“For the love of God,” Gentry pleaded, “let me take over, Mike. Tell me what you’ve got.”
Shayne shook his head stubbornly. “That would ruin everything. Right now they’re plenty panicked. They’ll quit trying to kill me after a while and come across with a proposition.”
Gentry took the cigar butt from his mouth, studied it with a heavy scowl, tossed it away and said, “You’re not waiting for that, are you?”
“I’m waiting for anything that turns up.”
Gentry hesitated, then asked, “Have you seen today’s News?”
“No.”
The elevator stopped and they got in. Gentry said in an undertone, “You’re not going to like it. Even Tim Rourke is beginning to wonder why you’re so stubborn about keeping the racket information to yourself.”
They stepped out of the elevator and Shayne said, “To hell with Rourke.”
“But that’s what everybody’s asking,” Gentry argued as they stepped out onto the street. “Look at the spot it puts me in. I let you get yourself killed… the only witness in a murder and racketeering set-up. So you’re a goddamned hero and I’m the goat. And the boys go on merrily running their Black Market.”
“We’re making progress,” Shayne assured him. “We’re smoking them out. We’ve got a description of the guy who took a pot-shot at me, and I’ll know Gene if I ever see him again. We know they use a motorboat. And you’ve got a. 45 that you can check against the bullets in that kid hobo’s body. The one who visited me early this morning. And you’ve got Pat’s corpse. Anything on him?”
“Not a damned thing. We’re checking on his prints, but as far as I know he’s not hooked up with any local outfit.”
“We wouldn’t have a damn one of those leads if I hadn’t stuck my neck out,” Shayne reminded him wearily. “You know I’m right. The minute I talk they’ll pull in their horns and go into hiding. As long as they have only one man to kill, they’ll keep on trying.”
Gentry was sullen as they walked toward Shayne’s car. He said, “I’m pulling Peterson and McNulty off their assignment. If you’re going to be a pigheaded fool there’s no use making the department look any sillier than necessary.”
“Thanks. That’ll save me the trouble of ditching them,” Shayne agreed. “I’ve got a six o’clock date and I don’t need any chaperons.”
“A date? You mean female stuff?” Gentry frowned.
“Yeh. I got to get some stuff to put on my upper lip.”
Gentry grunted. “Here’s a drugstore. I’ll wait out here while you get something to make yourself pretty.”
Shayne grinned painfully and turned into the drugstore, went back to the prescription department and spoke to the druggist. “Got anything that’ll help this lip of mine?”
The druggist examined the wound carefully, said, “I think I’ve got something that’ll fix you up.” He stepped from his cage and went to a row of shelves in the rear, took down a small carton, and handed it to Shayne. “Massage the lip at thirty-minute intervals. It’s the best thing I’ve found for bruises.”
Shayne said, “Thanks,” and paid the bill on his way out.
Gentry was waiting. He said, “There’s another thing… your other witness isn’t going to hold out very long.”
Shayne leaned against the building and opened the package, which contained a jar of yellowish salve. He smeared it on his lips slowly and thoughtfully, said, “You mean Carlton?”
“Yeh. He called up after reading about that rifle attack on you this morning. Wanted to know if that was a sample of the police protection I could give. And he’s called three times since noon wanting you. He’ll cave in when he hears about the fun you had at Tahiti.”
Shayne said grimly, “I’ll see that he doesn’t cave in.” He tossed the small carton toward the gutter and put the jar of salve in his pocket.
Gentry squinted up at him and asked, “What about this date you’ve got with a dame?”
“A gal I met today. A she-lawyer. One of those dames that look cold and intellectual, yet something tells you she’s nothing but a bottled-up volcano. Know what I mean? Ready to go off like a firecracker if a man lights the fuse.”
“I suppose you think you can light the fuse?”
Shayne grinned. The salve was beginning to limber his lip. He said, “I’m taking along a pocketful of matches.”
“Got anything to do with the Wilson case… or the racketeers?” Gentry asked suspiciously.
“Maybe.” He looked at his watch. “I got to be going now. See you later, Will.”
“See here, Mike,” Gentry called, but Shayne waved his hand and stalked to his car.
He drove out to Coral Gables and located the Carlton house in an exclusive residential district near the Biltmore Hotel. It was a large, two-story, Spanish-style stucco house with balconies and exterior stairways. He parked behind a police car in front and went up a flagged walk to ring the bell.
A maid opened the door and Shayne asked for Mr. Carlton. She led the way to a long library with the afternoon sun streaming through the west windows. There was a stone fireplace at one end of the room, and bookcases on either side with books which looked as though they had been read.
Carlton was seated at a desk in front of the fireplace. Another man stood beside the desk, leaning over and talking with Carlton in a low tone. In front of the windows a slender woman with a youthful face and snow-white hair reclined on a chaise longue reading a book. She looked up and Shayne met a pair of appraising blue eyes, but she made no move to greet him. Shayne was wondering why her hair was white when the maid announced:
“Mr. Shayne to see Mr. Carlton.”
Mr. Carlton pushed some papers back and got up. The other man stepped aside, thrusting his hands deep into the pockets of an untidy tan suit and looking at Shayne with an insolent frown. He was past middle age, with aquiline features and bushy black hair.
Carlton’s face looked haggard and his eyes were those of a frightened man. He said, “I’m glad to see you, Mr. Shayne. I’ve been trying to reach you by telephone.”
The white-haired lady coughed delicately. Carlton turned to her and said, “Mr. Shayne, this is Mrs. Carlton.”
She closed her book with a finger between the pages and said, “You look more like a truck driver than a detective, Mr. Shayne,” but her eyes held a pleasurable glint.
“I can drive a truck, too,” Shayne told her.
“You’ve been hurt,” she said, her blue eyes lingering on his face. “Have you had another encounter with those gangsters?”
“Yes… for heaven’s sake, Shayne,” Carlton broke in with a tremolo of fear. “You’re all battered up.”
Shayne laughed and touched his swollen, salved lip. “A bee stung me. I’m allergic to bees,” he added gravely to Mrs. Carlton.
“This is scarcely the time for joking,” Carlton reprimanded.
“I didn’t know whether you wanted to discuss business just now,” Shayne apologized. He looked at the man standing back from Carlton’s desk.
“Oh yes… Mr. Bartel knows all about it. Bartel is my compositor and pressman,” Carlton added. “He brought these items up from the office for my okay.” He indicated the litter of proofs and newspaper cuts on the desk.
Studying Bartel with intent eyes, Shayne frowned and said, “Haven’t we met before?”
“I don’t think so.” Bartel’s aloof tone indicated that he would be pleased if they didn’t meet again.
Shayne shrugged and moved close to the desk to ask, “Just what is your business, Carlton?”
“I publish the Coral Gables Trumpet.” He bent forward and opened a drawer.
“Weekly?”
“Yes.” He straightened up and offered Shayne a folded sheet of paper. “I received this threat in the morning mail.”
The threat was typed. On the same Hammond Bond which had been used for Shayne’s letter. It, too, was unsigned and read:
“Maybe your eyesight is too good for your health. You’ve got till tomorrow to decide you made a mistake last night.”