Brett Halliday: Heads You Lose

“That’s too bad,” Shayne muttered, his gray eyes morose and his voice glum.

Captain Ott’s keen eyes snapped. “Why? Don’t tell me I was mistaken in the old man,” he grated. “If he has crossed me up I’ll never trust another human being to play fair.”

Shayne squinted at him through smoke roiling from flared nostrils. “You weren’t mistaken in Clem Wilson,” he said. “He hasn’t crossed you up.” He crushed his cigarette out viciously. “If you had had a guard over the house you might have prevented murder tonight.”

“Murder? Who?”

“Clem Wilson. He was shot down in his filling station at midnight.”

Captain Ott sprang up and paced the floor, came back to the desk and demanded, “Did the boy have anything to do with it? What do you know about it?”

Shayne crossed his knobby knees, leaned back in his chair and calmly gave a detailed recital of all that had happened, beginning with the urgent telephone call from Clem Wilson.

“I’m explaining this to you,” he ended with a rueful grin, “because I don’t want the Army on my neck when the morning paper comes out. Actually, that telephone conversation told me nothing. But as long as I can make the murderer think it did…” His broad shoulders lifted in a significant shrug.

Captain Ott resumed his seat after listening to Shayne with intense interest. He nodded approvingly and said, “Using yourself for killer-bait, eh? It might smoke them out at that. But what’s this about Bob Wilson? Why did you come here to inquire about him?”

“Two or three small things that added up into a hunch. In the first place, I know Bob. He’s weak. I pulled him out of a jam about a year ago. And tonight Mrs. Wilson seemed to be suffering from something more than grief over her husband’s death. She was deeply troubled and anxious. Then… there was a photograph of the boys taken together. Bob’s picture had been cut away. After talking with her, I made up my mind that Bob…”

“I remember that picture,” Captain Ott broke in soberly. “Mr. Wilson showed it to me when I first started discussing the boys… before I had told him the truth. His pride in them was extraordinary.”

“That’s what started me thinking,” Shayne admitted. “I couldn’t conceive of Clem destroying the picture of Bob unless he had brought some drastic disgrace on the family. Mrs. Wilson seemed afraid of something Clem might have told me over the telephone, and when I asked for Bob’s present address, she pretended she didn’t know.”

Captain Ott emerged from deep and furrowed contemplation to ask, “Do you think the son might have murdered his father?”

“I’m pretty sure Mrs. Wilson thinks he may have,” Shayne admitted heavily.

The captain stood up and began buttoning the neck of his blouse and straightening his tie. “I’d better see Mrs. Wilson at once. If that boy is in Miami…”

“Wait a minute,” Shayne said swiftly. “Will you let me handle it?”

Captain Ott looked at Shayne in astonishment. “You should know the Military Intelligence handles its own cases, Shayne. You work on your murder case. The Army is after a deserter.” He spoke bluntly and with authority.

Shayne stood up. “I appreciate all that fully,” he said placatingly, “but hear me out before you see Mrs. Wilson. You see, Ott, I know Miami. And I know Mrs. Wilson. I’ll grant you this… she’s a mother and would probably do everything in her power to protect a deserting son, but she wouldn’t protect her husband’s murderer. I don’t believe any of this necessarily means that Bob is here,” he went on slowly. “Bob’s desertion is preying on her mind, of course. It may be that she just fears he might have returned and gone to his father… had an argument with him and shot him.”

Captain Ott sat down on the edge of the desk and lighted a cigar. He asked, “What do you propose to do?”

“If I tie Bob up to the murder or make Mrs. Wilson think he’s mixed in it, then she’ll spill everything.”

“You’re still solving a murder, and I’ve…”

“You won’t get anything out of her,” Shayne cut in warningly, “as long as she believes Bob is innocent.”

Captain Ott was silently thoughtful for a long moment, then said, “Your treatment is pretty rough for an old lady who’s trying to protect her son.”

“You want him for desertion, don’t you?”

The captain’s expression hardened. “We do. All right, I’ll let you handle it. We haven’t forgot your cooperation on the Nicholson case. Any time you want a commission, Shayne…”

Shayne’s gaunt features contorted in a wry grin. “Thanks. But I’m not cut out for a uniform, and certain of your regulations might cramp my style. I think I’m worth more on the outside.”

“There’s something in what you say.” Captain Ott lifted himself from the table and Shayne put on his trench coat.

They shook hands and Shayne promised, “I’ll notify you the moment I get anything definite.”

Shayne went swiftly and purposefully down the two flights of stairs, through the foyer, and outside. The un-blackened side of a few street lights shone dimly through the before-daylight mist and the streets were tomblike with utter silence. His trench coat felt snug and warm against the damp chill in the air, for in spite of the resort’s slogan of “June in Miami the year around” early spring nights were chilly in the semi-tropics.

His big shoes made a loud tramping sound on the pavement as he made his way to police headquarters. He went directly back to the file room and spoke cheerfully to a gray-haired man in uniform drowsing in a cushioned chair. “Hi, Pop,” he called, and closed the door. “Brought you something to keep you awake.”

The old man’s ruddy, seamed face broke into pleasurable wrinkles when Shayne pulled out his bottle. “’Tis a fine lad you are, Mike, to be thinkin’ of old Pop Gans on a night like this.”

He took the bottle and tilted it to his lips, let a generous portion of the liquor trickle down his throat. His red-rimmed eyes beamed when he handed the depleted bottle back to Shayne. “And what was that bribe for?”

“Just want you to look up an old case for me, Pop. Or maybe you’ll remember. About a year ago… three punks robbing a drugstore on the corner of Miami Avenue and Sixth.”

Pop Gans squinted at him with rheumy eyes. “About a year ago, you say?”

“Yeh.” Shayne frowned. “One of the men was named Willie Garson. And there was…”

“The others were Red Axtell and Peewee Dimoff. Sure, I’ve got it now. What is it you’re wantin’ to know, Mike?”

“What disposition was made of the case. What came out at the trial… whether anyone was back of them… any mob.”

“The three of them took a guilty plea,” Pop told him. “There wasn’t any trial. But here’s something for you to chew on, Mike. Manny Markle appeared for them.”

“Manny Markle? Where’d those three amateurs get the money for Manny’s fee?”

The old man cackled loudly. “That’s the morsel you’re to chew on.”

“I get it,” Shayne said slowly. “If Manny was fronting for them they must have had the right sort of connections. Thanks, Pop. That’s what I needed. Know what they drew?”

“Five to eight years.”

Shayne said, “I don’t see why the hell they keep any files in here,” and went out to his car.

From the police department Shayne drove to the garage of his apartment hotel, got out wearily and went around to the front door and into the lobby.

Tommy was alone, dozing behind the desk. His head jerked up and his eyes popped open when Shayne’s heels thudded across the tiled floor. He jumped up and asked eagerly, “What happened, Mr. Shayne? Did everything turn out all right?”