Brett Halliday - Heads You Lose

“You mean… Bob, don’t you?” Her voice was flat, devoid of any emotion.

Shayne asked, “Did you know all the time?”

“I didn’t, Mr. Shayne. I was scared…” Her voice broke. She recovered and went on strongly, “I won’t protect him if that’s what you’re thinking. I would from desertin’, no matter how shamed I was. I guess any mother would. But not if he killed his own father.”

Shayne dropped into a chair and took out a cigarette. “You better tell me all about it now.”

Her thin lips worked in a spasm, as though she urged them to speak. Presently, she began:

“It started when that Army man come out an’ told us Bob had run away… deserted. Clem was that mad he swore Bob wasn’t no son of his no longer. He cut his picture off that’n of Bob and Joe on the wall. And he swore to the officer he’d turn Bob in like any other deserter if he showed his face at home.” She paused and covered her face with her hands.

After a moment she continued, “Two days ago a man come out an’ talked to Clem. I didn’t hear what was said, but Clem told me. The man said Bob was in Miami hidin’ from the Army. Bob was afraid to face Clem hisself, but told the man to say he’d be all right an’ wouldn’t get arrested if Clem would agree to sell his station for most nothin’. Well, Clem told him plenty, I reckon. Said to tell Bob he’d have no truck with him an’ he’d give Bob one chance to give hisself up to maybe make it easier on him. He gave him till midnight last night.”

Her voice broke again. She wiped tears from her eyes with the back of her hand and went on in a hushed voice:

“An’ it was right on to midnight when Clem come in mad an’ wantin’ to call you. I got to thinkin’… after a while it was when it come to me… I got to thinkin’, what if it was Bob out there? If he saw his father go to the phone… but I couldn’t believe it. Not my boy. An’ Clem had allus been so good to his younguns. Bob was wild, but he wouldn’t… he couldn’t do that. I knew he wouldn’t.”

Shayne said, “You should have told me right away. It was wrong to protect a deserter.”

“I know it, Mr. Shayne. I know it. I prayed over it last night but I couldn’t see what was right to do.”

Shayne got up and said, “I don’t think Bob killed his father, Mrs. Wilson, but he has to be arrested for desertion.”

She caught the arms of her chair, braced herself stiffly and looked up at him incredulously. “You mean it?” Then she sank back moaning, “Oh, thank God if he didn’t! That’s all I care now. I know he’s got to pay for desertin’.”

Shayne pulled his hat down over his tangled hair. “Try not to worry about it. I’ll call you just as soon as anything happens.” He hurried out to his car.

Driving back to the city on the Tamiami Trail, Shayne slowed as he approached the last filling station at which he had attempted to buy bootleg gasoline. He saw an elderly man leaning against one of the pumps, and the plump woman was nowhere in sight. The station was one of those checkmarked on Eddie Seeney’s list.

He pulled into the station and stopped. The man hurried to the open door of Shayne’s car and said, “Evenin’, stranger. Somethin’ for you?”

Shayne said, “I’m in a hell of a jam. Got a date with a doll on the Beach and no gas. I’d pay plenty for a couple of gallons.”

“No coupons, I reckon.”

“No. I’ve used them all up. Look, I…”

“Nothin’ doin’, Mister.” The man backed away. “I’d sure like to ’blige you, but I can’t do it. Not the way things are.”

“You needn’t be afraid of me.” Shayne reached for his wallet, flipped it open and drew out the green membership card of the Motorist Protective Association. “See? I’m all right.”

“Whyn’t you say so?” the man grumbled. “Two gallons all you need?”

“That’ll be plenty.”

He hurried around to the pump and rang up two gallons, came back and said, “That’ll be one-fifty. You know we got to be almighty careful who we sell it to.”

Shayne said, “Sure. I know.” He paid for the bootleg gas and drove on into town, stopping in front of the police station on Flagler Street.

Will Gentry looked up with a suspicious grunt when Shayne walked in. The detective grinned and said, “It’s all over but a few details, Will. Got those men rounded up?”

“Three squad cars. That enough?”

“It should be. Did you get that list of stations Dennis Kline has been buying up?”

“Yep. Fifteen of them. Mostly little stations around on the outskirts.”

“Those are the ones that would be easiest to work in his racket. They’re your meat. Start your men raiding them. Don’t waste any time looking for bootleg stuff. Search the operators and stations thoroughly for forged coupons or ration books.”

Gentry’s jaw sagged. “That the way he was working it?”

“I hope so. And I’ve got another job.” He described Gene and his pal who had signed the hotel register under the alias of B. Antrim and whom Gene called Mark. He told Gentry where to look for them, then said:

“I guess the Army will want the next assignment.”

He lifted Gentry’s telephone and called Captain Ott at Military Intelligence. “Shayne talking. I’ve got something for you on Bob Wilson. He’s in the city being hidden out by a local racketeer named Dennis Kline. Why don’t you get together with Will Gentry and raid Kline’s dives? You’ll find him in one of them.”

After listening a moment, Shayne went on, “That’s right. You can call Gentry when you’re ready.” He hung up and turned to the Chief of Detectives. “Ott will call you in a few minutes. You’d better pick up Kline and a man named P. T. Brannigan. His number is in the phone book. And send a car out for Carlton in Coral Gables. I doubt whether he’ll stick his nose out without an escort. Bring them all to Edna Taylor’s place. You know where it is.”

“My God,” Gentry complained, “we’ll have half the city out there. Do you know what you’re doing, Mike?”

“I hope so.” Shayne got up wearily. The tight tape around his sore and swollen ribs was growing very painful. He promised, “I’ll see you at Edna Taylor’s,” and went out.

There was no light in Edna Taylor’s living room when Shayne parked out front. He got out stiffly and walked around the side, saw a light in the bedroom, and went back to rap on the door.

Nothing happened for a couple of minutes. Then he heard a window in the living room being cautiously opened. Edna Taylor asked, “Who’s there?”

“Michael Shayne,” he answered.

She made no reply. The window went down and he waited another full minute. Then the door swung open. Shayne pushed it wide on his way in.

There was no light in the living room, but a faint glow came through the open bedroom door. In the dim light he watched her back away from him. She had removed her suit coat and wore a white blouse with the tweed skirt. The blouse had short puff sleeves with a flattering shirred neck. She looked younger and more appealing than at any other time he had seen her.

“Why did you come here?” Her voice was a nervous whisper.

“Didn’t you suspect I’d be back?”

“No. I… I wish you’d go.”

Shayne shook his head. He tossed his hat on a chair and said, “We’ve got a lot of things to talk about.”

Her left hand clutched at the shirred neck of her blouse. “I suppose you still think I murdered that Seeney man in cold blood… and that I’m a gasoline bootlegger.”

“I’m tired of thinking,” he told her. “Can’t we sit down and take it easy for a while?” He moved past her toward the hearth and stood with his elbows resting on the mantel to ease the pressure from his throbbing ribs. The bedroom light touched the right side of his gaunt face, leaving the other side shadowed.