Brett Halliday - Heads You Lose

“Everything turned out lousy, Tommy,” Shayne said. He leaned both elbows on the desk and morosely tugged at the lobe of his left ear. “I’m sort of on the spot. You’ve got to keep your eyes open and help me.”

“You bet I will.” The clerk’s blue eyes sparkled.

“Certain people are going to have a yen to wipe me out,” Shayne explained. “They’re liable to come around here. You’ll have to be on your toes to warn me of anybody or anything that looks a bit off-color.”

“You bet, Mr. Shayne. Say!” Tommy lowered his voice to a confidential pitch. “You reckon they could be after you already?”

“I doubt it. Not quite so soon. Why?”

“Well, couple of fellows came in about twenty minutes ago. Real toughies they looked like. They asked about rooms and apartments, then asked if you stayed here. I told them you did.” Tommy paused to catch his breath.

“And?” Shayne prompted.

“And they wanted to know the number of your apartment. To tell the truth, Mr. Shayne, I guess I was sort of sleepy, and I gave them the number of your upstairs apartment. The one you haven’t used much since…”

“Yeh,” Shayne said roughly. “What else?”

“Well, they said they were friends of yours and asked if I had a vacancy near to it. So I rented them the one right across the hall. Said they wanted to surprise you and gave me a five-spot to not mention them to you.”

Shayne kept on tugging at his earlobe. “What names did they give?”

The young clerk went over and took a card from the file. “Here it is. L. J. Martin and John Anderson. City.”

Shayne said, “Thanks, Tommy. That may be it, though I don’t see…” His voice trailed off. “Anyway, it won’t take long to find out.” He took a bill from his wallet and shoved it across to the clerk. “Maybe you won’t be getting in any naps at night for a while.” He started toward the elevator.

Tommy called out, “You want me to do anything, Mr. Shayne? Should I call the police?”

Shayne grinned reassuringly over his shoulder. “We’ll keep the police out of this.” He stepped into the elevator and went up to his office-apartment on the second floor.

Everything was as it had been when he had left hastily after Clem Wilson’s telephone call. Shayne hung his hat up after looking carefully around, then took the cognac bottle from his pocket and set it on the center table. He shucked off his coat and dropped it on a chair, went into the kitchenette whistling a tuneless air.

He put ice cubes in a tall goblet, filled it with water, and got a wine glass from a shelf above the sink. Back in the living room he filled the wine glass with cognac and stood on widespread legs while he drank half of it slowly. He washed it down with ice water, yawned and rumpled his red hair, then drank the rest of the liquor.

Going to a drawer, he took out a. 38 revolver, spun the cylinder to make certain it was fully loaded, tucked it into the waistband of his trousers and went out.

Shayne climbed one flight of stairs and went down the hallway to the corner apartment, which he had not entered since his wife’s death. There was no light in the apartment across the way, but the transom was open and the door stood ajar a crack. A sardonic grin flitted across his gaunt features as he got out a keyring and jingled it loudly, pushing each key around until he came to the one which fitted the lock. Inserting the key, he turned it, glancing over his shoulder as he stepped inside.

He saw the opposite door edge open a trifle wider.

Closing his door, he turned on the lights and stood looking about the beautifully appointed and restful living room with an expression of acute sorrow tightening his face. Everything reminded him of Phyllis. Never would there be a wife like her again. She had selected the rugs and the furniture, had sewed the bright curtains herself. There was the deep chair she had loved to sit in, facing east, to watch the colors on Biscayne Bay flashed back by the setting sun. There was the hassock she dragged close to his own chair and curled up on like a little girl…

Shayne set his teeth and turned his back on the room. He dropped to his knees and peered through the keyhole at the door across the hall.

It was tightly closed, and light showed around the transom. He stayed on his knees, watching through the keyhole for a long time. The door stayed shut and the light stayed on.

He got to his feet and removed the. 38 from under his belt, cocked the double-action weapon, and opened his door very softly.

With the cocked gun in his hand he took one long step across the carpeted hall and knocked lightly on the door, standing back against the wall in order not to be seen unless the door was opened wide. His eyes were very bright and a muscle quivered in the hollows of his cheeks as he waited.

He heard a chair being pushed back inside the room, then a gruff voice asked, “Who’s there… what do you want?”

Shayne muttered something that could be heard through the closed door without forming any definite words. There was a moment’s hesitation before the door started to open.

He hit it with his shoulder low and his legs driving him into the room. The man who had hold of the knob was flung violently backward, and another man in shirtsleeves sitting at a card-littered table looked up with a grunt of surprise.

Shayne plowed to a stop in a low crouch with his gun covering both men. He straightened slowly and said, “Well, I’ll be damned,” when he recognized two members of the Miami detective force. “Playing games, huh? For chrissake, McNulty, is this all you and Peterson have got to do?”

The man who had stumbled to the floor was long and gangling, with a bushy black mustache adorning his horse-shaped face. He got to his feet with a look of injured dignity, and Peterson growled, “Is that the way you always come into a room?”

“It’s God’s mercy you haven’t got lead in your guts,” Shayne snorted, heeling the door shut. “What the devil…”

“Can we help it if the chief has a crazy idea the world would be better off with you alive?” McNulty complained from the table. He scratched a four-finger area of his bald head. His square face was wholly expressionless. “We didn’t pick the job.”

“’Tain’t my idea of a good time,” Peterson grumbled. He stalked to the table and sat down opposite his partner.

Shayne uncocked his gun and dropped it in his pocket. He muttered, “You’d think, by God, I was still in rompers.”

“What’s it all about, Mike?” McNulty rolled a frayed cheap cigar around in his mouth, squinting through the smoke. “You been playing around in the wrong bedroom?”

“Nothing like that,” Shayne said ironically. “Hadn’t you heard? I just inherited a million dollars and the bad old kidnappers are after me.”

“How’d you know we was here, anyhow?” Peterson demanded. “Gentry told us to keep out of sight or you might try to shake us.”

“Will Gentry is a damned fool,” Shayne muttered. “With you two birds hanging around my neck I’ll never get a nibble. How’s for beating it and leaving me to hatch my own eggs?”

“We can’t do it, Mike,” McNulty said, shaking his bald head sadly. “It’s back to the beat for us if we let you out of our sight. Gentry didn’t stutter when he handed us this job.”

“C’mon, Mike, and make it three-handed,” Peterson urged. “You’re stuck with us whether you like it or not.”

“No thanks. You two go ahead and cut each other’s throats. I’m going to get some sleep.”

He went out and closed the door, re-entered his apartment and slammed the door loudly. Striding to a wall mirror, he swung it out, took a bottle of cognac and a glass from the built-in liquor cabinet on the reverse side. He poured a drink and set the bottle back, wandered into the bathroom and flushed the toilet. He came back and finished his drink, puffed on a cigarette for a few minutes, then turned out the lights and went into the kitchen.