage just the same as blowing up a power plant. You don’t want just one man. You want the whole ring of traitors.”

“All right… all right,” Gentry roared impatiently, “I admit all that. But it makes you an accomplice with them when you hold out vital information. God knows I hate a chiseler as much as you do.”

“But you’re still a cop, Will.” Shayne glanced aside at the Herald reporter. The youth was hastily scribbling on a pad. “That’s why I’ve got to keep this to myself,” Shayne went on sorrowfully. “Clem Wilson was my friend, but I would rather see his killers go free if that’ll help round up the gang back of them. That’s what Clem would’ve wanted, too.”

“I’ll have you arraigned before a grand jury,” Gentry threatened angrily. “Withholding evidence in a murder case is serious business.”

“Confidential information received from a client? Nope. I’m keeping what I’ve got.”

“You’re crazy,” Gentry exploded. “There’s a reporter taking down every word of this. How much will your life be worth if its publicly announced that you know who murdered Clem Wilson and are keeping it secret from the authorities? Hell, Mike, you might as well send out invitations to your funeral.”

Shayne said shortly, “I can take care of myself.”

“You sound like a Boy Scout,” Gentry snorted.

Shayne shrugged and turned his attention to Carlton. “Now that you know what’s back of this murder, have you changed your mind about being able to identify those men?”

Carlton wet his lips again. He lifted his shoulders slightly and said, “I try to be a good citizen. I have the same contempt as you for traitors who undermine our war effort and morale by evading the rationing rules. Yes, Mr. Shayne… I believe I’d recognize them again.”

Shayne said heartily, “I’ll try to give you the chance.” He stepped past Gentry and went over to Mrs. Wilson. “Why don’t you get dressed and let me take you to a neighbor’s house? I’ll take care of everything here for you.”

“Wait a minute, Shayne.” Gentry’s voice was harsh with authority. “For the last time, I’m asking you to cut this nonsense and repeat exactly what Wilson told you over the phone tonight.”

Over his shoulder, Shayne said mockingly, “I’m glad this is the last time. I’m getting damned tired of saying no.” He caught Mrs. Wilson’s arm and assisted her from the chair, opened an inner door leading into the shabby living quarters behind the office, and led her through. He hesitated in the doorway, turned and spoke to the youthful reporter:

“You’d better get going, kid. You’ve got a deadline to meet if this story makes the early edition.”

The lad nodded and edged toward the door. “Yeah, I… guess I’ve got enough.”

“You’ve got too damned much,” Chief Gentry growled. “I’m not going to let you print…”

Shayne let his breath out angrily. He released the widow’s arm and stepped back inside the office. He said to the reporter, “Gentry hasn’t started censoring the news yet. Get going.”

The young man gulped and started for the door again. Gentry barked, “Grab him, Grayson,” to the detective sergeant. The sergeant moved forward, but Shayne lunged in front of him, driving the reporter through the door with his shoulder.

Outside Shayne commanded, “Get in your car and beat it.” He whirled to face Grayson with fists doubled as the youth sprinted toward his car. Shayne said, “I’m sorry, Will, but…”

“Take him!” Gentry barked.

The harness cop and the detective sergeant started forward together. Shayne braced himself with lips drawn back from his teeth, gray eyes coldly watchful.

A motor roared outside as the two policemen closed in. Shayne laughed shortly and drove a straight left to the sergeant’s chin. The other cop bulled in under his right and pinned Shayne against the wall. Grayson recovered and deliberately smashed a fist into the redhead’s mouth.

Shayne lunged at the sergeant, dragging the cop with him. He tripped Grayson and the three of them went down in a pile almost on top of the corpse. Shayne let his body go limp while Grayson sat on his chest and snapped handcuffs on his wrists.

Gentry was striding toward the telephone, but Shayne warned him, “Better not touch it, Will. Someone hung it up after Clem was killed. It might have fingerprints.”