Brett Halliday: Michael Shayne's Long Chance

She said scathingly, “After a month in the Quarter?”

Shayne took a final drag on his cigarette and ground it out with the toe of his shoe.

“You changed the subject very cleverly,” she charged. “We were talking about you and why you are here.”

“I’m a detective,” he said gravely.

“Really?” She laughed scornfully. “As though you’d say so if you were.”

“Yeh,” he agreed lamely, “I guess that doesn’t go over so well.” He turned to face her squarely. “Suppose I give you an opportunity to find out more about me. You might show me some of the high spots around the city. I’ll foot the bills and you can play your little guessing game. How about starting tonight?”

“Oh, I’d love it,” she breathed, “but—” She sighed and a shadow crossed her face. “I have an engagement tonight. Tomorrow night, maybe. I should be getting dressed right now.”

“Enter the boy friend,” Shayne growled.

“No — nothing like that.”

“Then break the date.”

“I’m having a couple of girls in to dinner. They won’t stay late. If you’re still footloose after ten-thirty or eleven—”

Shayne said, “I’ll be around.”

“Grand,” she cried, “I’ll get rid of them early.”

Shayne was leaning negligently against the railing. Margo laid the cognac bottle gently in the chair, whirled around suddenly and extended her arms across the short distance separating them. She caught Shayne’s angular face between her palms, bent her body tensely forward and pressed her soft, full mouth against his. Then she danced away from him, picking up the cognac bottle and calling gaily from the doorway, “That was to seal our date for tonight — so you wouldn’t let yourself be picked up by some hussy.”

“I won’t,” he said huskily. He turned away from the gathering shadows of twilight and went into his room and turned on the lights.

His eyes held a bleak look of anger as they ranged over to the photograph on the dresser. He shrugged and muttered to himself, “You’re a hell of a detective, Mike Shayne, letting that girl get under your skin.”

He stripped off his shirt and bathed his face, put on a clean shirt and knotted a tie in the soft collar, got his hat and went out.

Downstairs, he gave the girl at the switchboard the number of Mr. Little’s Miami hotel and asked her to get Joseph P. Little as soon as possible. “I’ll take the call in one of the booths,” he told her.

“The center booth,” the operator directed.

Shayne waited near the booth. When the phone rang he went in and closed the door, lifted the receiver and heard the operator say, “Your call to Mr. Little in Miami is ready, Mr. Shayne.”

“Shayne! You are prompt. I’ve been sitting by my phone hoping you would call.”

“I’m at the Hyers Hotel in the French Quarter,” Shayne told him. “I’ve just talked to her and she’s all right.”

“Are you sure, Mr. Shayne?”

“As sure as a man can be after talking to a girl for thirty or forty minutes. She’s off the junk. You can quit worrying about that angle.”

“Off the — junk?”

“Dope — drugs — morphine, whatever she has been taking.”

“Don’t be too sure. She’s clever about concealing things. If the urge overcomes her again—”

“I’ll check every angle. I’m going out now to dig up what I can on the traffic here in the Quarter.”

“I wish you wouldn’t leave her alone, Shayne.”

“She’s all right,” Shayne growled. “I’ve got a room where I can keep tabs on her — directly opposite her apartment.”

“That’s fine. I feel so much better with you on the job, Mr. Shayne.”

“Stop worrying and leave it to me, then. She’s having a couple of girls in to dinner, and I’m going to see her later tonight.”

“That’s good news. I’m leaving for New York at once. I have just a few minutes to catch my train. My sister — you remember I told you — passed away this afternoon.”

Shayne said, “I’ll call you in New York if anything comes up,” and hung up.

At police headquarters Shayne inquired as to the location of Chief McCracken’s office and was directed to an office near the end of a long corridor. The door was slightly ajar, and Shayne knuckled the glass as he pushed it open.

Chief McCracken lifted a face which was smooth and round all the way to the crown of his head where a few wisps of yellowish hair were plastered down. His bald head and colorless brows and lashes gave him a naked look. There were folds of flesh beneath his chin, but he didn’t look soft. He stopped the gurgling of a short-stemmed brier and looked at Shayne without curiosity. He said, “Yes?”

Shayne lounged forward and pushed some papers from a corner of the desk, lowered one hip to the cleared spot, and pulled off his hat. He said, “It’s been nine years, Chief.”

Chief McCracken leaned back in his swivel chair and studied Shayne calmly with cold blue eyes. Then a smile twitched the corners of his mouth. He leaned forward and held out a squarish hand. “By God, you’re Mike Shayne,” he rumbled.

Shayne took his hand in a hearty grip, looked at the stubby brier, and said in a wondering tone, “Nine years and the same goddamned pipe.”

The chief laughed. He pressed a callused forefinger in the bowl and put the stem between his lips, leaned back and clasped his hands over his thick stomach. After the second gurgle, he said, “We’ve been wondering about you, Mike. Heard a lot about your activities in Miami. So they finally ran you out?”

Shayne grinned and lit a cigarette. “I’m in town on business. You’ve done right well, John. I didn’t know an honest cop could get ahead in this town.”

McCracken chuckled. “They haven’t got onto me yet. Don’t tell anybody I’m honest. Going to be around long?”

“I don’t know yet. I closed up shop when I left Miami. I may light here in New Orleans for a while.”

“That’s fine,” said the chief warmly. “Things are just about the same. Come out to the house tonight for dinner.”

“Not tonight, thanks. I’m going to be busy. Thought maybe you could help me out a little, John.”

“Sure. Anything, Mike.”

“If a stranger in the Quarter wanted to pick up a few bindles, who would he see?” Shayne asked.

“You mean—?”

“I mean, who’s running the dope racket in the Quarter?”

“That’s a hell of a question to ask me.”

“Who else would I ask?”

“Unofficially?”

“Sure. Unofficially.”

The chief studied Shayne for a long moment. There was shrewd sympathy and cold-blooded appraisal in his blue eyes. He said, “You’re not experimenting, are you, Mike?”

Shayne laughed and let smoke filter through his nostrils. “Not yet. Take it this way. A gal who has been on the stuff and is trying to stay off hits town cold and holes up in the Quarter. There might be a bastard who wants her back on. He’d be lined in with whatever local lads are supplying the demand right now. I want to cut corners and get to him — if he’s in town.”

Chief McCracken nodded. He knocked a cold heel from his pipe into a wastebasket and refilled the bowl from a can of cheap tobacco. “You wouldn’t know Soule,” he mused. “No — he was after your time. He started peddling it in back alleys and has been working up. We’ve dragged him in plenty, but never got a conviction. I’d say Soule.” He was thoughtful, then suddenly brightened. “Why don’t you have a talk with Denton? That’s his precinct.”

“Denton?” Shayne’s nostrils flared as though the name stunk as it came from his lips.

“Captain Denton.” McCracken stressed the title. “You remember Dolph Denton.”