“I’ll… sign.” Dave Burroughs fell forward, his elbows resting on the desk. The two officers supported his body while he took a pen in his right hand and signed the document. Then they half carried Burroughs through a door at the other end of the room.
Chief Elwood looked at the policeman who had helped bring Shayne in. He asked, “What’s the charge against the man outside?”
“Drunk and disorderly.”
“Let Gantry handle him.” Chief Elwood swiveled in his chair and got up. He went out the door through which Burroughs had been carried.
Gantry returned and joined the waiting policeman. Together they sauntered into the smaller room where Shayne sat, talking in low, pleased tones. Gantry seated himself at the desk and looked bored. He said, “Drunk and disorderly, eh?”
“And creating a public disturbance,” his companion said.
Shayne’s guard hauled him to his feet by his shoulders and thrust him forward.
“Maybe I was drunk,” Shayne said belligerently, “but I didn’t bother anybody.”
Gantry was writing in a ledger and didn’t look up. “Name and address?” he asked. Shayne noted that he had sleeked his blond hair back, and his face looked clean.
“John Smith. New York,” Shayne said.
“Go over him. Find out his real name.” Gantry’s voice was clipped and official, and he still appeared pleased with himself.
One of the men held Shayne’s arms while the other removed his wallet and tossed it on the desk. He felt deeper into that pocket, then in the other, while Gantry searched the wallet.
“John Smith is as good as any,” Gantry said. He counted the money and put it in an envelope. “Throw him in the bull-pen.”
“I want a receipt for that money,” Shayne muttered. “I got a right to…”
The officers hustled him to the stairway and up to a musty, dim-lit corridor, past the iron bars on one side to a heavy, barred door. An old man was asleep in a chair propped against the wall beside the door. He was snoring loudly and stunk of old sweat and beer.
One of the men prodded him with a toe and said, “Wake up, Pop. We got another customer for you.”
The old man snorted and rocked forward, hoisted himself to his feet, squinted at Shayne through bleary eyes and turned to unlock the massive door with an iron key attached to a chain around his waist.
As the door swung open, Shayne heard voices chanting, “Fresh meat coming up,” and the humid sweat of unwashed bodies, the foul odor of urine, the stench of intestinal excretions in clogged toilets mingled with stale cigarette smoke and the sickening smell of some cheap disinfectant caused him to recoil and stagger back.
The two policemen hurled him forward, and the door clanged shut. Shayne found himself in a narrow corridor lined with iron-barred cells on each side. The feeble light in the hall penetrated only a little distance into the darkness. Each cell had two iron bunks, one above the other, with no mattresses or bedding. The first two cells were empty.
Someone struck a match in the third cell and Shayne moved toward the light. Voices were yelling, “Who is it? Has he got any cigarettes? How about a drink? If he’s a punk, send ’im down this way.”
Shayne stopped beside the doorway of the third cell and shouted, “Shut the hell up. I’ve got cigarettes enough for myself, and none of you know me.”
The shouting voices beyond subsided, grumbling and weary and disinterested. A voice inside the cell asked in a low whisper, “How about the butts, if you’re gonna smoke?”
“Sure.” He groped his way inside and sat on the lower iron bunk beside its occupant. He put a cigarette in his mouth, struck a match, and held it until light flickered over his companion’s face, then lit his cigarette. The man was young, with a thin face and defiant eyes.
Shayne asked, “How do you stand this stink?”
“Ain’t you never been in jail?” the youth asked.
“Not one that smelled like this.” Shayne filled his lungs with smoke and exhaled. The fresh smoke relieved the smell of the stale for a moment, then joined it. He passed the cigarette to the boy beside him and said, “Take a draw.”
“Jeez, thanks.” He took a long draw, said, “Jeez,” again, and passed the cigarette to Shayne. He asked, “What they get you for?”
“Drunk. Only I’m not.”
The young man laughed harshly. “Must of showed some cash.”
“A little. What the hell sort of town is this?”
“New hereabouts?” he countered cautiously.
“From New York,” said Shayne. “Just passing through.”
“This is Centerville, Kentucky, Mister. The hellhole of all creation. You got nothin’ to worry about. They’ll let you loose in the mornin’… with enough jack to get out of town on.”
Shayne puffed leisurely, then asked, “What are you in for?”
“Cut a man up at a dance a coupla weeks ago.”
“How bad?”
“Not too bad. Picked the wrong guy… cousin of Titus Tatum’s. He runs the City Hall gang.”
His indifferent, drawling tone amused Shayne. He asked, “How long you in for?”
“Ain’t been tried yet. Don’t reckon I will be. They’ll turn me out in a week or two. I got folks that’ll get riled up if they don’t. What’s new in town?”
Shayne said, “I suppose you know the strike’s broken.”
“First I heard of it.” The youth jumped up and yelled, “Hey… Brand! You hear that?”
Two or three voices shouted, “Shut up in there! Let a man sleep!”
Another voice, heavily timbred and strong called out, “Do I hear what?”
“Fella here says the strike’s broke!”
“What of it? To hell with the strike,” came an answering chorus, but the voice Shayne knew must be George Brand’s broke in with gruff authority, “Shut up, all of you. I want to hear this.”
Shayne stood up and called back, “I could tell you better if I didn’t have to yell.”
“That’s George Brand,” the young man said in a hoarse whisper. “In for murder.”
“I read about it in the paper.” Shayne moved into the corridor and the heavy voice spoke just ahead of him, “Right down here. I’d like to hear about the strike.”
Shayne walked slowly on until he touched the body of a man. Brand put out his hand and took Shayne’s arm, asked fiercely, “Is that the truth? Have those cowardly fools given up the fight?”
“The news is all over town. Any place we can talk quietly?” He spoke in a whisper.
Brand struck a match before replying. He held it up to look at Shayne’s face. The flickering light illumed his own face as well.
Shayne saw a youngish man with rugged features. There was strength in the solid jaw and firm mouth, intelligence in the cool appraisal of his gray eyes and in the smooth, broad brow.
Brand was studying the detective’s face carefully, but his expression gave no hint of what he was thinking. The match burned out and he dropped it to the concrete floor. His fingers tightened on Shayne’s arm. He said, “Down this way,” quietly, and they went down the corridor to a square room with barred windows through which a little light shone. The stench was stronger here, and Brand explained, “The can’s here at this end. Nobody ever comes close to it unless they have to.” They stopped and leaned against the wall between the two windows.
“I don’t know you, do I?” Brand asked.
“No. I hit town this afternoon.” Shayne hesitated, then added, “Drove up from Miami.”
“Passing through and got picked up by one of the local boys?”
“I got picked up outside the Eustis Restaurant after I’d had dinner and a few drinks.”
“You wanted to talk,” Brand reminded him.
“That’s why I got myself thrown in here,” Shayne told him.
“What’s the lay? Give it to me.”
Shayne gave it to him straight. “I’m a private detective in Miami. A few days ago I had a letter from Charles Roche saying his life was threatened and asking me to come up. He was dead when I got here.”