Brett Halliday - Counterfeit Wife

Irvin said, “We’ll check with Mr. Slocum in the morning.” To Shayne he added, “I’m sure you won’t object to being my guest until we can hear Slocum’s story.”

“Do you expect him to tell you the truth about paying a bribe with phony money?”

“I think Mr. Slocum will tell what we want to know. If you’ve told the truth you’ll be in the clear, Shayne. If not-”

Shayne took another drink of Scotch and dangled the bottle by the neck between his knobby knees. “I hope you’ve got a comfortable bed for me to sleep on.”

“Perry and Getchie will see to that.” He nodded to them and got to his feet. “For your sake I hope you’re telling the truth this time.” He turned and scuffed out of the room.

Shayne’s left shoulder was hurting badly, and a little blood still oozed from his cut lip. He said, “That davenport looks good to me.”

“Damned sight too good for you,” Perry snarled. “We’re going back down to the garage where there’s a nice little place all fixed up for you.”

The whisky bottle was a little more than half full. Shayne hefted the weight of it and figured his chances of slugging Perry with it before he could get going with his gun. Perry was ten feet away and the. 38 was lax in his fingers, but he didn’t look like a man who’d be easy to take. Ever since the ex-senator had spoken Shayne’s name, the man had shown his respect for the detective’s reputation by keeping a good distance between them. Getchie wasn’t any pushover either. It was a cinch he had a shiv where he could get at it fast, and a further cinch that he would enjoy using it if Shayne started anything.

All in all, Shayne decided it would be much more sensible to drink the whisky and play along for better odds. He put the bottle to his lips, and Perry said to the Negro, “Shove him along down the stairs, Getchie.”

Getchie took a step forward, put his hand between Shayne’s shoulder blades and shoved. Shayne reeled forward and didn’t look back. He was getting damned tired of being pushed around, but he didn’t say so.

They stopped at the bottom and waited for Perry to come down. Shayne was breathing hard and fighting back the anger that threatened to possess him. He had stayed alive a lot of years by holding his anger in check and waiting for at least a fifty-fifty chance before striking out. Such a chance generally came to a man if he waited long enough.

Perry reached the bottom of the stairs and circled around them on the greasy floor. “Bring him over here to the can. It’s quiet in there and the door’s a double thickness.”

“Ain’ no lock to it,” Getchie objected, pushing Shayne forward.

“We’ll fix that,” Perry assured him. He stood back ten feet from the door of the small square alcove built into a corner of the room.

There was a concrete wall jutting out from the corner and a heavy wooden door that opened outward. Getchie stopped beside the door and reached inside to switch on a ceiling light. There was a dirty lavatory and a dirtier toilet inside the four-by-six room.

Perry said, “Wait a minute,” as the Negro started to push Shayne inside. “Take off your clothes,” he told Shayne. “Every damned stitch down to the skin.”

Shayne turned his head to glare at him and asked thickly, “What’s the idea of that?”

“Just so you won’t pull any smart tricks,” Perry explained happily. “God knows what you could pull inside there with a car backed up against the door, but I’ve heard too much about you to take any chances. Maybe you got a gas bomb in your pocket or a saw blade sewed in your underwear.”

“You’ve been reading too many comics.”

Perry said, “Strip him, Getchie.”

The Negro was behind Shayne. Shayne felt smooth metal touch the base of his neck and glide downward along his spine. Coat, shirt, and undershirt divided as the razor moved, the back of it cold against his flesh, while Shayne shuddered with impotent rage. It sliced cleanly through his leather belt, and his trousers and shorts slid down around his ankles.

Perry grinned and Getchie chuckled softly behind Shayne. Shayne set his teeth together hard and shrugged out of the upper portion of his clothing. It was impossible to move with his pants hobbling him. He stooped and untied his shoelaces, kicked his shoes off and stepped clear of the encumbering clothing.

Getchie was still close behind him with his razor, and Perry’s gun was ready, his eyes tight and watchful.

Shayne picked up the bottle of Scotch just as Getchie shoved. He sprawled forward on hands and knees, lifting the precious bottle to keep it from breaking on the concrete.

Perry laughed loudly. The Negro went out and the wooden door slammed shut as Shayne lifted himself painfully erect. He carefully set the bottle on top of the porcelain water closet and looked at his reflection in the small mirror above the lavatory.

The terrifying face of a complete stranger looked back at him. His gray eyes were humid and contracted, his hair and eyebrows were matted with the blonde’s blood.

Splotches of crusted blood were still on his face and neck, and his haggard features were set in a mask of such uncontrollable fury that it startled him. His swollen lips were drawn back from set teeth, and every muscle in his face was tense and trembling.

He drew a shaky hand across his forehead and forced himself to speak aloud. “Take it easy, guy. What you need is a drink.”

He turned away from his reflection, tilted the bottle, and let the whisky flow down his throat. He didn’t taste it as it went down, but it started a fire burning in his stomach.

His long rangy body was trembling violently as he seated himself on the filthy toilet seat and hunched forward, his elbows resting on his bare thighs.

A car started in the garage. In a moment there was a dull thud as a bumper was jammed solidly against the door.

Shayne didn’t move. He stared dully at the concrete floor and tried to figure his way out of this one. He’d been in tough spots before, but he couldn’t remember a tougher one. All because he’d done a guy a favor. What the hell was it all about? What was the matter with those two bills the pasty-faced man had given him? Were they counterfeits? How did ex-Senator Irvin figure in it? And Bates at the Fun Club? And the big blonde and Fred Gurney?

He took another drink and reminded himself that such questioning was utterly useless at this stage of the game. His present and very real problem was to get out and look for some answers. He wished now that he’d paid more attention to the comics-to Dick Tracy and Superman. They always had ways of getting out of fixes like this one.

He took another drink and looked around sourly. The walls, floor, and the low ceiling were of concrete. The only ventilation came from two openings about four inches square in opposite corners of the wall just below the ceiling. The door was a homemade affair, a double thickness of tongue-and-groove boarding reinforced with two-by-fours. He reached out and pushed on it. The door was solidly blocked.

His bleak eyes looked up at the ventilation squares near the ceiling. One of them was directly above the lavatory. He could hoist himself up on the lavatory and yell through the opening, but probably his voice would only be heard by Irvin and his gunmen in the apartment above.

He inspected the contents of the whisky bottle. It was still a quarter full. He drank two gulps and began considering ex-Senator Irvin.

It had been more than five years since Shayne had helped gather evidence on the sale of pardons to inmates of the state penitentiary. The investigation had developed into a nationwide scandal with Irvin in the middle of it at a time when he was supposedly serving the people of the state in an honorable capacity. There had been enough direct evidence to force his removal from office, but there had been a cover-up by other state officials and the trial had fizzled out without a conviction.