Brett Halliday - This Is It, Michael Shayne

Cautiously opening the first door he came to, he went into a service entrance and on through to a storeroom with a door on either side. On the left he heard kitchen sounds, and after hesitating briefly he quietly opened the door on the right. It opened onto a narrow hallway with steps leading to the second floor. He climbed the steps to a small landing and stood for a moment before a closed door before trying the knob. The door was heavy and solidly locked. He located an electric button and pressed steadily for a time, relaxed against the jamb, and waited.

A key turned in the lock and the door opened a few inches. The ceiling fixture outlined a bulky figure wearing a dinner jacket, and a broad, unintelligent face was stuck through the narrow opening.

“Leo in?” Shayne asked.

“Who wants to know?”

Shayne’s shoulder hit the door with the weight of his body behind it. The man reeled backward, off balance, and Shayne stepped through into a corridor, saying, “I want to know, punk. The name is Shayne and I’m in a hurry.”

He stopped at the first door on his left and opened it. Leo Gannet sat behind a desk in the center of the room talking to a tall, white-haired man who stood across from him.

Gannet was a short, thin man with an enormous head shaped like a pumpkin and a long, scrawny neck on the stem-end. His thick black hair was parted in the middle and smoothed down on the flat top. His forehead bulged above thick black brows and his full, well-shaped lips moved slowly as he spoke in soft tones. His eyes were large and dark and softly shining. From his expression, he might have been urging the man to give up his life of sin and hit the sawdust trail.

Gannet glanced idly at Shayne, then turned away as the dinner-jacketed man pushed in and grated, “This guy crashed in the back way, Leo. Do you want I should-”

Gannet said quietly, “It’s all right, Mart. Get back where you belong.” He ignored Shayne and turned back to the white-haired man.

“Take his marker up to one grand, but if he tries to go past that, send him in to me.”

The man nodded and started out. Shayne put out a long arm to block his exit and said, “I’m looking for Miss Sara Morton. Has she been around tonight?”

The man paused and turned to glance at Gannet.

“She hasn’t been in tonight and she won’t be in,” said Gannet. “Get back to your tables, Breen.”

Shayne let the man go and walked over to the desk to face the gambler, who asked, “What do you want, Shayne?”

“Miss Morton.” Shayne grinned down into the softly solemn eyes, stepped aside and hooked the toe of his shoe around a chair leg, dragged it across the rich, red carpet, and sat down.

“She’s not here tonight,” the gambler told him in a tone that could have been mistaken for deep regret.

“I didn’t think she was,” Shayne admitted, “when I saw you were running again. How do you know she won’t be in?”

“Because she won’t be able to get past the front door in the future.” Leo Gannet sighed and leaned back in his swivel chair. “Women reformers,” he murmured. “What’s she to you, Shayne?”

“Somebody’s trying to run her out of town.”

“Give her some advice from me. Tell her she’ll run like hell if she’s smart.”

“And if she isn’t smart?” Shayne lit a cigarette and narrowed his eyes at Gannet through a cloud of smoke blown in his direction.

“I know for a fact,” said the gambler dispassionately, “that if she keeps on poking her nose into things that don’t concern her she has a fair chance of never leaving town.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Advice.”

“Do any of your boys spend their spare time cutting out paper dolls?” Shayne asked blandly.

“I wouldn’t be surprised. Some of the punks you get nowadays-” He slowly straightened in his chair and rested his elbows on the desk. “What’s that crack got to do with anything?”

“It just occurred to me, when I saw Mart-”

The door was suddenly and violently flung open and Miss Lally stumbled in, then fell sprawling on the rug from the force of a shove. Her glasses fell off, and she slowly rose to her knees sobbing angrily while a heavy man with colorless, pig-like eyes explained:

“Here’s one of that Morton dame’s stooges, Chief. You told us-”

Shayne was on his feet, but stayed where he was when he saw the gun in Leo Gannet’s hand, knowing that the soft glow in his eyes and the gentle smile on his lips were more dangerous than the stupid leer and twisted mouth of the punk who had shoved the girl into the room.

“Take it easy, Shayne, while we talk this thing over,” said Gannet quietly.

Shayne remained standing and kept a wary eye on the gun. “You aren’t playing this very smart, Gannet.”

“I’m playing it my way,” he said, regret in his tone as he leaned forward with the gun pointed at Shayne’s midriff.

Miss Lally stopped sobbing and wiped her eyes. With the light coat clutched in her arm, she retrieved her glasses, smoothed her disheveled hair with her fingers, and attained a measure of prim dignity the instant she slid the glasses in place, in spite of her crouched, undignified position.

The man who had shoved her into the room looked even less intelligent than Mart. He was beginning to recover from his surprise at seeing Shayne, and muttered hoarsely:

“I didn’ know you had comp’ny, Chief. You told me if the Morton dame stuck her nose in we was to give her the works.”

“It’s okay, Henry,” Gannet assured him, “if you’re right about Miss Morton sending this woman here.” He kept his eyes on the redhead as he spoke, then asked, “Is he right, Shayne?”

“I sent Miss Lally in here to look around,” he answered.

Miss Lally started to rise from her knees and Shayne went over, took her hand, and pulled her to her feet

Henry started toward him with a muttered oath. Shayne stepped swiftly in front of her to face Henry, balanced lightly on the balls of his feet, his upper lip curled back and baring his teeth. His right hand was balled into a big fist against his thigh. “Try shoving somebody nearer your size this time,” he said happily.

Henry stopped, glanced at Gannet for a signal, and the gambler said, “Close the door first, and take him if he wants it that way,” with a gentle sigh of resignation.

Henry turned to close the door. As he swung back Shayne saw the glitter of brass knuckles from his right hand and stepping in fast, hit him hard on the jaw before he completed the turn.

He heard a cry of warning or of terror from Beatrice Lally. His first surprise blow sent Henry reeling and, enraged by the knuckles, he drove three more jolting blows against the man’s chin. Henry slumped against the closed door, and as he slowly sagged to the floor Shayne delivered a left, a right, and another left, and was only vaguely aware of the smothered oaths and sounds of a struggle behind him. Henry’s knees gave way and he slid to the floor, a grotesque figure with his heavy shoulders supported by the door and his head hanging limply forward.

Shayne whirled around with both hands clenched, stopped and stared in disbelief, then his mouth twitched into an appreciative grin at Beatrice Lally standing behind Gannet’s swivel chair. Her coat covered Gannet’s face and neck, drawn tight by the sleeves which she was inexorably twisting and tightening while the gambler groaned and gasped for air.

Two swift, long-legged strides carried Shayne to the desk, where he twitched the wildly waving automatic from Gannet’s hand. “Better let him come up for air now, Miss Lally,” he said, forcing the grin from his face as she released the sleeves and stepped back.