“Does it concern forged ration books?”
Shayne’s gray eyes were hard as he looked squarely at Brannigan. “I’ll have to see some money before I start talking.”
“Very well. A thousand dollars… payable when and if the gang is apprehended and our association receives appropriate credit for their capture.”
Shayne laughed scornfully. “A grand is peanuts. How many members have you?”
Brannigan blinked. “Some eight thousand at present.”
“At how much a head?”
“Annual dues are five dollars. Little enough when you consider our service.”
Shayne growled, “Leave out the sales talk. Eight thousand at five bucks… that’s forty grand. Is that the extent of your charge?”
“That’s the basic charge,” the president admitted uncomfortably. “There are, of course, nominal charges for various special services.”
Teetering his chair back to a solid position, Shayne said, “Hell, you’ve got a gold mine. You’d double your membership over night if you got the right sort of publicity on this Wilson murder. And you offer me a thousand bucks!”
“But you don’t realize what our expenses run to,” Brannigan said irritably.
Shayne waved the feeble protest aside. “When you start playing with forty grand you can afford a front like this. How does this deal sound?… I go ahead and work on this my own way and when I crack the case I see that you get the credit… the publicity. We split the admission fees of all new members you get as a result.”
Brannigan smiled thinly. “That’s impossible. We’re getting new members every day. There would be no way of determining how many joined as a result of your work. Besides, half the admission fee is a preposterous sum.”
Shayne heard a door open behind him. Brannigan was facing the door and Shayne saw an almost imperceptible change in his expression.
Turning his head, Shayne saw a woman coming toward the desk with a sheaf of legal papers in her hand. She stopped when her eyes met his.
Brannigan said, “Come on in, Miss Taylor. This is Michael Shayne. Miss Taylor,” he explained, “is our vice-president and head of our legal department.”
She kept on looking at Shayne while she said to Brannigan, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were busy.”
Shayne stood up and extended his hand, saying, “I’m glad to know you, Miss Taylor,” looking into a pair of clear hazel eyes that returned his gaze with composed interest.
She was tall, compactly put together with firm curves in the right places. She had the appearance of a woman who always bathed in cold water. Her gray suit was mannish and well tailored, and her honey-colored hair was severely coiffured.
Her mouth was soft, upcurved at the corners, and she was not in a hurry to take her hand from Shayne’s. She said, “Michael Shayne… you’re the local bogey-man aren’t you?” impudently. Her fingertips trailed against his palm as he let go of her hand.
“I’m a bogey-man only when the occasion demands it,” he said.
“I suppose you’d rather be called a private detective,” she drawled in a deep, intimate contralto. Her mouth smiled, but her eyes held no hint of laughter.
“Mr. Shayne has refused to co-operate with us, Edna,” Brannigan interposed fussily. He turned to Shayne and explained, “Miss Taylor and I discussed the matter before I called you.”
“Naturally,” Shayne said dryly.
“That’s a shame,” Edna Taylor murmured. She moved around to Brannigan’s side and laid the papers before him. She looked directly at Shayne and said, “I think I would enjoy working with you.”
“Miss Taylor was prepared to handle the legal details,” Brannigan cut in hastily, “if you saw fit to join with us.”
“Maybe,” Shayne conceded, “you’ve got something there.” He took out a pack of cigarettes and offered one to the vice-president.
She said, “Thanks,” leaning close for a light from the match he struck. “I hope your decision isn’t irrevocable.”
Shayne drew in a lungful of smoke. “I haven’t made any decision. I’ve been waiting for the right kind of an offer.”
“He has a preposterous idea of what his information is worth to us,” Brannigan complained.
Edna puckered her mouth so that a dimple came to her smooth cheek when she blew smoke through her lips. “Perhaps I could persuade you, Michael Shayne.”
“I’m not easily persuaded,” he warned.
“So?” Her eyes were provocative. “Let’s see… I’m frightfully busy with a brief today. Perhaps we could discuss it over a cocktail.”
“A lot of cocktails,” Shayne amended. “About six this afternoon?”
She nodded slowly. “If you’ll call for me.” She gave him an address on the Bayfront.
Shayne took a notebook from his pocket and wrote the address.
Miss Taylor moved back to Brannigan’s chair and put the tips of her fingers on his shoulder. She said, “As soon as you look this over I’d like to discuss it with you.” Coming back past Shayne she said, “Bye… now. See you later,” and went out.
Brannigan muttered, “Wonderful woman,” without lifting his eyes from the papers she had laid before him. “Wonderful legal mind. I’m sure she’ll present some arguments you’ll be unable to resist, Mr. Shayne.”
“I have a hunch,” said Shayne as he picked up his hat, “she will.”
CHAPTER 8
Detectives Peterson and McNulty greeted Shayne reproachfully in the lobby when he returned to his hotel-apartment.
“That was a fine stunt to pull,” McNulty complained, and Peterson added mournfully, “Did we get chewed up by the Chief! As if we could of kept that guy from shooting at you in the bedroom even if we’d been camped across from the right door ’stead of being one flight up.”
The two officers closed in on Shayne and marched him to the elevator.
Shayne grinned and asked, “Did you sit up all night watching that door? Didn’t Gentry tell you I had moved to my old apartment?”
“Nobody told us anything except to tail you,” Peterson said. “Sure we stayed up there watching your apartment. Gentry had a conniption when we called and said you hadn’t left your apartment when you was spreadin’ yourself all over town.”
Shayne turned his face away to grin. He said, “I’ll make it up to you boys,” when the elevator stopped on the second floor. He led the way down the hall to his office-apartment. “Come on in. I’ve got a deck of cards and we’ll dig up a bottle. How’s that?”
“It’s okay by us, but what about Gentry?” McNulty said sadly.
They entered the room and looked around suspiciously. Peterson went to the table and tilted the cognac bottle up to the light. He asked, “Is this the bottle you were talking about?”
Shayne went to a cabinet in the kitchenette and brought out a full bottle and set it on the table. He said, “Make yourselves at home, boys,” and yawned widely. “I’ve got some sleeping to do.”
In the bedroom he pulled the shade down over the broken pane, stripped off his tie and shirt, and lay down on the bed. His body went limp and he closed his eyes. He could hear Peterson and McNulty arguing in a desultory way in the other room.
Then he heard nothing.
He slept a couple of hours. The telephone wakened him. He lay on his back and heard McNulty saying gruffly, “Just a minute and I’ll get him.”
Shayne sat up when the police detective came in. Pitching his voice high, McNulty shouted, “Paging Mr. Shayne… telephone for Mr. Shayne,” and held out his hand for a tip.
Shayne caught his hand and pulled himself from the bed, saying, “You can make my bed now, boy,” and went in to the telephone.
An unfamiliar voice asked, “This Mike Shayne?”
“Yeh,” Shayne answered, yawning into the mouthpiece.
“Who was that answered the phone?”
“That,” said Shayne pleasantly, “was the Blue Fairy. Who the hell is this?”
“Look, Shayne,” the voice grated, “you alone?”
“Practically. Couple of dicks here but they’re not very bright.”