“An occasional deal like that wouldn’t be anything to raise too much hell about,” Shayne agreed. “But when murder gets mixed up with it, that’s something else.”
“So, we’re back to murder, are we?”
Shayne nodded. “That’s the way it looks to me.”
“I don’t know anything about Dinky Moore getting bumped. I don’t know what he was doing in my station wagon, nor why he was out there.”
“But it wasn’t inconvenient,” Shayne said quietly. “It must have cramped your style — having a jealous husband around underfoot all the time.”
Zenro’s black eyes blazed hotly for a moment. “Who gave you that steer?”
“I had a long talk with Laura this morning.”
“Damn a woman that—” Zenro checked himself. He took another puff on his cigar. “What are you after?”
“Dinky Moore’s murderer.”
“What’ll you be satisfied with?”
“Nothing less.”
Grant Zenro nodded slowly. His smooth, clean features were impassive. “Nothing more?”
“That’s all I’m after. Look.” Michael Shayne leaned forward. “If some fifty-a-month buck private picks up an occasional can of Army ham and wants to trade it off for your rot-gut, I’m not going to make a stink.”
“Fair enough,” said Zenro equably. “I’ll see what I can do about the other.” He paused, tapping manicured nails on the glass desk top. “What have you got?”
“You could have sent him out there — as you’ve sent some of your girls out to keep a date when the right man was on guard.”
“Go on.”
Shayne spread out his hands. “That’s about all,” he confessed. “Dinky drove your wagon out and parked it down the road, walked up to the gate thinking the fix was on and expecting the gate to be opened for him. He had been told that’s what to expect — by someone. He walked into it blind. He didn’t even try to pull a gun until it was too late.”
Zenro’s upper lip twitched. “Do you think you can hang it on me?”
“I don’t know.” The redhead frowned speculatively. “I can prove motive and opportunity. You never know how a jury will react.”
“But you can ruin me,” said Zenro bitterly. “And my business — just by bringing me to trial even though I can’t be convicted.”
“That’s about the way it is.”
“You’d frame your grandmother wouldn’t you, Shayne? Just to crack a tough case?” Zenro’s voice was thin with fury.
“This isn’t any frame. I’m talking about facts.”
“You can’t get a conviction.”
“I can try.”
“But you’d rather have a cinch case, wouldn’t you?”
“Sure.”
“All right. I’ll give you one.”
“I’m listening,” Shayne said softly. He leaned back in his chair and lit a cigarette.
“Suppose I gave you a soldier that had made a deal with Dinky. To come out there at night while he was on guard at that gate and deliver him some stuff — hams, say?”
Shayne rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. “I need a motive.”
“How about Laura?”
“Do you mean she’s in love with this soldier?”
“He could be in love with her.” Zenro’s voice was harsh. “Lots of them are.” He laughed shortly. “Kids away from home.”
“Here’s something that would be better.” Shayne stared down at his cigarette. “If she’d led the kid on — promised to marry him, maybe. That would tie it up in a knot. With the insurance money as an additional incentive.”
“Damn you, Shayne! So you are working for the insurance company?”
“Why no.” Shayne looked surprised. “I told you—”
Zenro exploded, “The hell with what you told me. That’d be as good as suicide, wouldn’t it? She can’t collect if you frame her into a position as accessory.”
“I hadn’t thought about that.”
“Nuts.” Grant Zenro stood up. His upper lip twitched away from his teeth. “Get out of here.”
Michael Shayne remained seated. He stretched his long legs out in front of him and contemplated the toes of his shoes. “I’ve still got you for a fall guy.”
Zenro said, “By God,” very softly.
Shayne dropped his cigarette and toed it out on the thick rug. Without looking at the Lido proprietor, he said, “A phone call was made here from the army camp last night. Know anything about it?”
“Should I?”
“It might help,” Shayne said blandly. “If it was for Dinky — and if you happened to answer the phone yourself. You might recognize the voice.” He stood up and yawned. “Think it over.” He opened the door and went out.
The dance floor was crowded. Michael Shayne stood outside Zenro’s office and surveyed the dancers moodily. He recognized some of the soldiers who had faced him in the Orderly Room that morning. Private Murtry, who had given him the dope on Laski, was dancing with Laura Moore. Dave Laski was dancing with a slim redhead who leaned back and laughed up into his face while his hand pressed against the small of her back held her firmly against him.
Sergeant Blake came away from the bar to meet Shayne when he strolled into the front room. The sergeant had a glass of beer and his face was flushed. He said, “I was to present Captain Richards’ compliments, sir, and say all the men are here.”
Shayne nodded. He saw Captain Ott standing inconspicuously at the front of the bar and he moved in that direction.
“Anything doing?” Ott asked sharply.
Shayne grinned and tugged at his ear. “I’m tightening a few screws. Something is going to snap.” He hesitated. “I’m going to talk to the widow. Have Blake round up Murtry, Carson and Laski. Bring them into Zenro’s office when I go in with Mrs. Moore.”
The dance was just ending when he reentered the rear room. Before the jukebox could start grinding out another tune, he went across the floor to Murtry and Laura Moore who were standing together. He tapped the private on the arm and said, “I think the lady wants to sit this one out.”
Private Murtry turned with his mouth open to expostulate. His lower jaw sagged when he recognized the redheaded detective. “Sure,” he stammered. “Sure,” and hastily stepped backward.
Laura was breathing hard and her eyes were baleful. In her husky voice, she demanded, “What’s the big idea? I’m paid to dance with these boys.”
Shayne took her bare arm. It was warm and firmly fleshed. He said, “It won’t hurt you to miss one,” and guided her to an empty booth.
A waiter was hovering in the doorway by the time they were seated opposite each other. Shayne shook his head and said, “Just pull the curtain and leave us alone.”
The waiter hesitated, glancing at Laura. She nodded and said, “It’s okay, Joe.”
He drew the curtain across the entrance and went away. Laura Moore put her hands flat on the table and demanded, “What were you talking to Grant about, and what’d he call you instead of Muhooney?”
“I was talking to Zenro about Dinky’s death, and my name’s Shayne. Michael Shayne,” he amended harshly.
Some of the color went away from Laura’s cheeks. “Mike Shayne! The dick?”
He nodded. “And not a damned bit interested in your insurance troubles.”
She leaned back, full breasts heaving beneath the flimsy cloth that only provocatively pretended to cover them. “What are you after?”
“Your husband’s murderer.”
“Still harping on that?” she asked contemptuously.
He said, “Grant’s not going to marry you. You were a fool to think he would.”
“What are you talking about?”
“He just told me so. He swears there’s never been anything between you. That you just work here.”
“Why, that—” Laura caught herself and narrowed her eyes. “What are you trying to do?”