Bodies Are Where You Find Them (13 page)

“Somebody around here ought to have his address.”

“Mebbe they have, but you ain’t gettin’ it. You ain’t gettin’ in to talk to none of ’em, see?”

Shayne’s eyes glowed hotly. He licked his lips and laughed, dropping his left shoulder and sliding his left foot forward.

Donk’s piggish eyes were fixed on the right fist bulging his coat pocket. When Shayne withdrew it, Donk let out a hearty snort of relief. “So you’re gonna spar with me, huh? Thought mebbe you had a gun. Seein’ as you ain’t—” His left lashed out swiftly at Shayne’s chin.

The detective swayed back, and the left missed. Shayne twisted forward, drove his weighted fist twelve inches forward into the big man’s belly. It sank deep into the flesh. Donk shuddered and hunched forward, dropping his guard.

Shayne set himself and lifted a battering uppercut to the unprotected chin of his opponent. Reinforced by the leaden weight, the blow had bone-shattering force.

Donk stood partially erect, and a glazed look of incomprehension spread over his small eyes. He collapsed and groveled on the walk, moaning with the pain of a broken jaw.

Shayne stepped over his barrel-like torso and dropped the lead weight into his pocket.

A scrubwoman was working on the floor of the cocktail room. Shayne went past her to Bugler’s private office in the rear. The chinless man who had trailed him from his apartment was sitting on Bugler’s desk munching a mouthful of peanuts. A sharp-featured young man sat behind the desk checking figures in a heavy ledger.

Shayne stopped in the doorway and said, “Hello, Johnny.”

The chinless man stared at him in complete surprise as his jaws worked mechanically on the peanuts. “Say—how’d you get in? Didn’t Donk—”

“I paid Donk back like I promised,” Shayne said softly. “You’re next, Johnny.”

Johnny slid off the desk and backed away, tugging at the blackjack in his hip pocket. Shayne rushed him before he got it free, drove him to the floor with a left over the heart and a right to the mouth.

He whirled on the bookkeeper and said, “Better not, youngster.”

The youth gaped at him, his hand reaching into an open drawer. A pistol lay on top of some papers inside.

“I’ll take the gun before you hurt yourself,” Shayne said. He reached out a long arm for the weapon, pocketed it, and lowered himself to the desk. “All I want is the home address of Baldy, one of the bartenders here.”

“B-Baldy? Y-You mean Dave Preston?”

“If he’s the bald-headed one, yeh.”

“I-I’ve got it right here.” The frightened bookkeeper nervously scrambled through the drawer for a memorandum book.

“Write it down for me on a slip of paper,” Shayne directed. He lit a cigarette and smoked lazily while the man wrote. He pocketed the slip of paper, lifted himself from the shining mahogany desk, and said, “If this isn’t right, you’re going to wish to God it had been.”

Glancing at Johnny, who lay very still on the floor, Shayne started for the door. Turning abruptly, he went back. “There’s something else. Where does Arch keep his markers?”

“Markers? I don’t know what—”

“IOU’s,” Shayne interpreted irritably. “His record of gambling-debts of birds who couldn’t pay off.”

“Gambling? I don’t know anything about that. You’ll have to ask Mr. Bugler.”

Shayne reached out and circled the young man’s neck with his big fingers. He was breathing hard, and his hands tightened relentlessly about the bony neck. “I haven’t any time for the run-around. Start remembering—quick.”

The clerk writhed in Shayne’s grasp, choking and sputtering incoherently.

Relaxing the pressure on his windpipe, Shayne asked savagely, “Did that stir up your memory?”

“Y-Yes. I g-guess I k-know what you mean. Those old accounts. They’re locked in the safe. I h-haven’t a key.” The trembling sincerity of his voice was genuine.

Shayne took his hands from the man’s throat and stepped back. “All right, but you’ve seen them. How much has Stallings got on the cuff with Bugler?”

“St-Stallings?”

“Burt Stallings,” Shayne growled. “He did some heavy plunging when Arch had his games running in the back. How deep is he in?”

“I don’t know—exactly, that is. Ten or fifteen thousand maybe, roughly.”

“Roughly is good enough,” Shayne said on his way out.

Donk was sitting up moaning, one hand pressed against his broken jaw, the other against his stomach. The detective laughed and said, “It’ll heal in a few weeks, maybe,” and went through the bronze gates to his car.

Dave Preston’s address was one side of a small double house on an inconspicuous side street. A baby came toddling to meet Shayne when he rattled the knob and pushed the door open. An anemic woman followed the baby into the hall and caught the child up into her arms. She pushed stringy hair back from her face and demanded, “What is it?”

“I’m looking for Dave Preston.”

“He’s asleep. You’d better—”

“This is police business,” Shayne said.

Panic showed in the woman’s eyes. She compressed her lips and said, “He’s in the back bedroom. This way.”

Shayne followed her through a littered living-room to a bedroom darkened by drawn shades. The man on the bed was snoring. Before closing the door Shayne said gently, “There’s nothing for you to worry about. Your husband isn’t in any trouble—yet.” He closed the door, shutting her out.

Going to the windows, he jerked the shades up. The sleeping man rolled over and stopped snoring when sunlight flooded the room. He raised himself on one elbow and blinked at the tall redheaded figure.

Shayne sat down on the foot of the bed. “Remember me?”

“Yeah. What d’yuh want here? You’re the bird that was mussed up last night—claimed it was an accident. I heard later Donk had bounced one off you.”

“That’s right. I asked you about a girl who had been in for a drink at noon or a little after. The one you doped. Your memory had better be in better working order this morning than it was last night.”

“Look here, I don’t know nothing.”

Shayne balanced the pistol he had taken from the young bookkeeper carelessly on his knee. His gray eyes were cold and remorseless. “If you figure you’re any good alive to the lady and that cute kid outside you’d better start knowing something. You’ve found out who I am by this time. You know I don’t talk just to hear myself spout off. This game of marbles is for keeps, buddy.”

“Don’t point that at me.” The bartender’s face went ashen. “I know you’re Mike Shayne. I’ll tell you anything.”

“Start talking, then. About the girl you fed a Mickey Finn. Know who she was?”

“Sure. It was the Stallings girl. I’d seen her around lots.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere. Who told you to give her a knockout slug?”

“Nobody. I—didn’t know what to do with her. She’d drunk a lot of cocktails and then started raving out loud about her stepfather and Arch. There were a lot of other people there and I didn’t know what she might say next.”

“Was she alone?”

“Yes. I didn’t see anybody with her. She came in asking for Arch about two-thirty.”

“And he wasn’t there?”

“No. I told her he wouldn’t be in till evening but she said she’d wait. She acted funny, and after she had a few drinks she got loud and started cursing like a trooper.”

“She made a phone call, didn’t she?”

“Yeah. After she was pretty drunk. Must have been around five.”

“Who did she call?”

“I don’t know. I swear I don’t. She went in a booth. But when she came out she asked me how to get to a—a hotel in Miami.”

“What hotel?” Shayne’s voice was like the lash of a whip.

Preston told him, adding nervously, “I knew that was where you hung out. I didn’t know what she might do. I mixed her one last drink before she left—and fixed it.”

“But not strong enough,” Shayne commented dryly. “You need a supply of special drops for these tough debutante guzzlers. All right. I want it straight. Who’d you call when she left?”

“I telephoned Mr. Stallings. I thought he ought to know. I—I told him she had started for your place but I didn’t think she’d make it.”

“Is that all you know about it?”

“That’s all. I swear to God it is. I told Arch as soon as he came in—about six-thirty. I thought he might be sore because he’s been carrying the torch for her. He wasn’t, though. He said I done just right.”

Shayne slid the gun back into his pocket. Lounging to his feet, he crossed to the windows and draw the shades down again. “Go ahead with your beauty sleep. I may want you to repeat this before witnesses later. Don’t forget any of it.”

Outside the darkened room he nodded reassuringly to Mrs. Preston who was loitering in the hall with the gurgling toddler in her arms. “It’s okay, Mrs. Preston. Your husband isn’t in any trouble. But I advise you to have him lay off work a day or so and stay close to home. He’ll be safer here than at the Bugle Inn.”

Back in his rented car again, Shayne hesitated for a few minutes, then made up his mind and drove to the south end of the Beach, the Coney Island of the resort city; a section of bathhouses and hamburger joints, shooting galleries and other carnival concessions.

He went into a beer parlor and arched his brows at the bartender, got a nod that sent him to a back room where he knocked twice before going in. The room was large and airy with rows of empty cane-bottom chairs lined up facing a huge blackboard on the rear wall. The board was divided into sections, and each bore the name of a well-known race track operating in the United States. There was a large desk in one corner of the room with half a dozen telephones lined up in front of six chairs. A man was seated at the desk talking into one of the phones. He jerked a rosy head at Shayne and kept on talking with his lips close to the mouthpiece.

Shayne pulled one of the chairs away from the desk and tilted it back against the wall, sat down and lit a cigarette.

Joe finished his conversation and hung up. He mopped his face with a silk handkerchief and complained, “This business will be the death of me, Mike. Nothing but crooks and two-bit punks yapping when their ten-to-one shots don’t come home. It makes a man want to puke.”

Shayne said, “Yeh? Well, I’ve got another worry for you. I won’t have a chance to get to the bank and pick up the two grand I laid on Marsh last night. I guess you’ll have to carry me for it.”

Joe Parkis had broad, flat features with a bilious tinge. He squirmed uneasily in his chair, looking away from the redheaded detective. “Can’t get to the bank, huh? It’ll be open pretty quick now.”

“Yeh, but I’m going to be pretty busy. Expect to be tied up most of the day. I just wanted to tell you I didn’t think I could make it.”

Joe glanced at him sharply and then away again. It seemed to Shayne there was a look of relief on his face. “You know I got to run my business on cash, Mike. I’d go broke in a week if I started taking markers from every sport that wanted to lay a bet. I got a strict rule—”

“I’m not ‘every sport,’ God damn it,” Shayne interrupted harshly. “You know I’m good for two lousy grand.”

“It ain’t that, Mike,” Joe held up a placating hand. Sweat was forming on his forehead and trickling down his flat features. “Sure you’re good for it. I’m not saying you wouldn’t pay off cash on the barrelhead if Stallings wins. But if I take a marker from you and somebody else finds it out, then they think I ought to take theirs. See what I mean? Once you get started it’s hell to stop. I run on a strictly cash basis,” the bookmaker reiterated doggedly.

Shayne’s eyes narrowed unpleasantly. “All right, Joe. I’ve got ways of making things tough on you, too.”

Joe Parkis mopped his face and begged, “Don’t get sore, Mike. Hell, if you want to borrow a couple of grand—” He made a gesture of generosity.

Shayne said, “I don’t want to borrow two grand. I only want to lay it on Jim Marsh. Make it easy on yourself.” He tilted the chair forward and got up.

“Wait, Mike. For God’s sake, wait a minute. I’m trying to give you a tip-off, see? You’ve always leveled with me. I’d be a hell of a friend if I let you walk into something. I’m telling you to lay off the election.”

Shayne hesitated, dropped back into the chair. “What’s on your mind?”

“Take my word for it,” Parkis pleaded. “I see all sorts of funny things in my business. I got things I can’t talk about just like you got things on your clients you keep under your hat. But I’m telling you to lay off. I don’t want to see you drop two grand. You’d be sore if you found out afterward I knew the fix was on and didn’t tip you.”

Shayne lit another cigarette. His nostrils flared, and smoke dribbled out. Suddenly he looked happy. “So the fix is on? I get it, Joe. Maybe I can change that. I’m still willing to bet two grand I can.”

“Money on the nose ain’t no better than counterfeit if your nag don’t break away from the post,” Joe Parkis warned him sententiously.

Shayne nodded cheerfully. “I see what you’re driving at. But I’m on the inside, too, Joe. Don’t believe everything you hear. Thanks for tipping me, but my bet stands.”

“Don’t be a schlemiel,” Joe groaned. “You been around enough to know that when the owner lays heavy sugar on another horse he’s pretty sure his ain’t going to run.”

“So,” said Shayne thoughtfully, “it’s that way?”

Parkis wriggled in his chair and mopped his face. “All right, so you’ve got the picture. Now will you lay off?”

“How much has Marsh bet against himself?”

“Plenty. That’s what knocked the odds down yesterday. Damn it, Mike, I ain’t got no right to spill this.”

“It won’t go any farther.” Shayne leaned forward, his eyes boring into Joe’s. “That funny stuff last night—about no bets being off if Marsh withdrew—that was his idea, too? Eh?”

“That’s right. His jack has to be covered that way. And that gives him a cinch, Mike. I don’t like that kind of business, but hell, the suckers’ll get took anyway. Only I hate to see you ride with the suckers.”

“I never have,” Shayne said harshly. “I’ll change my bet, Joe. Make it five grand.”

“I hope you know what you’re doing.” Joe looked completely unhappy. “But I’m telling you flat Marsh stands to lose fifty thousand by winning the election. No man’s going to cut his own throat. All he has to do is withdraw.”