A Redhead for Mike Shayne

12

Armin Lasher was a product of the Prohibition days and had first turned up in Miami as one of Al Capone’s bodyguards. Later, he disappeared for a time, or at least made himself inconspicuous for a period following Capone’s conviction in Federal court, but in the early forties his power began to be increasingly felt in the backwash of Miami’s turbulent underworld, and within a decade he was reputed to be the largest individual vice operator in the area outside of members of the Organization.

He was a ruthless man with a small army of Enforcers on his pay-roll, and competitors who tried to horn in on his territory had a way of disappearing without a trace. Even the Organization had evidently decided to leave him strictly alone after a couple of bloody gun-fights.

He had his fingers in gambling and prostitution and narcotics, and he managed his small empire efficiently from his headquarters in a perfectly legitimate and well-run night club on the western outskirts of Miami, just beyond the city limits. There was no gambling and no vice or rough stuff tolerated at the Little Revue, and you could rub elbows there with bankers and their wives as well as with known killers who parked their shoulder holsters before entering.

When Shayne turned into the floodlighted parking lot there were at least a hundred cars in orderly rows, and he was waved into an open slot far removed from the entrance by a uniformed parking attendant.

He got out and walked back through the lighted area toward the big two-story building, entered a tastefully decorated lounging-waiting room with a dim cocktail bar on the right and the main dining room on the left. He shook his red head at an alert maitre d’ at the entrance to the dining room, crossed to a well-lighted hallway leading toward the rear, and went down it to a carpeted stairway at the back.

There were restrooms on the right and left at the top of the stairs, and closed doors on both sides of the corridor in front of him.

Shayne went to the second door on the left which was marked PRIVATE, turned the knob and stepped inside. There was a small anteroom with a desk in the center of it and a man behind the desk. He was a big man with steely eyes and a crew-cut, and he wore a well-cut sport jacket of Italian silk. He looked at the redhead speculatively and asked in a grating voice, “Looking for someone?” He didn’t add “Buster” but somehow the appellation was implied.

Shayne said, “Lasher.”

“He expecting you?”

“No. But he’ll see me.”

“What makes you think so?” This time the implied “Buster” was more pronounced.

Shayne said, “Nuts,” and started past the desk toward an unmarked, closed door behind the big man.

He was on his feet instantly and in front of the redhead, growling deep in his throat, “Hold it, Bud. I say who sees the boss and who don’t.”

His eyes were level with Shayne’s, and big biceps muscles bulged inside his imported jacket.

Shayne half-turned to the right as though he were backing away, dropped his left shoulder and drove it hard against the man’s solid chest.

He stumbled backward, struggling to maintain his footing, and Shayne kept on moving and put his hand on the knob of the inner door.

The man was six feet away when he straightened himself and his hand darted under the left lapel of his carefully fitted jacket where a very faint bulge was visible.

Shayne looked at him over his shoulder and shook his red head half an inch from right to left, and said reprovingly, “No rough stuff, Buster. You know the boss doesn’t like it.” He opened the door and stepped inside and closed it tightly behind him.

The inner office was large, at least twenty by thirty feet, and was luxuriously furnished and decorated to fit a television producer’s dream of what a big-shot gangster’s office should look like. The desk in the center was an eight by ten foot expanse of gleaming mahogany with three telephones ranged in front of the man who sat erect behind it. There was wall-to-wall carpeting a couple of inches thick with foam rubber beneath that, and soft, indirect lighting, and cushioned settees ranged along two sides of the room. There were ostentatiously framed and individually-lighted paintings of reclining nudes in the center of each of the four walls, and the final, perfect, decorator’s touch was the four shining brass spittoons which stood in each corner.

Armin Lasher was in his middle-sixties and appeared to be at least twenty years younger. If you didn’t know better you might have suspected it was due to clean living on his part. He had high cheekbones and bronzed hard features, liquid black eyes that were alert and intelligent, a firm mouth and strong chin.

He looked across the shining surface of his desk at the redhead with his left eyebrow quirked, and then at the door which Shayne had closed behind him.

It was jerked open as he looked at it, and Crew-cut from the outer office came lunging in with a.380 automatic in his right hand which he flourished at Shayne while he said rapidly, “This bastid shoved right on in, Chief. I didn’t get no chance to ring you.”

Lasher said coldly, “Beat it, Tiny. Try to do better next time.” He moved his gaze to Shayne and a faint smile flickered over his hard mouth. “Still doing things the hard way, Shamus? Last time you were in my office it cost me ten grand.”

Shayne shrugged and moved forward to a deep chair upholstered in green leather in front of the desk, and sank down into it. He said, “I’m not taking up a collection for a widow this time, Lasher.” He paused to consider his words with a frown. “Or… maybe I am at that. I hadn’t thought about that angle.”

“What is your angle?” Lasher asked easily.

“Russian hand-guns. Lenski twelve-oh-sevens, to be explicit.”

“Oh.” Armin Lasher’s expression and voice betrayed only mild interest. “What the devil are they, Shamus?”

Shayne got out a cigarette and lit it. “I think you know as much about them as I do.”

Lasher said, “Maybe. How much do you know?”

Shayne said, “I know they pack one hell of a wallop. And I know that two men have been murdered in the last couple of hours on account of them. By two of your boys, Lasher.”

“Is that so?” he murmured. “My boys do get around, don’t they? Can you prove that, Shayne?”

“I can prove enough to make it damned hot for them in Miami.”

“Why come to me?” asked Lasher indifferently. “If some of my boys have been getting out of line… and if you can prove it… they’ll have to take the consequences.”

Shayne said, “I’m really here to make a trade, Lasher. How many Lenskis for a woman named Molly Morgan… delivered all in one piece?”

This time, Shayne saw, he did get through to the gangster. Lasher’s head jerked and his eyes became hard and probing. “Come again,” he ejaculated.

“I’m suggesting a trade,” Shayne told him evenly. “You’ve got Molly… I’ve got the Lenskis.”

Lasher said, “I don’t know any Molly. Never heard of a dame by that name. What’s eating you, Shayne?”

The detective shrugged and leaned back to take a deep drag on his cigarette. “All right. I’ll settle for Dixie and Bull. I’m taking them in, Lasher, on a charge of murder. And I think I can prove they were acting on direct orders from you.”

“Dixie and Bull?” Lasher leaned back and laughed easily. “They’re real nice boys. Wouldn’t either one of them hurt a fly. What’s this murder you’re talking about?”

“Not one. Two, Lasher. Tonight. And a kidnapping on top of that.” He leaned forward angrily. “You can’t cover this up. Play ball with me or by God they’re both going to fry… and when they fry they’ll squeal like stuck pigs, and I think maybe you’ll fry with them, Lasher. Think that over very carefully before you try to brush it off.”

“You scare hell out of me,” Lasher told him indifferently. “Bull and Dixie, you say? Those two boys have been playing penny ante in a back room here since six o’clock this evening. There’s five witnesses that’ll swear to that in any court.”

Shayne said bitterly, “I’ll bet.”

“You’d better bet.” Lasher leaned forward and his black eyes glittered. “Now. Maybe you better tell me what the hell this is all about… now we got it settled that my boys have got alibis.”

Shayne said carefully, “Their alibis won’t stand up, Lasher. They were seen driving away from Captain Ruffer’s house a little over an hour ago… and not more than five minutes before he was found lying dead with three of his fingernails torn out by the roots. They played too rough with the old captain,” he went on dispassionately. “He wasn’t in any physical condition to take that kind of treatment, and so you didn’t get the information you wanted from him. You still don’t know where to find that shipment of Russian guns.”

Lasher said flatly, “I’ve got five witnesses that’ll say they been playing poker steady since six o’clock. Who’s your witness that’ll say different?”

“Me.” Shayne tapped his own chest. “The name is Mike Shayne, Lasher. It was my car they damned near ran down without any lights making their get-away. I don’t know who your five witnesses are, but I’ll enjoy calling them liars in court when Dixie and Bull are on trial for murdering Captain Ruffer.”

Lasher shook his head. “They didn’t kill him, Shayne. He was already dead by the time they got to him. They felt real bad about that because they figure that whoever killed him got the info they were after.”

Shayne said, “Even if they can prove that… which I doubt… they still have to answer for the death of the old pawnbroker.”

“How do you figure that?”

“Because they were seen going into the store by his wife who was looking out an upstairs window. And the only way they could possibly have got Ruffer’s name and address was from Wilshinskis.”

“I don’t know anything about anybody with a name like that,” Lasher told him drily. “Neither do the boys. I sent them to Ruffer, Shayne. I admit I am interested in the Lenskis floating around Miami and hoped to get a line on them. But you beat my boys to Ruffer, huh, and got the dope for yourself? Maybe we can make a deal at that.”

“I didn’t see Ruffer until after Dixie and Bull left him dead. Did you send them to my hotel after they reported back from Ruffer?”

“Why would I do a thing like that? I got witnesses to prove they’ve been playing poker the last hour at least.”

“The same witnesses who were going to swear they hadn’t left here since six o’clock until you discovered I could place them at the captain’s house?”

“That’s right.” Lasher leaned back comfortably. “I wouldn’t want them to go into court and call you a liar.”

Shayne said roughly, “Get them in here. I want to know what they did with Molly Morgan.”

“They won’t like being pushed around by a private dick,” Lasher warned him. “I don’t care much for it either,” he added dispassionately. “You got guns for sale… maybe we can talk business. But leave Dixie and Bull out of it, huh?”

“I want to talk to those bastards,” Shayne said violently. “If they didn’t pull Molly out of her hotel, I want to know who did. Get them in here, Lasher, or I’ll start breaking down doors in this joint until I find their goddamned poker game.”

He got to his feet and glared down at the gangster who remained relaxed behind his desk.

Standing like that he didn’t see a side door open behind him, and his first intimation that they were no longer alone came when Lasher said evenly, “You boys been listening in since I opened the intercom circuit?”

Shayne turned slowly and saw Dixie and Bull advancing toward him across the deep carpet. Dixie was young and fair-haired and looked almost fragile beside Bull who was at least a head shorter and a good hundred pounds heavier. Bull had cauliflower ears and a permanently disjointed nose, and he had small, hot eyes set close together beneath a low, flat forehead. A leather blackjack swung from his right hand, and the pleased look on his face suggested that he hopefully anticipated using it on the redhead.

But of the two of them, Shayne knew that Dixie was the more dangerous. His eyes were wide and staring and had the hypnotic glaze of a sleep-walker. He was, Shayne realized instantly, loaded to the gills with dope and ready to explode like a firecracker at any moment. He had his right hand bunched inside the pocket of his jacket, and he said in a listless voice, “We been listening to this son-of-a-bitch speak his piece, Boss. We’ll take him, huh? We’ll blast his guts…”

“Hold it,” Lasher said sharply. “I want to know about this dame he keeps harping on. If you two lugs pulled something on your own…”

“Honest to God, Boss,” protested Bull in hurt protest. “We don’t know nothin’ about no dame. You know what?” he went on eagerly. “We told you ’bout seein’ a guy leave the captain’s house when we went in an’ found him dead. A big guy like this redhead. What’s he accusin’ us about?”

They had stopped two feet in front of Shayne. Bull flat-footed and menacing with the blackjack swinging in short arcs by his side, Dixie poised as lithe as a cat on the balls of his feet with his head cocked a little to one side and a seraphic smile on his bland features as though he were listening to the strains of sweet music which none of the others could hear.

Lasher looked from the pair of them to Michael Shayne with a thin smile, and asked, “You still feel like taking them in, Shamus, and charging them with murder and kidnapping?”

Shayne shifted his gaze away from them to the man behind the desk, and said evenly, “You’d better tell your hophead to be good, Lasher. He’s going out of control in a moment, and I don’t think you want your nice office messed up with my blood.”

“Why, no,” Armin Lasher agreed pleasantly. “No need for anybody to get hurt, I guess. You want to talk any more about Russian guns, Shayne? You suggested some kind of deal when you first walked in here.”

Shayne reminded him, “That was when I thought you could give me Molly Morgan. Now these two gunsels claim they didn’t grab Molly.”

“Don’t be calling me no gunsel,” growled Bull, taking a step closer. “Lemme slug him, Boss. It won’t make no mess.”

“No rough stuff,” Lasher told him. “You heard him asking about a dame named Molly Morgan. Either one of you ever hear of her before this?”

They both shook their heads solemnly, like schoolboys denying that they had written dirty words on outhouse walls.

“Sorry I can’t help you, Shayne. If I get any word on your missing twitch I’ll be glad to talk a deal with you.”

“Aren’t you taking one thing too much for granted, Lasher?” Shayne turned more away from the hoods and leaned forward with both hands resting on the desk.

“What’s that?”

“All you’ve got is their word for it that Ruffer was dead when they reached him. Maybe you don’t know how much money is involved in the gun deal, but if you had any idea you might well suspect that they’re holding out information on you. How the hell do you know they didn’t pull out his fingernails until he talked… and are clamming up in the hopes of cashing in without you?”

“Because I know my boys,” Lasher told him patiently.

Shayne said, “Nuts! I wouldn’t trust your hophead or that stupid ape if they swore on a stack of Bibles. I suggest you’d do well to…”

“I suggest you shut your big mouth,” Lasher told him. He jerked his head toward the men behind the detective. “Take him down… the back way. Put him in his car and see that he gets out of here.”

Shayne straightened up with a sigh. “If that’s the way you want it…”

“That’s the way it’s going to be.”

Shayne stood stiffly with his hands at his sides while Dixie and Bull moved in on each side of him and each took hold on an arm and turned him away to the door through which they had entered.

He went with them without protest and without looking back, through a small, unoccupied room and out to a narrow hallway that led along the back of the building.

There was a heavily-barred door at the end of the hall, and Bull unbarred and opened it to disclose wooden steps leading down to a small, unlighted private parking lot at the rear of the night club.

Each of them held an arm as they went down the stairs, and when they reached the bottom, Shayne stopped and said, “Okay. I can make it from here.”

“I guess not,” Dixie demurred in his flat voice. “Boss said we was to see you into your car. That right, Bull?”

“That’s right. We go around this way an’ avoid the front entrance. You show us where you’re parked, Shamus.”

They hustled him forward along the back of the building and along the other side toward the lighted parking lot, holding both of his arms tightly, and Shayne made no resistance.

He knew how high Dixie was wound up, and that Bull would enjoy nothing better than working him over with his sap if he gave them the slightest excuse for doing so.

So he walked stiffly and circumspectly between the two men to the front of the building, jerked his head toward the right-hand rear of the rows of parked cars, and said, “It’s over that way… if you boys still insist.”

“Boss wouldn’t like you to get lost on your way out,” Bull told him gruffly. “Which one is yours?”

Shayne led them to it and the three of them stopped beside the left-hand front door. Half a dozen other cars had pulled up since Shayne had parked there, and filled up that row, and the attendant was now busy down at the other end of the line directing late-comers into parking places.

They let go of his arms and stepped back and he reached for the door handle, and Dixie’s venom-laden voice hissed, “Sap him good, Bull. We’ll put him in his car like the Boss said.”

The blackjack whistled through the night air and took him cunningly on the side of the neck just below his right jaw-line, and as he went down he felt Dixie’s sharp fingernails raking the other side of his face while laughter happily gurgled out of the hophead’s mouth.

“That’ll learn him,” Bull said virtuously. “He’p me lift him up now and shove him in the front seat.”

Shayne had enough sense and consciousness remaining to keep his body perfectly limp as the two hoods lifted and wrestled him into the car beneath the steering wheel. He slumped back against the cushion and waggled his head gingerly to be sure it was still set solidly on his shoulders, and then put his left hand up to his face wonderingly and took it away sticky with blood.

Bull slammed the door shut and peered inside, snickering happily, “You sure marked him up good, Dixie. If he does find that dame tonight, he ain’t gonna be much use to her. Get that heap movin’,” he went on harshly to Shayne. “Next time you come around with a pack of lies, Dixie an’ me’ll work you over good.”

Shayne straightened himself behind the wheel and turned on the headlights and ignition. He was trembling with rage and there was a red mist before his eyes, but he had managed to stay alive a lot of years by knowing when discretion was the better part of valor.

This was one of those times, he told himself grimly, and he devoted all his energy and attention to the task of getting his car backed out and headed out of the parking lot and away from the Little Revue.