“Shut up!” Shayne lashed out. “I know the girl is Julia Lansdowne, and I know how much you’ve done for her, you lousy, blackmailing punk. Before God, Moran—”
“Wait a minute — wait a minute.” Moran was swaying and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “What the hell are you talking about? What kind of song and dance did Dorrie feed you? Me — with my hooks in her! After I picked her up in the gutter and coached her until she could hold down a job in a second-rate joint like La Roma? That’s all the thanks I get.”
“Do you deny that her real name is Julia Lansdowne?”
“Hell, I don’t know what her real name is. Neither does Dorrie.”
“Do you deny that you got her to smoke marijuana at a house party in Fort Lauderdale and got a picture of her dancing nude with you — and used it to coerce her to take this job?”
Ricky Moran frowned with a look of honest perplexity. “That Dorrie,” he marveled. “How she can spoon it out. I’ve felt all along that she belongs on Broadway.” A slow smile spread his mouth and his black eyes glittered. “Tell me the rest of it. What’s the fancy name she gave you?”
Shayne studied Moran’s face for a long moment. He turned away abruptly and seated himself on the couch near the cognac bottle, pushed the unused glass to the other side and said, “Sit down. Pour yourself a drink. You and I are going to have a long talk.”
Moran seated himself in the chair recently vacated by the girl. “I should be plenty sore.” He poured a small drink. “Not that I blame you so much. Dorrie does get under a man’s skin. I know she fed you some kind of sob story at the table tonight — until I came along and broke it up.” He took a small sip of cognac. “So she made a date with you.” He spread out his long, thin hands and shrugged indifferently.
“Okay,” he continued. “Do you blame me for getting sore? Wouldn’t you?” He settled back with the glass in his hand. “I know a man is a fool to try and hang onto a dame if she’s tired of him. But with Dorrie and me — it’s been different, see? It hurts, damn it.”
Shayne took a leisurely drink and said, “You’re a lousy liar, Moran.”
“You mean you still believe the crap that little—”
“Hold it,” Shayne growled. “Calling Julia names won’t get you anything except maybe some teeth knocked out. What about Mrs. Davis?”
“What about who?” Moran jerked himself erect.
“Mrs. Elbert Davis.”
“I don’t know any Mrs. Davis,” Moran protested sullenly.
“What else were you doing at the Waldorf Towers tonight?”
Moran averted his eyes from Shayne’s hard gaze. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Didn’t you intercept the note Mrs. Davis sent backstage to Dorinda night before last?”
“Lotsa folks send notes back to Dorrie. If I get hold of them first she doesn’t see them.” Moran drank the last of his drink.
“What about this?” Shayne picked up Dorinda’s publicity photograph from the table where it had fallen, face down. “Attempted blackmail is a felony. I’ve got the note you sent along with the picture to Mrs. Lansdowne.”
Ricky Moran appeared to be completely mystified. He only glanced at the photograph, then looked angrily at the detective and said, “That’s twice you’ve mentioned blackmail.”
“I’m in a mood to do more than talk about it, Moran. For my money you stink worse than a skunk.” He came to his feet with big fists swinging.
Moran arose hastily and took a backward step, licking the crack in his lip where the blood was clotted. “You can’t say things like that to me, Shayne.”
“I can take you apart and see what makes a rat like you tick,” he said pleasantly. “When I kick you out the door you’ll have an idea of what will happen to you if you ever try to see Julia Lansdowne again, or ever mention her name.” As he spoke, he advanced steadily.
Moran was backing away. Suddenly, with a snarled oath, he leaped sideways and clawed inside his coat for the weapon concealed there.
Shayne sprang, a long left striking Moran’s shoulder as the automatic came out, spinning the man around. Circling his right arm around, the redhead’s fingers caught Moran’s gun hand in a merciless grip. With his left forearm under his opponent’s chin, Shayne exerted leverage that lifted the man’s body free from the floor where he hung for a moment, gagging and kicking wildly.
There was a muffled shot, and Moran’s body went limp. The smell of burned powder drifted into Shayne’s nostrils as he relaxed his hold, and Moran’s body slumped to the floor.
Shayne stood very still, looking down with brooding hatred at the motionless figure. Presently he leaned down and turned Moran’s body over. His eyes were wide and glazed, the jaw sagging open. Blood trickled from a powder-burned hole in the front of his shirt just below the breastbone, and the automatic was still gripped in his right hand.
Shayne felt the man’s wrist for a pulse. There was no sign of life, and he went directly to the telephone. In a steady voice he asked the desk clerk to ring Police Chief Will Gentry’s telephone at home. He gave the number and waited.
A sleepy voice rumbled, “Gentry.”
“Mike Shayne, Will. There’s a hunk of dead skunk in my apartment. I wish you’d send the boys to cart it away.”
“Are you kidding, Mike? How did—”
“You know I never kid about a stiff.”
“Oh — that. For a minute I thought one of your relatives—”
“Cut it, Will.” Shayne sighed wearily and audibly. “He’s messing up my floor, and the city pays you to take care of things like that.” He hung up, poured himself a drink, and a few minutes later the homicide squad was swarming over the apartment.
Chapter VI
Chief Will Gentry waited impassively until he and Shayne were alone before settling back and rumbling, “Okay, Mike, I know who the stiff is, and you’ve given me your version of how he died. Now, you’d better give me why.”
“Yeh,” said Shayne morosely. “But you won’t like it, Will.”
“I wouldn’t like anything at this hour in the morning,” Gentry grunted. “Don’t you ever go to bed?”
“This happens to be one of my busy nights,” Shayne told him with a slow grin. “I’ve told you Ricky Moran was some sort of a booking agent and was managing a dancer at La Roma.”
Gentry took a cigar from his mouth and looked at its glowing tip. “You’ve told me that,” he said patiently.
“I went out there for dinner last night. I saw the girl dance. After the first show, I bought her a dinner, and we talked. When she was through for the night she came here. About four o’clock. Moran got suspicious and followed her. He didn’t know my room number, and when Dick called me from the desk I got him to stall Moran until I called back. That gave me a chance to get the girl down the fire escape. But Moran didn’t buy it when I tried to tell him she hadn’t been here. He got tough and pulled a gun. I’ve told you the rest — straight self-defense,” he ended with a trace of smugness.
“My God,” Gentry groaned. “You still tomcatting? Maybe it was self-defense in the final analysis, but it’s not good. Fighting over a dance-hall twitch! You steal a guy’s doll—”
“Moran was her manager,” Shayne broke in evenly. “She assured me he had no other strings on her. How the hell was I to know he’d take it that way?”
Gentry moved his graying head slowly from side to side. “What in hell does this dancer have that a hundred others don’t have?” he asked disgustedly.
“For one thing—” Shayne took the picture from its face-down position on the table and handed it to Gentry, then settled back to watch the chief’s face with ironic amusement as it turned a deeper shade of red.