“What’s your opinion on it now?” Shayne got out a cigarette.
“From what you’ve dug up, I’m ready to disregard the probability of sabotage. It looks to me like someone wanted Moore out of the way — and contrived to send him out on some false pretense that made him think the guard’s challenge wasn’t meant seriously.”
“His wife?”
“From what you’ve told me about her, she seems a logical candidate. She didn’t pretend any devastating sorrow, and she was ghoulishy eager about the insurance.”
“She isn’t going to do too much mourning,” Shayne admitted. “But there’s that telephone call made from the camp to the Lido.”
“Doesn’t necessarily mean anything at all. Any one of the boys might have called in to one of the girls. As for what Laski said about Carson: I believe he was fabricating that as he went along — because he thought Carson had accused him.”
Shayne nodded agreement. “It didn’t make a very plausible story.” He sighed and got up. “It’s still murder, and I’m going to keep on sticking my nose into it.”
It was not yet quite dark but the Lido was already doing a brisk business. The stools were all taken by soldiers and others were crowded up behind them, reaching over the shoulders of sitting men to get their drinks from three overworked bartenders.
A jukebox was going full blast beyond the curtained doorway, and Shayne strolled back to take a look inside. It was a large square room, lined all the way around three walls with wooden booths, leaving the center of the floor free for dancing. The booths had high partitions and curtains that could be drawn in front. There were a scattering of soldiers already in the booths, and two couples were dancing. One of the girls was young and plain-looking, wearing a green sports dress and dancing with her eyes shut, cheek pressed hard against her soldier-partner’s chest. The other dancer wore a flimsy evening gown and a lot of rouge and looked as though she had traveled a rough road graduating up to a roadhouse like the Lido. It looked as though the other hostesses hadn’t come to work yet.
Shayne turned back into the barroom and got close enough to the bar to order a double shot of brandy. The soldier seated in front of him was working on a large slice of fried ham and a pair of fried eggs. The ham was beautifully browned and exuded a tantalizing fragrance. As Shayne got his brandy he told the bartender angrily:
“I tried to buy a piece of ham in here this morning and got the brush-off. What do you do, save it for the soldiers?”
“We was out,” the bartender said. “Just got that in. An’ it won’t last more’n a couple of hours.”
The ham-eating soldier turned his head and grinned up at Shayne. “Must be tough to be a civilian. Join the army and quit worrying about rationing. We get ham every morning in camp. Not cooked like this though.” He took another mouthful and masticated it slowly and enjoyably. “Same damn ham, too, I betcha. What an army cook does to good chow is nobody’s business.”
Shayne’s nostrils twitched. “Ham every morning,” he muttered.
“Sure. They bring it in by the truck-load. Whole hams in cans. You could get a dollar a pound for it in one of these black markets you read about.”
Shayne drank his brandy. His eyes were bleak. He paid for the drink and went to the end of the bar and through a swinging door into the steaming kitchen.
A sweating cook looked up and scowled at him from in front of a hot range.
Shayne said, “County Health Inspector,” and flashed a detective’s badge.
The cook’s scowl deepened. He said, “Go ahead and look around,” wondering what a health inspector was supposed to pry into. He finally asked, “How do you dispose of your empty tin cans?”
“In that box by the door.” The cook pointed. “We clean it out every morning and mash ’em up for the Government salvage.”
Shayne went over to the box, half full of empty tin cans. A large kidney-shaped can lay on top of the rest. It was labeled Hormel, and it smelled of ham.
He picked it up and looked at the bottom. It was stamped USA Quartermaster Corps. He dropped it in the box and turned to go out. His way was blocked by a man as tall as himself who had come up behind him soundlessly. He recognized Grant Zenro, proprietor of the Lido. Zenro wore a faultlessly tailored suit of white pongee with white and tan sport shoes and a tan polo shirt.
Zenro said, “Is the detecting business so bad that you’ve started looking through garbage barrels, Shamus?” A threadlike black mustache quivered on his upper lip.
Shayne said, “The detecting business is looking up. I’ve been wondering where you got your hams.”
“And?”
Shayne shrugged. “Now I know.”
Grant Zenro smiled with his lips but his eyes were humid. “Perhaps you’d like to talk this over in my office.”
Shayne said, “Sure.”
Zenro turned and led the way out of the kitchen through a side door opening into the dance room. There were five couples dancing now, and more soldiers in the booths.
Laura Moore came out of a room marked ladies just as they emerged from the kitchen. She wore a glittering sequin evening gown and in her makeup was, as Shayne had surmised that morning, an exceedingly attractive piece of lush womanhood. She started a warm smile for Zenro, but it faded when she recognized Shayne behind him. She narrowed her eyes and stepped forward to put her hand on Grant Zenro’s arm.
“That’s the insurance man I was telling you about, Grant. What’s he doing here?”
Zenro stared at her, then looked back at Shayne. “Do you mean Mr. Shayne?”
“He told me his name was Mulrooney or something.”
Zenro gave her a little push and said quietly, “Go on to work, Laura. I’ll take care of this.”
He turned to the right and opened a door marked private, stood aside for Shayne to precede him inside.
It was a big office with modernistic furnishings and soft, indirect lighting. Shayne pulled a chromium and leather chair around to the front of the black and white desk, and sat down.
Grant Zenro walked past him and around the desk. He leaned forward with his knuckles on the glass top. “All right, Shayne. What kind of a shake-down are you working on?” His voice was suave and modulated with just a hint of weariness.
Shayne shook his red head. “This isn’t a shakedown.”
“Are you working for the insurance company — trying to prove Dinky Moore’s death a suicide to evade payment?”
Shayne shook his head again. “On the contrary. I’m going to prove Dinky was murdered.”
Zenro sat down slowly. He opened a drawer and got out a long black cigar, turned it over and over in his fingers, frowning down at it. “Does that tie in with your snooping around my kitchen?”
Shayne said, “I think it does.”
Zenro put the cigar in his mouth. “How?”
“Dinky drove your station wagon last night.”
“Without my knowledge or permission.”
“Maybe so.” Shayne’s tone was noncommittal.
Zenro flipped a chromium desk lighter into flame and leaned forward to suck fire into his cigar. He countered, “I reported it stolen this morning.”
Shayne didn’t say anything. Jukebox music came faintly through the closed office door. Grant Zenro leaned back and pointed the tip of his cigar toward the ceiling. He asked around it, “What are you trying to prove?”
Shayne said, “There must be a nice profit in ham and eggs — at a buck fifty a throw.”
“When we can get the ham,” Zenro agreed indifferently.
“The Army has lots of it. Whole hams in cans.”
Zenro sighed. He said, “So, all right. Maybe some of the boys pick up a can sometimes to trade off for the price of an evening’s fun. Can I help it if maybe my cook makes a deal?”