“Well, if you promise not to drink too much,” she said hesitantly. “They’ve been telling me the most awful things, Michael. About how the police are in cahoots with most everybody in town. I think it’s just terrible, Titus, the way you say they do. Tell Mr. Shayne about it.”
He cleared his throat, flashed his gold teeth and drawled, “Miss Lucy forgot to say my name is Tatum, Mr. Shayne. I’ve been telling her how they work things in Centerville, seeing you all are strangers and mighty nice people. A man’s got to walk a pretty straight line to stay out of trouble hereabouts.”
“The police just run the town the way they want to,” Lucy put in indignantly. “It doesn’t matter whether you get drunk or not, if you’re a stranger and in a place like this and take a few drinks and they think you’ve got any money, they arrest you when you go out and put you in jail for drunkenness. Then you have to pay a fine and the judge splits it with the proprietor for tipping them off about you.”
Rexard looked worried. “It’s not so good to say it right out loud like that, Miss Lucy.” He glanced nervously around them. “You can’t get any proof that they pay for the tipoff. It just happens that a policeman’s always waiting outside to grab a man after he’s had a few drinks and shows a roll. The Eustis isn’t any worse than other places.”
Shayne listened soberly and thoughtfully, then beckoned a waitress, ordered another bottle of brandy and said, “What happens if a man is arrested when he isn’t actually drunk?”
Both Tatum and Rexard laughed jeeringly. “If a cop says a man’s drunk, he’s drunk,” said Rexard.
“And if you don’t plead guilty,” Tatum contributed, “you get thirty days in jail.”
“But they have to have some proof,” Shayne argued. “You could demand an examination by a doctor.”
“In Centerville?” Titus Tatum’s gold teeth showed to the gum line in a hoarse laugh. “Argue with them and you get beat up,” he explained simply. “It don’t pay. Safest thing is to keep your mouth shut and pay.”
“It’s just like the Gestapo in Hitler’s Germany,” Lucy said. “Some men stay in jail here three months without being allowed to see a lawyer and not knowing what they’re charged with. Isn’t that what you said, Titus?”
“A man hasn’t got much chance once he’s locked up,” he admitted cautiously. “The City Hall gang has things pretty much their own way… have for thirty years. Run the slot machines and liquor business and all. It’s a losing game to try and buck ’em. Smart folks just keep their mouths shut and stay out of trouble.”
“So… you be smart, Michael.” Lucy squeezed his arm, then continued excitedly, “Have you heard the big news? About the end of the strike? The miners are going back to work tomorrow.”
The waiter brought a bottle of brandy. Shayne said to Lucy, “I heard about it,” opened the bottle and poured some in four glasses. He asked Rexard, “Do you live here?”
“Dry cleaning business,” Rexard told him. “I say it’s a shame for the miners to give up that way, but I reckon the poor devils didn’t have a chance. George Brand certainly let ’em down when he killed young Roche.”
“Do you think he did?”
“It makes no difference whether he did or didn’t,” Rexard said gloomily. “Strike’s broken, and there won’t be another one for years.”
“Do you know, Michael, there’ve been five men killed in Centerville in the past month? Counting Mr. Roche last night and that man on the highway this afternoon. But that was an accident, I guess.” Something in her voice warned Shayne that it was important for him not to comment upon it.
Shayne took a sip of brandy and said casually, “An accident on the highway?”
“Just about sundown,” Titus Tatum said. “Not more’n a mile west of town.”
“This side of the Moderne Hotel,” Lucy said. “Titus was telling me about it.”
“That’s right,” said Tatum. “Car went out of control over the side, I reckon. They found him with his head bashed in.”
“A couple of special deputies found him,” Lucy interposed, her voice vibrating with anger and warning.
“Fellow by the name of Margule,” said Rexard.
Shayne said, “Margule? Wasn’t that one of the men who played poker with Brand last night?”
“That Brand claims was playing poker,” Rexard agreed unemotionally. “It’s tough on Brand having it happen… right on top of them saying Jethro Home has skipped town.”
“That leaves only one other witness for Brand,” Shayne said slowly.
“Yep. Dave Burroughs. I’d hate to be in Dave’s shoes right now. Wasn’t so bad when he had two others to back him up.” The heavy congressman spoke in a heavy voice.
“Were there any witnesses to Margule’s accident?” Shayne asked casually.
“If there were I reckon they’re not talking,” said Rexard.
There were lines of tension in Shayne’s gaunt face. He took a sip of brandy. It went down easier now that the way had been paved by Ann Cornell’s corn. He looked slowly around the restaurant. It was well-filled now. There was a small cleared place in the center where a few couples were dancing to a hillbilly tune from the juke-box. A lot of men and some women were lined up at the slot machines, feeding coins into the machines and pulling cranks and waiting apathetically for the cylinders to stop so they could deposit another coin.
He wondered what their attitude toward the ending of the strike was… what they thought about the highway accident that had removed one of George Brand’s witnesses from the jurisdiction of the court while a second one of the trio had unaccountably disappeared. What did these people think about a police force and a judge and a small army of special deputies who acted wholly outside the law?
If the group gathered in the restaurant was representative of Centerville’s citizenry, Shayne decided that they didn’t think about things like that. Over a period of years they had probably ceased to resent being pushed around by the local authorities. Those who could, he surmised, catered to the police and tried to get in on the graft. Those not lucky enough to do that tried to avoid trouble by being passive and staying out of their way.
Lucy and Titus Tatum pushed their chairs back and got up to dance. Shayne poured more brandy in Rexard’s glass and jerked his head towards Titus.
“One of your local politicians?”
“Titus isn’t as bad as some,” Rexard told him. “Knows which side his bread is buttered on and doesn’t cause any trouble.” He hesitated, then added, “Nobody gets elected here without backing from the city hall bunch.” He accepted a cigarette from Shayne’s extended pack and confided, “Miss Lucy says you all are just driving through.”
“We might stay over a few days,” Shayne told him. “Depends on several things.”
“She didn’t say what your business might be,” Rexard probed.
“Didn’t she?” Shayne scowled into his glass for a moment, then watched the couples who were dancing.
Rexard turned in his chair, grinned broadly, said, “That Titus. He’s quite a chaser. Seems like he took a shine to Miss Lucy soon’s he saw her sitting here alone. But you needn’t make nothing out of that,” he went on hastily. “He’s a gentleman, if I do say so.”
Shayne wasn’t particularly concerned with Lucy and the Centerville Lothario. She knew when to be naive and when to get tough. He said abruptly to Rexard, “I don’t quite understand the situation here about the miners. Aren’t they affiliated with John L. Lewis’ United Mine Workers?”
“Not in Centerville. Some mines in Kentucky are organized, but not hereabouts. Organizers from outside don’t last long.”
“What happens to them?”
Rexard lifted his skinny shoulders. “Lots of things. Car runs over a cliff, maybe. Like Joe Margule this afternoon…”
“You mean they get rubbed out?” Shayne interrupted sharply, turning his gaze from the dance floor to his bald-headed companion.
Rexard moved uneasily and looked cautiously around. “For God’s sake Mr. Shayne,” he said in a low voice, “don’t say things like that out loud. It’s not healthy in Centerville. We leave well enough alone here. The mine owners don’t like union organizers, so they don’t last long.”