Slim grabbed the grouper from the ice box and began to clean it over the place on the wharf already soaked by Sylvester’s blood.
Still, why had they killed Sylvester? Mrs. Santos said Sylvester had been looking for Shayne last night. Had Sylvester known something at that time—something the others couldn’t risk having him tell? Or had Shayne’s presence on the boat yesterday alarmed them unduly? They might have reasoned that Sylvester had motivated it and that the little man knew something damaging to them which, actually, he didn’t. Then too, if they had been suspicious because of Shayne’s presence on the boat yesterday, their suspicions of Shayne, and Sylvester, must have zoomed into high when Ed met Shayne at the séance last night, assuming that Ed’s presence there was more than coincidental.
If they had felt themselves so imperiled that they had killed Sylvester, wouldn’t Shayne now be marked out for early slaughter?
The tailing cars, and the apparently innocuous séance last night, were taking on a more sinister character. Even Henlein’s murder, distant as it seemed from the three fishermen, might be interrelated some way. And Clarissa Milford. Where did she fit in this mélange of murder?
Shayne stopped the car, strode across the sidewalk and moved out of sight between two weather-beaten buildings, sagging in the sun. A narrow warehouse door opened in one of them and a short, unshaven man in shirtsleeves, chewing the stump of a cold cigar, stepped out.
“All right, Harley. Where is he?”
The man removed the cigar from his mouth, spat on the sandy ground, put the cigar back and motioned over one shoulder with his thumb. “Inside.”
As Shayne moved toward the door, Harley added, “Wait a minute, shamus. I never done this before. I got a favor to ask you.”
“What is it?”
“Just don’t tell him I was in on this, see? If it got around it could ruin me.”
“All right.” Shayne turned impatiently. “Your reputation, such as it is, is safe with me.”
“To tell the truth, I’ll be glad when he’s out. He’s losin’ his shirt.”
“I thought that was how you made your living.”
“Only when they pay,” Harley said sourly. He took the cigar stump out of his mouth and spat again. “This guy gives paper no bank knows.”
At a sign from Harley to a suspicious face that had been peering at them through a sliding panel, the door opened and Shayne stepped inside.
“I’m not coming with you,” Harley muttered. “You understand?”
“How’ll I know Milford?”
“Guy in the blue shirt. At the poker table.”
Shayne lounged across the room casually, stopping at the craps table, and stood listening to the jumbled groans, chuckles and exhortations as the dice rolled. It was a game of high stakes, as most of these continuous games were, and the tension of it showed in the lined faces, sweating brows and tired eyes of the gamblers. Only the stickmen seemed unperturbed.
After a moment, the redhead wandered on to the poker table, stopping behind the chair of the man in the blue shirt.
“Move, fella, will you?” Milford said petulantly. “You’ll jinx me.”
“You’re already jinxed.” Shayne eyed the small stack of white chips. “Get yourself dealt out. I want to talk to you.”
Milford turned to look squarely at Shayne. He was heavily built, with a sad, ruddy face and pale blue eyes, a big sheep-dog of a man, neither the prototype of a murderer, nor the great lover Clarissa had led Shayne to expect.
He shook his head almost helplessly and sighed. “Deal me out, Gus.”
Leaving the few white chips lying on the table, he pushed back his chair and stood up clumsily. He was over six feet tall, his eyes on a level with Shayne’s. Like a man sleep-walking, he moved to a worn mohair davenport flanked by standing ash trays and spittoons, sat down without speaking and buried his face in his hands, the picture of a man in utter dejection and total defeat.
After a moment he
Still, why had they killed Sylvester? Mrs. Santos said Sylvester had been looking for Shayne last night. Had Sylvester known something at that time—something the others couldn’t risk having him tell? Or had Shayne’s presence on the boat yesterday alarmed them unduly? They might have reasoned that Sylvester had motivated it and that the little man knew something damaging to them which, actually, he didn’t. Then too, if they had been suspicious because of Shayne’s presence on the boat yesterday, their suspicions of Shayne, and Sylvester, must have zoomed into high when Ed met Shayne at the séance last night, assuming that Ed’s presence there was more than coincidental.
If they had felt themselves so imperiled that they had killed Sylvester, wouldn’t Shayne now be marked out for early slaughter?
The tailing cars, and the apparently innocuous séance last night, were taking on a more sinister character. Even Henlein’s murder, distant as it seemed from the three fishermen, might be interrelated some way. And Clarissa Milford. Where did she fit in this mélange of murder?
Shayne stopped the car, strode across the sidewalk and moved out of sight between two weather-beaten buildings, sagging in the sun. A narrow warehouse door opened in one of them and a short, unshaven man in shirtsleeves, chewing the stump of a cold cigar, stepped out.
“All right, Harley. Where is he?”
The man removed the cigar from his mouth, spat on the sandy ground, put the cigar back and motioned over one shoulder with his thumb. “Inside.”
As Shayne moved toward the door, Harley added, “Wait a minute, shamus. I never done this before. I got a favor to ask you.”
“What is it?”
“Just don’t tell him I was in on this, see? If it got around it could ruin me.”
“All right.” Shayne turned impatiently. “Your reputation, such as it is, is safe with me.”
“To tell the truth, I’ll be glad when he’s out. He’s losin’ his shirt.”
“I thought that was how you made your living.”
“Only when they pay,” Harley said sourly. He took the cigar stump out of his mouth and spat again. “This guy gives paper no bank knows.”
At a sign from Harley to a suspicious face that had been peering at them through a sliding panel, the door opened and Shayne stepped inside.
“I’m not coming with you,” Harley muttered. “You understand?”
“How’ll I know Milford?”
“Guy in the blue shirt. At the poker table.”
Shayne lounged across the room casually, stopping at the craps table, and stood listening to the jumbled groans, chuckles and exhortations as the dice rolled. It was a game of high stakes, as most of these continuous games were, and the tension of it showed in the lined faces, sweating brows and tired eyes of the gamblers. Only the stickmen seemed unperturbed.
After a moment, the redhead wandered on to the poker table, stopping behind the chair of the man in the blue shirt.
“Move, fella, will you?” Milford said petulantly. “You’ll jinx me.”
“You’re already jinxed.” Shayne eyed the small stack of white chips. “Get yourself dealt out. I want to talk to you.”
Milford turned to look squarely at Shayne. He was heavily built, with a sad, ruddy face and pale blue eyes, a big sheep-dog of a man, neither the prototype of a murderer, nor the great lover Clarissa had led Shayne to expect.
He shook his head almost helplessly and sighed. “Deal me out, Gus.”
Leaving the few white chips lying on the table, he pushed back his chair and stood up clumsily. He was over six feet tall, his eyes on a level with Shayne’s. Like a man sleep-walking, he moved to a worn mohair davenport flanked by standing ash trays and spittoons, sat down without speaking and buried his face in his hands, the picture of a man in utter dejection and total defeat.
After a moment he
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