hurt.”
“Now look here, Shayne—” Painter half rose, but Shayne was out of sight down the hall.
The redhead stopped at a bar down the street, picked up a double Hennessy and carried it with him to a phone booth. He wanted to see Madame Swoboda again and to talk with Percy and Mabel Thain, but most important of all he wanted to find Clarissa’s husband, Dan Milford. Two men had been murdered since yesterday, and Dan Milford was still missing. Perhaps, as his wife feared, he had been murdered too, but if he was still alive…
He downed the cognac, drew a well-worn address book from his pocket and thumbed through it.
He dialed a number. When the connection was made, he said, “This is Mike Shayne, Bobo. How’s the world treating you?”
“It ain’t.” The voice came sourly. “I’m treating it.”
“You got any games going?”
“Naw. Annual clean-up week. The cops closed us.”
“Tight?”
“Tight.”
“Anybody they haven’t got to yet?”
“You might try Harley. His friend on the force works harder for him than mine does.”
“Craps or poker?”
“Both, if he’s running.”
“Thanks. What’s his number now?”
“Hang on… Beach 7-9811…”
“Thanks, Bobo.” Shayne forked the receiver, un-forked it and dialed again. When the line was open he could hear a mumble of male voices and an echoing rattle before a nasal “Hello” came over.
“This is Shayne, Harley. I hear you’ve got a game running.”
“Yeah? You keep your ears flapped out, you hear plenty. Who told you?”
“Bobo.”
“So?”
“I’m looking for someone, Harley. Dan Milford. Is he there?”
“How would I know? They’re all Joe Doakses to me, you know what I mean? That’s what they write on their phony checks.”
“Don’t give me that, Harley. You know all of them. You have to, to stay in business. Is Dan Milford there?”
“Look, Shayne, I wouldn’t stay in business ten minutes if I handed out names to every cop, wife or private eye who asked me. You know that.”
“All I know,” Shayne said angrily, “is I’m coming over there and if Dan Milford isn’t there because you tipped him that I’m coming, the annual cleanup week will hit you and your police department contact so hard you’ll both be out of business—for good!”
“Now wait a minute, shamus. How you going to know if Dan Milford was here or wasn’t here if he’s gone?”
“I won’t. I’ll just assume he was and you tipped him. So if he isn’t there, go get him. He’s in one or another of the floating games, if there’s any more left besides yours. I’ll be over in fifteen minutes.”
Shayne slammed down the receiver, strode out and got in his car and started moving. Harley’s place was in an old warehouse on Southwest Fourth Avenue. As the redhead turned south toward the river his thoughts seethed. The gray Buick and the green sedan were still with him. Assume for the moment that Peter Painter had not put a police tail on him. The loan-shark boss, De Luca, had ways of keeping in touch with that part of the Miami world which could affect him. If De Luca knew that Henny Henlein had come to Shayne’s office yesterday, De Luca would be worried today. So one of these tails could be his. And if the other had been hired by the three vacationists on Sylvester’s boat, it would seem to indicate either that the hoodlum’s murder and the murder of Sylvester were unconnected, or that one half of the vengeful group did not know what the other half was doing.
While this speculation was a subterfuge to keep from thinking about Sylvester, agonized thoughts of the little man kept breaking through. He must have been knifed only minutes before Shayne had arrived at the dock. Slim, and any of the others who might have been with him, could have sighted Shayne maneuvering for a parking space in the lot at the head of the slip. They’d have had time to drop Sylvester’s body over the side with the anchor weight, then leave while
“Now look here, Shayne—” Painter half rose, but Shayne was out of sight down the hall.
The redhead stopped at a bar down the street, picked up a double Hennessy and carried it with him to a phone booth. He wanted to see Madame Swoboda again and to talk with Percy and Mabel Thain, but most important of all he wanted to find Clarissa’s husband, Dan Milford. Two men had been murdered since yesterday, and Dan Milford was still missing. Perhaps, as his wife feared, he had been murdered too, but if he was still alive…
He downed the cognac, drew a well-worn address book from his pocket and thumbed through it.
He dialed a number. When the connection was made, he said, “This is Mike Shayne, Bobo. How’s the world treating you?”
“It ain’t.” The voice came sourly. “I’m treating it.”
“You got any games going?”
“Naw. Annual clean-up week. The cops closed us.”
“Tight?”
“Tight.”
“Anybody they haven’t got to yet?”
“You might try Harley. His friend on the force works harder for him than mine does.”
“Craps or poker?”
“Both, if he’s running.”
“Thanks. What’s his number now?”
“Hang on… Beach 7-9811…”
“Thanks, Bobo.” Shayne forked the receiver, un-forked it and dialed again. When the line was open he could hear a mumble of male voices and an echoing rattle before a nasal “Hello” came over.
“This is Shayne, Harley. I hear you’ve got a game running.”
“Yeah? You keep your ears flapped out, you hear plenty. Who told you?”
“Bobo.”
“So?”
“I’m looking for someone, Harley. Dan Milford. Is he there?”
“How would I know? They’re all Joe Doakses to me, you know what I mean? That’s what they write on their phony checks.”
“Don’t give me that, Harley. You know all of them. You have to, to stay in business. Is Dan Milford there?”
“Look, Shayne, I wouldn’t stay in business ten minutes if I handed out names to every cop, wife or private eye who asked me. You know that.”
“All I know,” Shayne said angrily, “is I’m coming over there and if Dan Milford isn’t there because you tipped him that I’m coming, the annual cleanup week will hit you and your police department contact so hard you’ll both be out of business—for good!”
“Now wait a minute, shamus. How you going to know if Dan Milford was here or wasn’t here if he’s gone?”
“I won’t. I’ll just assume he was and you tipped him. So if he isn’t there, go get him. He’s in one or another of the floating games, if there’s any more left besides yours. I’ll be over in fifteen minutes.”
Shayne slammed down the receiver, strode out and got in his car and started moving. Harley’s place was in an old warehouse on Southwest Fourth Avenue. As the redhead turned south toward the river his thoughts seethed. The gray Buick and the green sedan were still with him. Assume for the moment that Peter Painter had not put a police tail on him. The loan-shark boss, De Luca, had ways of keeping in touch with that part of the Miami world which could affect him. If De Luca knew that Henny Henlein had come to Shayne’s office yesterday, De Luca would be worried today. So one of these tails could be his. And if the other had been hired by the three vacationists on Sylvester’s boat, it would seem to indicate either that the hoodlum’s murder and the murder of Sylvester were unconnected, or that one half of the vengeful group did not know what the other half was doing.
While this speculation was a subterfuge to keep from thinking about Sylvester, agonized thoughts of the little man kept breaking through. He must have been knifed only minutes before Shayne had arrived at the dock. Slim, and any of the others who might have been with him, could have sighted Shayne maneuvering for a parking space in the lot at the head of the slip. They’d have had time to drop Sylvester’s body over the side with the anchor weight, then leave while
Similar Books
