Shayne glanced up and saw a man coming through the doorway.
Mr. Persona was alone. He stood just inside the door for a moment, a broad smile on his thick mouth and triumphant gleam in his light eyes as though he expected the people to rise and pay him due homage before making an entrance.
Shayne said, “Put a nickel in the slot… quick. And take a look at the short, dark man standing at the door.”
Lucy put the coin in and glanced at the man. “Who…?”
“That’s Persona,” he told her as the machine clattered. “Big-shot in the Mine Owners of Kentucky and the man who’s retained me to convict Brand.” The machine stopped. “Put in another nickel and watch where he goes.”
“He’s going to the rear,” she reported. “Titus is getting up and waving… he’s going to our table,” she went on in a low, excited voice.
Shayne said grimly, “I’m going to stagger out and I’ll keep my back turned. When you go to the table try to keep my name out of the conversation. Is he looking this way?”
“No… his back is turned. They’re all talking together.”
“Good. Listen, Angel. I’m going to ease out. Get back there and turn on your charm. Get him talking about strikes and murders. Get him liquored up if you can. Get the lowdown on Seth Gerald. And… watch your step.” He turned and swayed the few steps to the door, glancing aside to see a look of hostility on the cashier’s face.
Outside, he stood swaying, irresolutely, staggered a few steps in one direction, turned and staggered back, wondering how long he was going to have to wait before a cop arrested him.
The local tipoff service was evidently working perfectly. Two men came toward him purposefully, both in uniform and both swinging nightsticks.
Shayne grinned foolishly, squinting first one eye and then the other, then both, as though straining for focus.
They were big, burly men, fat paunches straining their belts. Each took a firm hold on one of Shayne’s arms. One of them said, “Seems like you don’t know which way to go, fella. Come ’long an’ we’ll show you. Fact is, we’ll give you a little ride.”
Shayne jerked his arms and protested angrily. “Don’ wanna ride. My girl…”
The policeman on his right slapped him across the mouth. “We don’t like drunk bastards in Centerville. Get movin’.”
Shayne licked his lip and tasted blood. He gritted his teeth and let his legs go limp. They caught him up and dragged him to the police car and dumped him in the back on the floor, got in the front seat together and drove away.
9
The Centerville police station was only a few blocks from the Eustis Restaurant. It was an ugly stucco building housing the city offices, with the jail on the second floor. An entrance from a side street led directly into a small, drab room with a scarred desk and straight chairs around the walk. There was no one in the room when the officers dragged Shayne in and shoved him into a chair where he pretended complete grogginess.
An open door on the left revealed a large, comfortably furnished room, brightly lighted, and with the sound of an electric fan whirring. One of the officers said, “Gantry must be in with the chief. Wonder what’s goin’ on in there?” He sauntered through the doorway, leaving the other to guard Shayne.
Shayne’s head, lolling against the wall, was turned directly toward the lighted room. He could see only a small segment of it… part of a large desk with a man sitting behind it. He was a big man with heavy jowls bulging from his jawbone, and in the bright overhead light he appeared to have no eyebrows or lashes. A roll of flesh hung over his protuberant eyes which were wide open, unblinking and expressionless as he stared straight before him at someone whom Shayne could not see on the other side of the desk. There was a murmur of voices, but no words were distinguishable to him.
The policeman who stood guard over Shayne got out a plug of tobacco and gnawed off a portion. A narrow wooden stairway led down into the room from the floor above, and there was the shuffle of descending footsteps and the soft whimpering sound of agony or of fear from a human being.
Shayne didn’t turn his head to betray his interest, but by shifting his eyes to the side and slightly upward, he saw three men. Two of them were in their shirtsleeves, but wore uniform trousers and visored caps. They were supporting a man who was bleeding at the nose and mouth and was making a whimpering noise by gasping in short breaths and exhaling between clenched teeth. His shirt was half torn from his torso and soggy with blood. He cringed between the two policemen, staring stupidly with glazed eyes.
Shayne’s guard chewed rhythmically and watched with professional interest as the trio reached the bottom of the stairs and started toward the side office. “You gonna be long, Gantry?” he demanded impatiently. “We got a drunk here to be booked.”
The man on the right of the bleeding prisoner said, “It won’t take long. Dave, here, has decided to make a statement to the chief.” Gantry was a tall, slender, alert young man with a mop of damp and disheveled blond hair. In spite of his wilted appearance, he seemed well pleased with himself. His companion was shorter and heavier, with a flat brutal face and loose, thick lips. He laughed coarsely and jerked the whimpering man forward and said:
“Dave decided he warn’t as tough as he figured.” They went into the brightly lighted room and lined up in front of Chief Henry Elwood’s desk.
The chief looked at the bleeding man with his lidless, naked eyes and asked, “Have you decided to come clean, Burroughs?” His voice was friendly and considerate and his thick lips spread, making a deep trench between his jowls and mouth.
“I’ll say… anything… you say,” Dave Burroughs gasped. “Let… me outta here. I can’t… stand any more.”
“We don’t want you to say anything but the truth,” Elwood said. “What happened to you? Why’re you appearing here in that condition?”
“I… had an… accident,” Burroughs said weakly.
“Too bad. We’ll get a doctor and have you fixed up soon’s you sign this statement.” The chief’s beefy hand reached for a document, pulled it closer, and he read rapidly:
“I, David Burroughs, make the following statement under oath, of my own free will and to clear my conscience of perjury:
“The affidavit I signed and swore to this morning is a lie. I was bribed to make it by George Brand who got me and Jethro Home and Joe Margule all together yesterday and fixed up what he wanted us to say. He paid us each twenty dollars, but we didn’t know why he wanted an alibi for last night, and when we made those affidavits this morning we didn’t know he had murdered Charles Roche.
“All three of us did play poker with him at Home’s last night, but Brand left the game about three o’clock. None of us saw him after that, which I now swear is the truth because we all stayed on together until five-thirty.
“I do not want to get mixed up in a murder. That is why I am telling the truth now. I realize that I perjured myself and that I am liable for the full penalty of the law.
“I have not been mistreated or coerced in any way to induce me to sign this statement, and any marks on my body are the result of my drunkenness and an accident.
“I am filled with remorse because I swore to false testimony.
“This is the truth, so help me God.”
Shayne watched Chief Elwood, fascinated by the monotone of his voice and by the continuous wriggling of a fleshy protuberance in the center of his chin. His lips scarcely moved. When he finished reading, the fat roll covering his eyes raised slowly.
“We want the truth this time, Burroughs,” he said. “This is your last chance. You’ll be taken care of if you sign this. You won’t have to appear at Brand’s trial.”