He felt in his coat pocket and lovingly drew out a small lump of molded lead which fitted snugly into his cupped palm with four grooves for fingers to fit into it when he made a fist. It weighed several pounds and, innocently clenched in a man’s hand, converted a fist into a bludgeon capable of delivering a terrific blow with little effort.
He fitted it into his right palm and slid his doubled hand into his coat pocket, got out leisurely, and strolled up the walk toward Donk, who rocked forward to stare at him and then grinned with unconcealed pleasure.
TWELVE
“WELL, WELL, SO YOU CAME BACK for more, huh?” the big man greeted him happily. He got up, dusting ashes from the front of his vest.
Shayne stopped in front of Donk, keeping his bunched hand in his coat pocket, warning, “I still owe you for what you handed me last night.”
“You’ll be owin’ me more’n that pretty quick,” Donk promised. He flexed his biceps and blew on the big knuckles of his right fist.
“I’ve got other things on my mind besides taking you apart,” Shayne told him. “I want to see that bald-headed bartender who was working last night.”
“Baldy? He ain’t here. Don’t open till after noon.”
“Where does he live?”
“I wouldn’t know.” Donk’s heavy arms swung loosely at his sides. His eyes leered steadily at Shayne.
“Somebody around here ought to have his address.”
“Mebbe they have, but you ain’t gettin’ it. You ain’t gettin’ in to talk to none of ’em, see?”
Shayne’s eyes glowed hotly. He licked his lips and laughed, dropping his left shoulder and sliding his left foot forward.
Donk’s piggish eyes were fixed on the right fist bulging his coat pocket. When Shayne withdrew it, Donk let out a hearty snort of relief. “So you’re gonna spar with me, huh? Thought mebbe you had a gun. Seein’ as you ain’t—” His left lashed out swiftly at Shayne’s chin.
The detective swayed back, and the left missed. Shayne twisted forward, drove his weighted fist twelve inches forward into the big man’s belly. It sank deep into the flesh. Donk shuddered and hunched forward, dropping his guard.
Shayne set himself and lifted a battering uppercut to the unprotected chin of his opponent. Reinforced by the leaden weight, the blow had bone-shattering force.
Donk stood partially erect, and a glazed look of incomprehension spread over his small eyes. He collapsed and groveled on the walk, moaning with the pain of a broken jaw.
Shayne stepped over his barrel-like torso and dropped the lead weight into his pocket.
A scrubwoman was working on the floor of the cocktail room. Shayne went past her to Bugler’s private office in the rear. The chinless man who had trailed him from his apartment was sitting on Bugler’s desk munching a mouthful of peanuts. A sharp-featured young man sat behind the desk checking figures in a heavy ledger.
Shayne stopped in the doorway and said, “Hello, Johnny.”
The chinless man stared at him in complete surprise as his jaws worked mechanically on the peanuts. “Say — how’d you get in? Didn’t Donk—”
“I paid Donk back like I promised,” Shayne said softly. “You’re next, Johnny.”
Johnny slid off the desk and backed away, tugging at the blackjack in his hip pocket. Shayne rushed him before he got it free, drove him to the floor with a left over the heart and a right to the mouth.
He whirled on the bookkeeper and said, “Better not, youngster.”
The youth gaped at him, his hand reaching into an open drawer. A pistol lay on top of some papers inside.
“I’ll take the gun before you hurt yourself,” Shayne said. He reached out a long arm for the weapon, pocketed it, and lowered himself to the desk. “All I want is the home address of Baldy, one of the bartenders here.”
“B-Baldy? Y-You mean Dave Preston?”
“If he’s the bald-headed one, yeh.”
“I–I’ve got it right here.” The frightened bookkeeper nervously scrambled through the drawer for a memorandum book.
“Write it down for me on a slip of paper,” Shayne directed. He lit a cigarette and smoked lazily while the man wrote. He pocketed the slip of paper, lifted himself from the shining mahogany desk, and said, “If this isn’t right, you’re going to wish to God it had been.”
Glancing at Johnny, who lay very still on the floor, Shayne started for the door. Turning abruptly, he went back. “There’s something else. Where does Arch keep his markers?”
“Markers? I don’t know what—”
“IOU’s,” Shayne interpreted irritably. “His record of gambling-debts of birds who couldn’t pay off.”
“Gambling? I don’t know anything about that. You’ll have to ask Mr. Bugler.”
Shayne reached out and circled the young man’s neck with his big fingers. He was breathing hard, and his hands tightened relentlessly about the bony neck. “I haven’t any time for the run-around. Start remembering — quick.”
The clerk writhed in Shayne’s grasp, choking and sputtering incoherently.
Relaxing the pressure on his windpipe, Shayne asked savagely, “Did that stir up your memory?”
“Y-Yes. I g-guess I k-know what you mean. Those old accounts. They’re locked in the safe. I h-haven’t a key.” The trembling sincerity of his voice was genuine.
Shayne took his hands from the man’s throat and stepped back. “All right, but you’ve seen them. How much has Stallings got on the cuff with Bugler?”
“St-Stallings?”
“Burt Stallings,” Shayne growled. “He did some heavy plunging when Arch had his games running in the back. How deep is he in?”
“I don’t know — exactly, that is. Ten or fifteen thousand maybe, roughly.”
“Roughly is good enough,” Shayne said on his way out.
Donk was sitting up moaning, one hand pressed against his broken jaw, the other against his stomach. The detective laughed and said, “It’ll heal in a few weeks, maybe,” and went through the bronze gates to his car.
Dave Preston’s address was one side of a small double house on an inconspicuous side street. A baby came toddling to meet Shayne when he rattled the knob and pushed the door open. An anemic woman followed the baby into the hall and caught the child up into her arms. She pushed stringy hair back from her face and demanded, “What is it?”
“I’m looking for Dave Preston.”
“He’s asleep. You’d better—”
“This is police business,” Shayne said.
Panic showed in the woman’s eyes. She compressed her lips and said, “He’s in the back bedroom. This way.”
Shayne followed her through a littered living-room to a bedroom darkened by drawn shades. The man on the bed was snoring. Before closing the door Shayne said gently, “There’s nothing for you to worry about. Your husband isn’t in any trouble — yet.” He closed the door, shutting her out.
Going to the windows, he jerked the shades up. The sleeping man rolled over and stopped snoring when sunlight flooded the room. He raised himself on one elbow and blinked at the tall redheaded figure.
Shayne sat down on the foot of the bed. “Remember me?”
“Yeah. What d’yuh want here? You’re the bird that was mussed up last night — claimed it was an accident. I heard later Donk had bounced one off you.”
“That’s right. I asked you about a girl who had been in for a drink at noon or a little after. The one you doped. Your memory had better be in better working order this morning than it was last night.”
“Look here, I don’t know nothing.”
Shayne balanced the pistol he had taken from the young bookkeeper carelessly on his knee. His gray eyes were cold and remorseless. “If you figure you’re any good alive to the lady and that cute kid outside you’d better start knowing something. You’ve found out who I am by this time. You know I don’t talk just to hear myself spout off. This game of marbles is for keeps, buddy.”