“You mean the corpse was carried around in a car after the shooting for a couple of hours before the killer dumped it?”
“According to Doc.”
“But why?”
Gentry didn’t answer. He took his half-smoked cigar from the ash tray, looked at it with a distasteful grimace, lit a fresh one, and puffed on it until the end glowed.
“I’ve given you a lot, Mike,” he said quietly. “Are you ready to tell me where I can find Tim Rourke?”
“Even if I knew,” said Shayne, “I don’t think I’d tell you, Will. Damn it, you haven’t got anything on him, really.”
“Then why not bring him in and have him turn over his pistol for Ballistics?”
“You’ve known Tim as long as I have. You don’t believe he’s a murderer.”
“Been better if he hadn’t ducked out,” Gentry rumbled.
“It’s probably the smartest thing he ever did,” Shayne disagreed. “If I get to him first and he takes my advice he’ll stay out of your way until we know more about this case.”
“As soon as Mrs. Jackson comes to her senses we’ll know more,” Gentry reminded him patiently. “Look a lot better if we don’t have to go looking for Tim.” Shayne turned his back on Gentry when the phone rang and kept it turned as he stepped over to the desk and picked up the receiver. “Michael Shayne speaking.”
After an audible indrawn breath a voice said, “I just caught a news flash on the radio from the Beach. I guess you won that round, Shamus.”
“I generally do.”
“Yes. I guess you do.” The voice grew worried, submissive. “I’m ready to deal with you on the original basis.”
“I was ready to deal with you,” Shayne said grimly, “a couple of hours ago.”
“My mistake, and I’m admitting it. When can I expect to get delivery?”
“There’s not going to be any delivery,” Shayne growled. “Not after that deal on the causeway.” He turned his head slightly and saw Chief Gentry puffing furiously on a cigar and pushing himself up from his chair with a heavy hand on each arm. Shayne continued talking rapidly. “You’ll trust me this time or to hell with it. I’ll destroy everything Bert Jackson left in my possession without breaking the seals after you pay off.”
“How do I know I can trust you?” The man’s voice broke on the whining demand.
“You don’t.” Shayne felt Gentry’s sleeve brushing the sleeve of his robe. He tightened the receiver against his ear and motioned frantically to the police chief to keep quiet.
“I guess I’ve got that coming,” said the voice bitterly, “after those two mugs messed up the deal the way they did.”
Shayne said, “I guess you have. It’ll be my way or nothing. You’re nuts if you think I’m going to walk into another Tommy gun.”
“I don’t blame you,” said the other quickly, and again there was a noisy, long-drawn breath. “It was a fool move, and I’m sorry. Does the original arrangement still hold good?”
“Yeh. Twenty-five grand.”
“And you still want it in hundred-dollar bills addressed to Mrs. Bert Jackson, care of General Delivery, dropped in the main office at ten o’clock this morning?”
Shayne’s face was a purplish, swollen mask as the unexpected words came over the wire. Mrs. Bert Jackson? He thought he must have heard incorrectly.
“Let’s get this straight,” Shayne said harshly, thinking fast. “Don’t you know Bert Jackson is dead?”
“Of course I know that,” said the voice impatiently. “When Mrs. Jackson phoned me she assured me that you and she were in complete understanding on the method of payoff, and I was to mail it to her. If that’s not satisfactory-”
“It is,” said Shayne quickly. “I thought for a minute you didn’t understand the deal. Ten o’clock is right.” He dropped the instrument on the hook and turned slowly. Will Gentry had resumed his seat. His heavy face was only slightly less purple than Shayne’s bruises, and his murky eyes were hard as granite. Shayne’s hand went instinctively toward his left ear lobe, but dropped swiftly when his fingers touched the bandage. His head had stopped aching, and his brain was clear.
“Women,” he breathed softly. “By God, Will, you and I are just a couple of softies.”
“Cut the preliminaries,” Gentry growled. “Give it to me fast, Mike. You made some sort of deal with the man who was back of that attack on you this morning.”
“Yeh.” Shayne picked up his empty glass and stretched his sore leg muscles with long strides across the room to the liquor cabinet. He poured two ounces of brandy into it and recrossed the room with an expression of fierce concentration on his face. Settling himself on the desk once more he faced Gentry and said, “This should be worth twenty-five grand in damages, don’t you think?” He touched his injured head gingerly, and flung open the upper part of his robe.
“Damn it, Mike,” raged Gentry. “You can’t make a deal with a murderer.”
“Why not? His money will spend just like any other.”
“What are you selling him for it?”
“Not a damned thing,” Shayne told him cheerily, and downed a swallow of cognac.
The beefy color was draining slowly from Gentry’s face. He remained stiffly upright in the chair, his whole expression stolidy demanding, but his tone deceptively mild when he asked, “What was that about destroying everything Bert Jackson left in your possession without breaking the seals?”
“I promised him that. And if you leave me alone I’ll not only collect a fair-sized fee, but I’ll hand over Jackson’s murderer.”
“What did Bert Jackson leave with you? I’ve got to know, Mike.”
“I told you. Not one damned thing, Will.” He met the chief’s stony gaze levelly.
“But I heard you tell him-”
“That I’d destroy everything Bert Jackson left with me,” Shayne repeated blandly. “Maybe he needs a course in semantics. If Jackson had left anything with me I’d be bound to destroy it. Since he didn’t leave anything here-”
“Is the man you just talked to the killer?” Gentry broke in. “Are you going to collect twenty-five thousand from him for nothing and then turn him in?”
“Won’t it serve him right if he did murder Jackson?” Shayne countered.
“By God, Mike! Sometimes I wonder-” Words failed the police chief, and his face was growing darkly red again. He relaxed in his chair, shaking his head helplessly.
“Trouble with you cops,” said Shayne judiciously, “is that you treat crooks like honest men. The Golden Rule is all right in some cases, but I’ve learned to twist it a little. Like this-do unto others as they would do unto you-if they had the chance. Now, I’ve got to get dressed and go places. I’d certainly like to be around to hear what Mrs. Betty Jackson has to say about last night when she gets in shape to talk.” He stood up and started toward the bedroom.
“Do you expect me to leave things like this?” roared Gentry.
“Like what?” Shayne paused and turned back. Gentry was on his feet. He took two stolid steps toward the redhead, then stopped, and Shayne resumed innocently, “You’ve got one murderer already, Will. Lay off me until ten o’clock and I’ll give you another one.”
“Until you can collect a payoff for something you haven’t got?”
“Somebody has to keep me in liquor and pay Lucy’s salary.” Shayne waved a big hand in blithe dismissal and went on to the bedroom, closing the door firmly behind him.
Chapter Thirteen
It was still early when Shayne went down the street. He stopped at a newsstand, bought a Herald and a Tribune extra, then sauntered on to his favorite restaurant on Flagler Street.