Heads You Lose by Brett Halliday Page B

to limber his lip. He said, “I’m taking along a pocketful of matches.”
    “Got anything to do with the Wilson case… or the racketeers?” Gentry asked suspiciously.
    “Maybe.” He looked at his watch. “I got to be going now. See you later, Will.”
    “See here, Mike,” Gentry called, but Shayne waved his hand and stalked to his car.
    He drove out to Coral Gables and located the Carlton house in an exclusive residential district near the Biltmore Hotel. It was a large, two-story, Spanish-style stucco house with balconies and exterior stairways. He parked behind a police car in front and went up a flagged walk to ring the bell.
    A maid opened the door and Shayne asked for Mr. Carlton. She led the way to a long library with the afternoon sun streaming through the west windows. There was a stone fireplace at one end of the room, and bookcases on either side with books which looked as though they had been read.
    Carlton was seated at a desk in front of the fireplace. Another man stood beside the desk, leaning over and talking with Carlton in a low tone. In front of the windows a slender woman with a youthful face and snow-white hair reclined on a chaise longue reading a book. She looked up and Shayne met a pair of appraising blue eyes, but she made no move to greet him. Shayne was wondering why her hair was white when the maid announced:
    “Mr. Shayne to see Mr. Carlton.”
    Mr. Carlton pushed some papers back and got up. The other man stepped aside, thrusting his hands deep into the pockets of an untidy tan suit and looking at Shayne with an insolent frown. He was past middle age, with aquiline features and bushy black hair.
    Carlton’s face looked haggard and his eyes were those of a frightened man. He said, “I’m glad to see you, Mr. Shayne. I’ve been trying to reach you by telephone.”
    The white-haired lady coughed delicately. Carlton turned to her and said, “Mr. Shayne, this is Mrs. Carlton.”
    She closed her book with a finger between the pages and said, “You look more like a truck driver than a detective, Mr. Shayne,” but her eyes held a pleasurable glint.
    “I can drive a truck, too,” Shayne told her.
    “You’ve been hurt,” she said, her blue eyes lingering on his face. “Have you had another encounter with those gangsters?”
    “Yes… for heaven’s sake, Shayne,” Carlton broke in with a tremolo of fear. “You’re all battered up.”
    Shayne laughed and touched his swollen, salved lip. “A bee stung me. I’m allergic to bees,” he added gravely to Mrs. Carlton.
    “This is scarcely the time for joking,” Carlton reprimanded.
    “I didn’t know whether you wanted to discuss business just now,” Shayne apologized. He looked at the man standing back from Carlton’s desk.
    “Oh yes… Mr. Bartel knows all about it. Bartel is my compositor and pressman,” Carlton added. “He brought these items up from the office for my okay.” He indicated the litter of proofs and newspaper cuts on the desk.
    Studying Bartel with intent eyes, Shayne frowned and said, “Haven’t we met before?”
    “I don’t think so.” Bartel’s aloof tone indicated that he would be pleased if they didn’t meet again.
    Shayne shrugged and moved close to the desk to ask, “Just what is your business, Carlton?”
    “I publish the Coral Gables Trumpet.” He bent forward and opened a drawer.
    “Weekly?”
    “Yes.” He straightened up and offered Shayne a folded sheet of paper. “I received this threat in the morning mail.”
    The threat was typed. On the same Hammond Bond which had been used for Shayne’s letter. It, too, was unsigned and read:
     
    “Maybe your eyesight is too good for your health. You’ve got till tomorrow to decide you made a mistake last night.”
     
    Carlton watched Shayne’s face as he read the note, then said anxiously, “I’m afraid I did make a mistake.”
    “You mean you think you can’t identify the killers?”
    “Precisely. I’m afraid I let my natural