Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 5, No. 3, August 1959

Mike’s case involved a blonde, a missing person and a very ugly racket. And there was, of course, a shake-down murder angle.

I

The pair Lucy Hamilton ushered into Michael Shayne’s office was a distinguished-looking couple. The man, about sixty years old, had glistening snow-white hair and a white, hairline mustache. He was solidly-built and his craggy face gave the impression that he was used to giving commands, and equally used to having them obeyed.

His companion was in her early fifties, with an erect, still slim and shapely figure. Graying hair was attractively arranged around a face whose lack of lines suggested she had the wisdom and means to patronize only luxury beauty shops.

They were both dressed in expensive but conservative clothes.

“Mr. Whitney and Miss Lake,” Lucy announced.

Shayne nodded to the woman, shook hands with the man and indicated chairs. Lucy raised an eyebrow at him in silent inquiry as to whether he wanted her to stay and make notes. When Shayne shook his head, she withdrew and closed the door behind her.

Reseating himself behind his desk, the redheaded detective said, “I understand from our phone conversation that your son is missing, Mr. Whitney. I also believe you said you’re down here from New York. Were the two of you vacationing here?”

“William’s a Miami resident,” Milford Whitney said in a formally precise tone. “He worked — works for the Lake Travel Agency, run by Miss Lake here. I flew down when Mabel phoned me he was missing.”

“Mabel?” Shayne asked, glancing at the woman. “That you, Miss Lake?”

She nodded. “Milford and I are old friends. It was on his request that I gave Bill a job.”

Shayne ran fingers through his coarse red nair. “What were the circumstances of the boy’s disappearance?”

“He’s hardly a boy,” the woman said quickly. “He’s past thirty.”

Shayne looked at Whitney, who said, “Thirty-one last August. Mabel can tell you the details better than I. I was in New York when it happened.”

The redhead looked back at Mabel Lake.

“There’s not much to tell,” she said. “Last Monday — not yesterday, but a week ago — Bill didn’t show for work. When he failed to show Tuesday also, I phoned his apartment, but got no answer. Wednesday, when he missed a third day, I phoned again, then finally went over there. The building supervisor had no recollection of seeing him around since the previous Saturday night, when he caught a brief glimpse of him — leaving alone about seven-thirty. Then I called the police and reported him missing.”

Shayne asked curiously, “You didn’t try even a phone contact until Tuesday? Then waited another twenty-four hours before going to his apartment? Why?”

Mabel Lake flushed slightly. Avoiding Whitney’s eyes, she said in a low voice, “He’d missed work without excuse before.”

Milford Whitney said in a bitter tone, “I’m afraid my son isn’t very dependable, Mr. Shayne. I tried him in a half dozen spots in my own company, and finally had to let him go. It got to be such a company joke that the boss’s son couldn’t handle any job, it was disrupting the whole organization. I asked Mabel to try him out because I thought getting him away from New York night clubs might work a change. But I guess it was wishful thinking. Miss Lake has been more than lenient with him.”

“I see,” Shayne said. He gave his left earlobe a thoughtful tug, and said to Mabel Lake, “If he was last seen on Saturday, actually four days elapsed before you reported it. Is that right?”

Mabel nodded. “Then I waited two more days before phoning Milford. I thought—”

When her voice trailed off, Whitney said glumly, “She thought he was probably just off on a drunk. Until the police told her what they found in his apartment.”

“What was that?”

“A supply of heroin and what the police refer to as a rig,” Whitney said with bitterness. “A syringe and spoon and alcohol lamp. Apparently my son is an addict, Mr. Shayne.”

Shayne’s shaggy eyebrows drew together in a frown. “What else did the police say?”

“Nothing. There isn’t a single clue. They’ve been unable to find a single person who saw him after his building supervisor saw him leave his apartment ten days ago.”

“Any of his friends or associates have theories?”

The woman said, “He doesn’t seem to have any close associates, Mr. Shayne. The police turned up a night-club photographer he had a few dates with, but otherwise he seems to have spent his time alone.”

Whitney said, “He’s always been something of a loner. Maybe it’s partly my fault for being too strict on the boy when he was young. I’m afraid it gave him an inferiority complex quite early in life. They say people don’t turn to alcohol or drugs unless they feel inferior.”

Shayne said, “Who’s the nightclub photographer?”

Mabel Lake frowned thoughtfully, finally shook her head. “I’m afraid I can’t recall the name. I suppose you could get it from the police.”

Shayne grunted, “Not much to go on. Why do you think I can find your son if the police can’t, Mr. Whitney?”

“Maybe you can’t,” Whitney said wearily. “But they’re not accomplishing anything. As nearly as I can gather, all they did was broadcast his description, then sit back and wait for someone to phone in. I understand that if you take a case, at least you work at it.”

“Sure,” the redhead said. “When there’s something to work on. I’ll look into it, if you like. But I can’t guarantee results on the skimpy information you’ve given me.”

“I’d appreciate it if you’d try anyway, Mr. Shayne.” Whitney reached for his checkbook. “I’ll give you a retainer.”

“See my secretary on the way out,” Shayne said. “She’ll explain the rates and give you a receipt. Do you have a picture of your son?”

Drawing out his wallet, the man removed a three-by-five photograph. It was of a handsome but sullen appearing young man with even features and a deeply-cleft chin. After glancing at it, Shayne turned it over, wrote William Whitney, age 31 on the back and glanced up.

“Description?” he asked.

“About five eleven, a hundred and eighty pounds, dark brown hair and brown eyes.”

Shayne wrote down the information, then rose to indicate that the interview was ended. “Where may I reach you, Mr. Whitney?”

“I’m staying at the Statler,” Whitney said, rising also.

Mabel Lake said, “Do you want my address, Mr. Shayne?”

Shayne glanced at her. “I know where the Lake Travel Agency is. And I assume your home address is in the book. If I need you for anything, I’ll get in touch, Miss Lake.” He crossed the room to hold open the door.

Fifteen minutes after Milford Whitney and Mabel Lake left, Shayne was at Police Headquarters. He found Chief Will Gentry in his office.

Will Gentry was puffing a little too rapidly on a blunt cigar, with something less than a contented look on his beefy face. He raised his eyes from the papers he was poring over when Shayne entered, and his expression momentarily lightened. Then it became morose again and he said heavily, “Morning, Mike.”

Dropping his lank frame into a chair, the redhead lit a cigarette. “How are you, Will. Troubles?”

“Always,” the chief said, indicating the pile of papers before him. “Paperwork. Bah! We should save it for cops over eighty. What can I do for you?”

“I need a little information,” Shayne said. “You won’t have it at your fingertips. You’ll probably have to pull the case record. It’s just a routine M.P.”

“On who?”

“A guy named William Whitney, missing about ten days.”

Gentry looked at him curiously. “What makes you think it’s just a routine missing persons?”

Shayne hiked shaggy eyebrows. “Isn’t it?”

“It’s an M.P., all right. But not routine. What’s your interest?”

“His father hired me to find him. What’s yours?”

Gentry said heavily, “Know what we found in his place?”

“Sure,” Shayne said. “Some Horse and a rig. So he’s a user. Since when have you taken over narcotics cases personally?”

The chief said, “Not just a user, Mike. Maybe he was, and maybe he wasn’t. But mere users don’t keep two hundred papers around.”

Shayne emitted a low whistle. “How heavy were they?”

“Ten grains a pop. Cut ten to one with powdered milk as usual, of course, so the actual heroin content only amounted to two hundred grains in all. About six hundred dollars worth at the going retail price.”

Shayne tugged at his left earlobe. “So he was a pusher, huh?” he said thoughtfully. “That changes things.”

“It sure does,” Gentry agreed. “If it was a voluntary disappearance, he wouldn’t have left the junk behind. That would have been asking for it. We think he’s dead.”

After considering a moment, Shayne reluctantly nodded. “You could be right, Will. If it was a gang payoff for some kind of double-cross, he’s probably wearing concrete overshoes on the bottom of the bay. Got anything at all on it?”

Gentry shook his head. “Not even an indirect lead. The guy didn’t seem to have any friends.”

“His employer mentioned some night-club photographer,” Shayne said. “A girl.”

Gentry snorted. “Yeah. A girl named Rose Henderson over at the Club Swallow. We talked to her. Says she had three dates with him, and knows nothing about him — beyond the color of his eyes.”

Punching out his cigarette, Shayne rose. “Well, thanks for nothing, Will.” He tugged at his earlobe again. “Why do you suppose a guy like that would go in for pushing?”

“How do you mean, a guy like that?”

“His father seems to be loaded. Owns his own company in New York. He couldn’t have needed the dough.”

“It wouldn’t be the first rich man’s kid in the business, Mike. Maybe his dad wanted explanations when he tried asking for too much. And it’s an expensive habit.”

“Yeah,” Shayne said slowly. “Which probably means he was a user too. It’s a standard way to pay the toll.”

As he turned toward the door, Gentry said, “Bet you don’t find him before we do, Mike.”

From the doorway the redhead threw him back a sour grin. “Bet you don’t find him before I do either, Will. Bet neither one of us ever finds him.”

He pulled the door closed behind him from outside.

II

The supervisor of the building where William Whitney rented an apartment was a lank, elderly man with a perpetually sad expression. He told Shayne his name was Melvin Cling. Shayne asked him if Whitney had many visitors and if he could describe the people he’d seen coming and going.

The old man shook his head. “Never had a single caller that I saw. Funny, too, after what the cops found in his place. Feller was peddling dope, you know.”

“Yeah, I heard.”

“You’d think customers would have been coming in and out at all hours. But I never saw nobody call. He must have peddled ail of the stuff on the outside.”

Shayne said, “How about a look at his apartment?”

When Melvin Cling looked dubious, the redhead pulled a bill from his wallet and held it out. The dubious expression disappeared. So did the bill.

“Rent’s paid till the end of the month,” the supervisor said. “I can’t move his stuff out till then. But since the cops don’t think he’ll be back, no reason I can’t show the place to prospective tenants.”

He let the detective into Whitney’s apartment with a pass key and followed close on Shayne’s heels as the redhead moved from room to room. There were three rooms and a bath. The sole circumstance of interest Shayne noted was a purely negative one. There was no sign of hurried departure, and no indication that Whitney had packed any clothing. Even his shaving equipment and toothbrush were still in the bathroom.

“Sure looks like he meant to come back, don’t it?” the building supervisor commented.

“Yeah,” Shayne grunted.

All the evidence corroborated Will Gentry’s theory that it hadn’t been a voluntary disappearance.

When Shayne left the apartment building, he returned to his Flagler Street office. His only lead, the nightclub photographer at the Club Swallow, wouldn’t be at work until evening, so there was nothing more he could do at the moment. He spent the rest of the day dictating a few letters, at five went home for a shower and change of clothes, and arrived at the Club Swallow a few minutes after seven.

Club Swallow was a run-of-the-mill supper club and night club, neither exclusive nor a dive. The prices were average, and so were the food and entertaintment.

A pert little brunette behind the checkroom counter looked over Shayne’s rangy frame with interest when he handed her his hat. “Aren’t you Michael Shayne, the detective?” she asked.

“Uh-huh,” Shayne said.

“I’m Pauline Frazier. You got my boy friend out of a jam once. Only he wasn’t my boy friend then.”

“Oh?” Shayne said. “Who was that?”

“Bob Withers.”

Shayne furrowed his brow.

“He was up on an armed-robbery charge,” she prompted him. “You found the fellow who really did it.”

“Yes, I remember now,” the redhead said. “About three years back. How’s Bob doing?”

“Wonderfully. He’s got his own filling station now, you know. As soon as he finishes paying off the mortgage, we’re going to be married.”

Shayne smiled at her. “Wish you happiness, Pauline. Give Bob my regards.”

Pocketing his check, he moved on into the dining room. A handsome, black-haired headwaiter with a thin black mustache moved forward and gave him a deferential bow. “Alone, sir?” he inquired.

Then, as the detective nodded, the headwaiter’s eyes momentarily narrowed. “Aren’t you Michael Shayne?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Shayne said with a frown.

It was not unusual for strangers to recognize him but he was surprised and startled by the head-waiter’s reaction. The man’s tone was definitely wary, even hostile. Sometimes the detective encountered wariness in people he knew, particularly when he ran into some underworld character he’d clashed with in the past. But strangers usually exhibited friendly interest when they met him, and sometimes acted downright thrilled. Shayne was sure he’d never seen this man before. But he was equally sure the head-waiter was upset by his appearance.

The man led him to a table against the wall, snapped his fingers at a waiter and disappeared. When the waiter came over, the redhead ordered dinner and told him to bring a double cognac with ice water behind it first.

While sipping his drink, Shayne looked around for Rose Henderson. He spotted her across the room taking a picture of a table of two couples. She was a well-formed blonde in her late twenties, he noted, with regular features and a pleasant smile. She wore an off-the-shoulder evening gown which exposed smoothly-rounded shoulders and a flawless back.

He made no attempt to catch the young lady’s eye, knowing she would get to him eventually. He had finished dinner and was smoking a cigarette over coffee when she finally did.

“Like a photograph, sir?” she asked with a smile, but in a tone suggesting she would be surprised if he replied in the affirmative. Men dining alone aren’t usually interested in being photographed in night clubs.

“Maybe,” Shayne said. “Depends.”

“On what, sir?”

“On whether you’ll sit down and have a drink with me afterward.”

She looked him over estimatingly and decided she approved. Then she glanced over the house. “I’ve covered most of the diners here now,” she said. “I guess I can afford a break.”

Raising the camera, she said, “Smile pretty now.”

Shayne obediently smiled and a flash bulb exploded.

“Be right back,” she said. “Soon as I put some films to soak.”

Crossing the room, she disappeared through a door at the rear. Shayne signaled for his waiter, ordered more cognac and told him also to bring whatever Miss Henderson customarily drank. When she returned five minutes later, the drinks were already on the table.

As Shayne held a chair for her, she said in a pleased tone, “How’d you know I drink rum and coke?”

“It isn’t very complicated,” he said dryly as he reseated himself. “I just asked the waiter to bring your usual drink.”

“Oh,” she said with mock disappointment. “I hoped you’d gone to a great deal of trouble to learn my tastes. I thought maybe you were a secret admirer.”

“Just an admirer. There’s nothing secret about it.”

“Um, I like gallant men,” she said. She raised her glass. “I’m Rose Henderson.”

“Mike Shayne,” the redhead said, raising his own glass.

Her glass remained suspended and she looked surprised. “The private detective?”

“Uh-huh.”

The glass traveled the rest of the distance to her lips and she drank deeply. When she set it down again she asked half-mockingly, “Was it my beauty and charm that made you invite me to have a drink? Or am I a suspect in some case you’re investigating?”

“Some of both,” he said easily. “Your beauty and charm would have made me invite you even if I’d come in just for pleasure. But actually I was looking for you.”

“Oh? What crime have I committed?”

“None that I know of. William Whitney’s father has engaged me to find him.”

Her smile faded. In a wary tone she said, “I told the police all I know about him. I only had a few dates with him.”

A figure suddenly loomed next to the table. Glancing up, Shayne saw it was the headwaiter. He was glowering down at Rose Henderson.

In a stiff voice the man said, “You’re not supposed to sit with customers, Rose.”

The girl looked up at him in astonishment. “Since when, Charlie?”

“Since right now.”

Elevating her nose, the blonde said, “Don’t you order me around, Charlie Velk. I’m not one of your waiters. I work for Hank Goodrich, not you.”

The headwaiter started to reach for her wrist, but abruptly halted the movement when Shayne stared at him in an ominously intent way and edged slightly forward in his chair.

Dropping his hand to his side, Velk looked down at Shayne for an instant with an expression of controlled rage. Then he did a curt about-face and walked away.

“What’s his trouble?” the redhead inquired. “Jealousy?”

“He always fusses when I sit with a customer,” Rose said with indifference. “Though this is the first time he hasn’t waited until afterward. He must think that you’re heavier competition than usual.”

“He your boy friend?”

She smiled complacently. “He’d like to be. But I’m not on a leash to anyone.”

In a casual tone Shayne asked, “Was he jealous of Bill Whitney?”

She gave him a quick glance. “Of course not. Bill and I weren’t serious.”

“Neither are you and I,” the detective pointed out. “But he tried to break us up.”

She looked a little uncomfortable. “I think I’d better leave now. Some new people have come in.” She started to rise. “I’ll bring your picture over in a few minutes.”

Shayne rose also. “How late do you work?”

“Just till midnight. Another girl takes over then.”

“May I stop back and buy you a drink somewhere else?”

She gave him a contemplative look. “You won’t find out anything about Bill from me. I don’t know anything.”

“I’m not all business,” Shayne told her. “Maybe I just want to buy you a drink.”

She studied him again. “All right,” she said.

She moved away and Shayne watched the smooth movement of her hips as she disappeared through the door she had used before. In a few moments she reappeared with a stack of photographs and began going from table to table, handing them out and receiving money in return.

When she reached Shayne’s table, she smiled a little distantly and said, “One fifty please, sir.”

Shayne paid, glanced at the picture and thrust it into a pocket. As the girl moved away again, he saw headwaiter Charlie Velk stop her and say something in a heated tone. Rose tossed her head and walked away from him.

Shayne called for his check, paid the bill and left.

III

Exactly at midnight Shayne entered Club Swallow again. As he passed the hatcheck counter he winked at the brunette Pauline and said, “I’ll keep my hat this time. I’m not staying.”

The headwaiter met him at the entrance to the club proper. He gave Shayne a cold smile. “Miss Henderson left a message for you,” he said. “She wasn’t feeling well, so she went home early.”

“Oh?” Shayne said with a frown. Glancing about the club, he saw that an evening-gowned redhead not nearly as attractive as Rose was now moving from table to table with a camera. “Where’s home?”

“We can’t pass out such information about club employees,” Velk said with evident enjoyment. “And you won’t find it in the book. She has an unlisted number.”

Shayne studied the man’s handsome chin moodily. He growled, “With your personality, it’s a wonder the patrons don’t get indignant just as a matter of course.”

Turning on his heel, Shayne stalked away.

As he started to pass the checkroom counter, he paused, then changed direction and went over to it. Glancing toward the club-room entrance, he saw that Velk had disappeared.

“You know Rose Henderson, Pauline?” Shayne asked.

“The photographer? Sure, Mr. Shayne.”

“What time did she leave tonight?”

“Leave?” the girl said. “She hasn’t yet.”

“You sure?” he asked sharply.

“Certain. She always calls goodnight as she goes past.”

Shayne tugged at his left earlobe. “Any back exit?”

“Yes, but Rose never uses it. She always goes out the front way.”

Thanking the girl, Shayne returned to the archway into the main room. The midnight floor-show was just starting and the house lights had dimmed. Charlie Velk was nowhere in sight.

The redhead circled the room to the door he had seen Rose enter earlier. It led to a hallway at the rear of the club. On one side of the hall there was a door labeled: Dark Room — Keep Out. Across from it another door with a red sign over it reading: Exit.

Shayne pulled open the dark room door, glanced in and saw it was empty. Then he opened the door marked: Manager.

Three people were in the room. A large, heavy-shouldered man with sleek blond hair sat behind a desk. Rose Henderson sat sullenly in a chair before the desk, her lips tightly compressed. Charlie Velk leaned against a wall. The big man, whom Shayne assumed was the club manager, Hank Goodrich, whom Rose had mentioned, was emphasizing his points by pounding a clenched fist on the desk top.

As the redhead stepped inside, the big man was saying, “Are you out of your head, Rose? Suppose this shamus starts making trouble for us. Suppose he—” He broke off when he saw Shayne and scowled up at the detective.

Hooking his hat onto the hook of a clothes-tree next to the door, Shayne said to the headwaiter, “You tell lies, don’t you, Charlie?” He gave Rose a chummy smile. “Charlie said you’d gone home sick.”

The blonde looked nervous and upset. She said weakly, “Something came up, Mike. Maybe we’d better make it another time.”

Shayne said, “You wouldn’t stand me up, would you, Rose? Let’s get going.”

Charlie Velk took a step toward Shayne. “You heard her, Shayne. On your way.”

Shayne gave the man a curious glance, moved forward and drew Rose to her feet by one hand. Velk’s expression grew enraged. He swung a fast right at Shayne’s head.

Shayne moved his head two inches to one side and Velk’s fist whistled past it. Releasing Rose’s hand, the detective drove a hard right into the headwaiter’s stomach. As Velk bent double with a grunt, Shayne landed a left hook on his jaw. The man went over backward, rolled into a corner and lay still.

Meantime the nightclub manager had come out of his chair. He started to move toward Shayne and then seemed to think better of it.

Shayne shrugged and lifted his hat from the clothes-tree. Taking Rose’s elbow, he steered her out into the hall.

He could feel the girl’s arm tremble under his touch. She said fearfully, “Hank’s going to be mad.”

“At you?” he asked. “Why? You didn’t clobber his headwaiter.”

She continued to tremble all the way down the hall to the fear exit and across the parking lot to Shayne’s car. When they were both seated in the car, Shayne offered her a cigarette. He noted that it shook in her lips when he held a light for her.

Lighting his own, he said, “Why so nervous? Afraid you’ll lose your job?”

“Not that,” she said in a low voice. “Hank won’t fire me. But I’m in for another bawling out.”

“What’s his objection to your going out with me?”

“He wasn’t objecting to that,” she said quickly. “It was something else he was sore about.” Shayne was sure the nightclub manager had been ordering her not to go out with him, but he didn’t press the point. “Where’d you like to go?” he asked.

“Home, I think. I don’t feel up to another nightclub. We can have a drink at my place.”

“All right,” Shayne said. “But you’d better tell me the address.”

She had an apartment on the east side. It was a comfortably-furnished, three-room place with a large living room. By the time they reached it, the girl’s nervousness seemed to have increased instead of abating.

“Why so scared?” Shayne asked her. “You’re safe here.”

“I’ll be all right,” she said. “Fix a drink while I get into something comfortable.”

Pointing to a sideboard containing bottles and glasses, she went into the bedroom and closed the door.

There was an assortment of liquors on the sideboard, including some brandy, Shayne was pleased to discover. Going into the kitchen, he got some ice cubes from the refrigerator and made a tall glass of ice water. Noticing Coca Cola in the refrigerator, he made Rose a rum and coke. He poured himself a double shot of brandy and set the drinks on a low cocktail table before the sofa. Then he sat on the sofa and waited.

A full twenty minutes passed before the girl finally emerged from the bedroom. She was wearing a white terry-cloth housecoat and bedroom slippers. Her nervousness had disappeared and she acted almost gay. Crossing to the sofa, she sat down close to Shayne, picked up her drink and drained it in one continuous gulp.

Suddenly, quite by accident, the terry cloth parted a little, just above her right knee. Shayne’s eyes widened. Abruptly jerking the housecoat wide open, he leaned forward and glanced down. She drew her knees together and clutched the housecoat closed again, but not quite quickly enough.

She stared at him as he released his grip on the edge of the garment, leaned back and said in a dry tone, “You’ve got quite a few needle scars on the inner parts of your thighs, Rose. And your pupils are like pinpoints. You just had a pop in the bedroom, didn’t you?”

She made no reply, just continued to stare at him.

“How bad are you hooked?” he asked roughly.

“I’m not hooked,” she said quickly. “I just play with it a little for laughs. I could kick it any time.”

“Sure you could,” Shayne said sarcastically. “If they put you in a strait-jacket. Who got you on the junk? Bill Whitney?”

She looked startled. “What makes you ask that?”

“He was a pusher, wasn’t he?” the redhead shot at her.

She shook her head slowly. “Where’d you get that idea?”

“Two hundred papers of heroin were found in his apartment,” Shayne said. “Don’t try to tell me he wasn’t involved in the racket.”

The news didn’t seem to surprise her. She said almost defensively, “He was just a leg man. He never in his life got anybody hooked. In fact, he was trying to help me get off the stuff.”

“So you’re hooked bad enough to need help,” Shayne pounced. “What was Whitney’s interest?”

In a low voice she said, “He... he wanted to marry me. I don’t think it was love. I think it was just desperation.”

“How do you mean?”

“He was hooked too,” she said miserably. “That’s how he got involved in delivering the stuff to retailers. It was the only way he could pay the toll. He thought if we fought it together, maybe we could help each other kick it.”

“What did you think?”

“I was all for the mutual-help idea. I said we’d table marriage talk until we were both straightened out. We tried gradual withdrawal, but it was too tough. Bill gave up. He was going to turn himself in for a forced cure.”

“Turn himself in where?” Shayne asked sharply.

“To the cops. He figured that in jail he’d have to kick it.”

“He meant to blow the whistle on his boss?” the redhead asked.

“I guess,” she said reluctantly.

Shayne said, “No wonder he disappeared. His boss know he was yelling cop?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know who he worked for. All I know is he was the leg man who delivered the stuff to—”

When she stopped abruptly, Shayne said, “To the club? That where you get your supply?”

She looked at him in fright, then gave a hopeless shrug. “The club is a retail outlet. Charlie Velk is the guy who started me on the junk. That’s how I met Bill. He came in every Wednesday night to make a delivery.”

Shayne asked, “That why Goodrich and Velk didn’t want you to see me? They were afraid Bill Whitney’s trail would lead to them?”

She nodded. “You can’t blame them. I’m sure they don’t know what happened to him. But your prying around might turn up the fact that they’re pushers.”

The redhead mused for a moment, then asked. “Who brings the stuff in since Whitney disappeared?”

“I don’t know his name. He’s only been in once. Last Wednesday night. I didn’t even know Bill was missing then.”

“What’s he look like?”

“He’s tall and thin. Black hair and deep-set eyes. About thirty-five.”

“What time does he get there?”

“About ten last Wednesday. Bill always came in about then, too.”

“What door does he use? Front or back?”

“Bill always came in the back way, then remained in the club for a while and left by the front door. The new man used the back door both times. I just happened to see him because I was coming out of the dark room.”

Rising from the sofa, Shayne picked up his hat. The girl looked up at him.

“You’re leaving?” she asked, her face strained and almost bloodless.

He merely nodded, but there was sympathy in his eyes.

Walking to the door, he pulled it open, looked back at her once and walked out. She was not looking at the door. She was seated with her hands in her lap, sightlessly staring ahead of her.

There was more than just dejection in her attitude. There was fear.

IV

The next night, Wednesday, Shayne was parked in the lot behind Club Swallow at nine o’clock. He placed his car in the lane nearest the building, only a dozen feet from the back door.

Between nine and ten P.M. a large number of cars moved in and out of the lot, but no one at all used the back door. At five minutes past ten a gray Dodge sedan pulled into the lot and parked two lanes away from Shayne. The occupant passed right in front of the detective’s car as he went to the back door and opened it. He was a tall, thin man with deep-set eyes, exactly fitting Rose Henderson’s description of the new leg man.

The man was inside barely ten minutes. When he came out again, Shayne waited until his car drove to the lot exit. Then he followed without lights as far as the street. Finally he switched on his lights and trailed the Dodge from a distance of a half block.

By midnight the thin man had made five more stops. The detective mentally filed each address for later turning over to Will Gentry as heroin outlets. After the last stop, the man drove to an apartment house, parked his car in a lot adjacent and went inside.

Shayne watched the front of the building, and in a few moments saw lights go on in a second-floor apartment. A moment later the thin man appeared at a window and drew the shade.

Entering the building, the redhead quietly ascended to the second floor and located the proper door. He merely glanced at it to see its number, which was 2-C, then went down the stairs again. According to a card on the lobby mailbox for 2-C, the apartment was occupied by a Marshall Tarbox.

Fifteen minutes later the redhead was at Police Headquarters. He had the name run through Criminal Records, but there was nothing on the man.

Shayne gave up for the night and went home to bed.

At seven the next morning the detective was parked across the street from Marshall Tarbox’s apartment building. Noting that the gray Dodge was still on the lot, he settled back to wait.

It was a long wait. The thin man didn’t come from the building until eight thirty. Climbing into the Dodge, he headed toward the downtown district with Shayne again trailing at a half-block interval. Near the center of town Shayne parked on the street when the Dodge turned into a public parking lot. The redhead followed on foot from there.

Marshall Tarbox turned into the front entrance of a small office with a plate-glass front window. There was some gilt lettering on the glass, but Shayne was a quarter block back, and couldn’t make out what it said. He got a mild shock when twenty long strides brought him close enough to read it.

The lettering read: LAKE TRAVEL AGENCY.

Bemused, the detective watched through the plate-glass window as the thin man pushed through a wooden gate, hung his hat on a wall hook and took up a position behind a counter marked: Information.

It struck Shayne as far too much of a coincidence for Bill Whitney’s replacement to be a fellow employee of the same firm. The only sensible explanation was that it wasn’t coincidence.

Which meant, at the very least, that the Lake Travel Agency had some kind of connection with narcotics. And at the very most — might be the “front” — concealed headquarters of the whole narcotics ring. And that in turn led to interesting speculations about Miss Mabel Lake.

He was contemplating this development when a pleased feminine voice said in his ear, “Why, Mr. Shane! How nice to see you.”

Turning, Shayne saw that Mabel Lake had come up beside him. She was dressed in a tailored suit that gave her figure the appearance of a much younger woman. In the bright sunlight her face wasn’t quite as unlined as it had seemed in the more subdued light of his office, but it still struck the detective that she was more attractive than any woman her age had a right, to be.

Shayne said, “Good morning, Miss Lake.”

“You were looking for me?” she asked in the same pleased voice. “We don’t open till nine, but come in anyway.”

He made no attempt to conceal his admiration as he said easily, “Just happened to be passing and noticed the sign on the window.”

She looked disappointed. “Oh. Have you learned anything about Bill yet?”

“Not much. Except that... well, he wasn’t just a user. He was involved in something more serious — the narcotic traffic.”

He watched her expression closely, but she exhibited nothing but shock. “Really?” she said. “How awful. Does Milford know?”

Shayne shook his head. “I haven’t made a report to him yet.” He paused, then said deliberately, “Bill was going to turn himself in to the police. It’s quite possible his associates found it out and killed him to shut him up.”

Her eyes widened in astonishment. Or what could have been simulated astonishment, Shayne told himself cautiously. “How terrible. To think he worked right in the agency, and I never suspected he was also working for gangsters. How did you learn all this?”

“By digging,” Shayne said vaguely. “It’s a long story.”

“Why don’t you come into my office and tell me about it?” she suggested.

He shook his head. “Haven’t time right now.” After a thoughtful pause, he added, “Some evening would be better.”

He put nothing in his tone to suggest he meant such an evening might develop into more than a friendly talk, but he didn’t have to. She was miles ahead of him.

“I’m free tonight,” she said instantly.

He pretended to reflect. “It would have to be late,” he said finally. “I’m tied up early in the evening.”

“That doesn’t matter,” she said eagerly. “Any time is all right.”

“It might be after midnight,” he said.

Instead of looking disappointed, she looked even more eager. Her eagerness might have amused Shayne if it hadn’t been so pathetic. He wondered how long it had been since she had last been able to lure some younger man into calling at a very late hour. If he hadn’t wanted to see the inside of her house, he would have ended the farce right there.

“You haven’t told me the address,” he said.

“How silly of me,” she said in a flustered voice. Fumbling in her purse, she produced a small card and a fountain pen. Quickly she wrote on the card and handed it to him.

Then she did a surprising thing — something he had hardly dared to suggest or hope for. She pressed a key into his hand. “You can return this to me when you call. Sometimes — well, I just don’t hear the doorbell. I’ve been intending to have an electrician look at it. I keep another key, you see, hidden under the door mat, but you may as well take this one. I’ll use the other.”

V

Mabel lake had a one-story house on the outskirts of the city. It was set well back from the road and was surrounded by fifty feet of lawn on all sides. As the houses either side of it had similar broad lawns, it was a full hundred feet from the next nearest house.

Shayne pulled right into the driveway and through the open doors of the double garage. Getting out of the car, he glanced at the houses on either side, when he saw no one, pulled one of the sliding doors of the garage shut to conceal his car.

As he long-legged it toward the rear door of the house, the redhead reflected with amusement that he was over fourteen hours early for his midnight date. It was only nine thirty A.M.

Even though Mabel had said she lived alone and had no servants, Shayne took the precaution of knocking on the back door. When there was no answer, he unlocked it with the key she had given him, stepped into the kitchen and locked it behind him.

There were five rooms in the house, all on one floor: a kitchen, dining-room, front room, bedroom and study. Starting with the study, he methodically searched each room.

The only thing of interest he found was a half dozen pornographic books beneath some lingerie in the bottom drawer of a dresser in the bedroom. He flipped through them rapidly, made a face and replaced them where he had found them.

Starting over in the study, he removed every desk drawer and examined it for false bottoms. None had any, but as he started to replace them, he noticed that the upper drawers on each side were about eight inches shorter than their lower companions. Groping into the righthand cavity, he felt another knob. When he pulled out the small inner drawer, there was nothing in it but a coffee can.

Prying off the lid, he examined the white powder in the can, pinched a bit between forefinger and thumb and cautiously touched his tongue to it. He grimaced at the bitter taste, brushed off his fingers and touched a handkerchief to the tip of his tongue. It was pure heroin.

Hefting the can, Shayne estimated that there was somewhat less than a pound of the fluffy white powder, as it would weigh less by volume than the can’s original coffee contents. Possibly about twelve ounces, he judged. He did some mental arithmetic and worked out the answer that, cut ten to one with powdered milk, more than five thousand individual fixes could be packaged up from the can’s contents — with a retail take of over fifteen thousand dollars, if Will Gentry’s quote of the going price as three dollars a pop was right.

He pressed the lid back on the can, replaced it in the secret drawer, shoved the drawer home and pushed the outer drawer in after it.

Then he turned to the secret drawer on the left.

This proved to contain some things as interesting as the other. There were three small notebooks in it, and it took only cursory examination to decide they were the records of the narcotics ring. Having glanced through them once, Shayne went back over each for a more detailed study.

One was simply a list of names, dates and amounts. Most of the names were Spanish, and none were familiar to the detective. From the size of the amounts, Shayne deduced that this was the record of payments for bulk heroin smuggled into the country. The Spanish origin of the recipient’s names bore this out, as most illegal narcotics would come by water from South American countries.

There was a regular recurrence of each name, indicating that it was a large, organized ring, and not merely a one-shot arrangement of tourists trying to pick up a few easy bucks. The last amount entered, two thousand dollars, was only a few days back, and Shayne guessed that it represented payment for the shipment he had just examined.

He was frowning heavily now.

There was a large margin of profit in the racket, he thought grimly, as it would retail after cutting for seven to eight times that.

The second book was apparently an account of deliveries to retailers. Each page was headed by a name, and the space below was filled with a series of dates followed by numbers. It wasn’t hard to deduce that the numbers represented the number of individual papers of cut heroin delivered on each date.

One of the pages was headed by the name Hank Goodrich, the detective noted.

The third book was simply a ledger. Apparently Mabel Lake was a methodical businesswoman, for she had carefully entered expenses and receipts for all transactions. The account went back four years, and the annual take was staggering.

Shayne dropped the three notebooks into a side pocket of his coat. He had left the heroin where he found it so that it could be seized on the premises by the narcotics boys when they acted on his tip and raided the house. If he had carried it away to deliver to the police, it would simply be his word against Mabel Lake’s that it had ever been in the house. But the written records were different. They would be incriminating evidence no matter where they were found.

Glancing at his watch, the redhead saw that he had been in the house over two and a half hours. It was just past noon. While it was unlikely that Mabel Lake made a habit of coming home for lunch from all the way downtown, he decided it was time to leave.

He reached the doorway between the dining room and the kitchen when the back doorknob rattled. He halted in the doorway and his eyes narrowed when he saw the outline of a figure through the curtain hanging in front of the back door’s glass pane. The curtain was too thick to make out whether it was a man or woman.

Shayne faded back through the dining room toward the front room, with the intention of easing himself out the front door. He reached the doorway between the two rooms just as the front door slammed open.

Mabel Lake, followed by the thin Marshall Tarbox, stepped inside. The woman had a small, nickle-plated automatic in her hand. The man carried a businesslike forty-five caliber automatic.

Tarbox pushed the door shut behind him without taking his gun off Shayne. Mabel’s was centered unerringly on his belt buckle too, and her expression was one of barely controlled rage. Shayne slowly raised his hands to shoulder height.

“Let the others in the back door,” the woman snapped at her companion. “I can manage this—” She stopped because she couldn’t think of an epithet strong enough.

With his gun Tarbox waved Shayne out of the doorway and to one side of the room. Then, with a final look at Mabel to make sure she had the situation under control, he moved through the dining room into the kitchen. They could hear him unlocking the back door.

Mabel hissed at Shayne, “Just try something, lover boy. Give me an excuse to pull the trigger.”

The redhead gave her a deliberately infuriating smile. “Upset because I arrived early?” he asked.

Her face turned dead white with rage. “You thought you were clever,” she spat at him. “You think I didn’t know what you were planning to do? I gave you the key and pretended to go along just to catch you in the act.”

Marshall Tarbox came back into the room trailed by Hank Goodrich and Charlie Velk.

Shayne said to Mabel in a sarcastic voice, “Sure you did.” Then he cocked an eye at Hank Goodrich. “Let me guess,” he said. “You got out of Rose what we talked about, and phoned Mabel that I probably tailed Tarbox from your joint last night. She put two-and-two together and decided it wasn’t her charm that got me interested in her house.”

The nightclub manager growled, “It was a cinch, Shayne. We just locked Rose up last night until she got the shakes, then held a needle under her nose as a bribe to talk. She came across like a little lamb.”

“Shut up!” Mabel screamed at Goodrich, nearly as enraged at the blond man for letting Shayne know she’d been originally taken in as she was at the detective.

Goodrich stared at her. In a cold voice he said, “Don’t order me around, sister. I’m a customer, not an employee.”

Mabel glared back at him, finally controlled herself with obvious effort.

Charlie Velk said, “What are we going to do with this shamus?”

“Kill him,” Mabel said viciously. “He knows too much.”

“How do you know?” Goodrich objected. “I’m not taking a murder rap just because you’re sore at the guy. What’ve you got out here he could find anyway? You didn’t make it very clear on the phone.”

The woman said, “Even if he didn’t find anything, he knows enough to put the police on our trail. We can’t risk even suspicion.”

Velk suggested reasonably, “Why don’t you check whatever you’ve got hidden here, Mabel, and see if it’s still there?”

The woman glanced at him, then curtly ordered, “Keep Shayne covered,” and turned to enter the study door. They could hear the key turn from inside.

Shayne said, “Mind if I put my arms down? I’m not armed.”

“Keep ’em up,” Tarbox snapped.

Shrugging, the redhead kept them elevated to shoulder height.

Moments passed in silence before the study door opened again and Mabel came out. Pointing her little nickle-plated automatic at Shayne, she said in a deadly whisper, “Turn around and put your hands against the wall.”

The redhead obeyed slowly. When he was in position, Mabel ordered, “Shake him down.”

Charlie Velk moved in behind Shayne, gave him a thorough shakedown and removed the three small notebooks from his pocket.

Mabel snapped, “Give me those!” and moved forward to jerk them from his hand.

Shayne glanced over his shoulder, found all three men staring at Mabel in surprise, and let his body tense. Instantly Velk’s gun jabbed his side.

“Don’t try it, shamus,” he said. “You can turn around slow now. Real slow.”

As he backed off, carefully covering the detective, Shayne turned around and dropped his hands to his sides.

Mabel said, “Just hold him,” crossed to the study door again, disappeared inside and locked the door behind her.

VI

Hank Goodrich thoughtfully rubbed his chin with the muzzle of his gun, glanced at his two companions to make sure both were covering Shayne, and put his own gun away.

He said to Shayne, “Looks like you found what you weren’t supposed to. I guess we got no choice now.”

Shayne said, “Aren’t you curious about what those books were?”

“Sure,” Goodrich said companionably. “Tell us.”

“Mabel’s records of the dream racket.”

Goodrich shrugged. “I figured it was something like that, or she wouldn’t have been so upset.”

“Very complete records,” Shayne said.

The nightclub manager frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’ve got a page all to yourself in one of them,” Shayne told him cheerfully. “Be too bad if the D.A. ever got a look at it.”

Goodrich’s eyes narrowed. He started toward the study door, but the lock turned and it opened before he got there. Mabel came out with her little automatic still in her hand.

“I want to see those books,” Goodrich demanded.

Mabel’s little automatic came up and centered on his stomach. “Bad enough to walk through a bullet?” she asked coldly.

Goodrich, his gun uselessly resting in its holster, took a defensive step backward. “Shayne says my name’s in one of them,” he complained.

“She has some even more interesting books in her bottom dresser drawer,” Shayne volunteered.

No one except the redhead was prepared for the woman’s reaction. He was gambling that the traditional rage of a woman scorned already had her on the verge of homicide. He hoped that the additional shame of knowing he had seen her secret library would push her over the brink.

It did. She swung her little gun toward Shayne and began firing as fast as she could pull the trigger.

Shayne swerved just as the gun muzzle began to move, though. Leaping to one side, he landed in a crouch in a position that put Hank Goodrich between him and the gun. After two shots that dug plaster from the wall where the redhead had been an instant before, Mabel swung the gun to follow Shayne and fired twice more.

Hank Goodrich took both in the stomach at point-blank range.

The other two men could have had clear shots at Shayne, but what he was banking on happened. Mabel’s sudden action had riveted their eyes on her, first in amazement, then in horror when her last two bullets slammed into Goodrich.

They were still standing bug-eyed when the redhead’s shoulder slammed into Goodrich’s back with the force of a football block. The drive carried Shayne, Goodrich and Mabel right through the open door of the study and halfway across the room.

Mabel hit the floor first, crushed under the combined weights of Goodrich and Shayne. The air whooshed out of her and the small automatic skittered across the floor toward the desk.

Shayne, on top of the pile, kept right on going over it. His hand closed over the gun’s butt and he swung on hands and knees to fire at the doorway just as Charlie Velk recovered his wits enough to start rushing into the room.

The bullet caught Velk high in the right shoulder. He staggered backward, dropping his gun, as Marshall Tarbox appeared in the doorway.

The thin man came in shooting. His heavy forty-five roared and the heat of a bullet seared the redhead’s left cheek as he squeezed his own trigger in answer three times.

The third time the gun clicked empty, because it was only a seven-shot automatic. But two shots had been enough. Tarbox slowly crumpled to his knees, then pitched forward on his face.

Coming erect, Shayne leaped over the body in the doorway and scooped up the gun Velk had dropped. He didn’t need it, because Velk had given up the fight. He crouched against the far wall, holding his right shoulder and making whimpering noises. Deciding he would keep for the moment, the detective stepped back over Tarbox’s body into the study again,

Mabel Lake was conscious, but with all the wind knocked out of her. Pinned beneath Goodrich’s inert two hundred pounds, she couldn’t even move.

“Get him off of me!” she gasped at Shayne.

“Why?” the redhead inquired. “He’ll keep you out of trouble.”

Reaching under Goodrich’s arm, he removed his gun before Mabel could get the idea of reaching for it. Before going back into the front room, he also took the precaution of capturing Tarbox’s gun. He distributed his collection of four guns in various pockets.

Back in the front room the detective found Charlie Velk still clutching his shoulder and whimpering. Shayne barely glanced at him as he picked up the phone and dialed Police Headquarters. He asked for Chief Will Gentry.

When the chief answered, Shayne said, “Mike, Will. I’ve got a lot of work for you. I’m out at the home of a Miss Mabel Lake.” He gave the address.

“What kind of work?” Gentry asked.

“Well, first we’ll need an ambulance. I’ve got three wounded guys. Two of them dead, maybe.”

Gentry squawked, “What’ve you got out there? A massacre?”

“Then you’ll need some Narcotics boys,” Shayne said cheerfully. “Plus a Homicide team. I guess that’s all. See you, Will.”

“Wait,” Gentry was sputtering when the detective hung up.

VII

An hour later most of the con-fusion was over. Goodrich, Tarbox and Velk had been carted off in an ambulance, all three still alive, but Goodrich and Tarbox in critical condition. A Narcotics team had departed with the heroin and records. Shayne had dictated and signed a statement of what had occurred. The only people left in the house were Shayne, Will Gentry, a Homicide sergeant named Dan Curry and Mabel Lake.

Mabel, looking both bedraggled and depressed, was seated in a front-room chair in handcuffs. Shayne and the two police officers stood in a semi-circle around her.

Sergeant Curry, who had been patiently waiting for the other activity to subside, said, “Now what’s the Homicide deal, Shayne? Just the woman’s accidental shooting of Goodrich?”

Shayne shook his head. “It’s another case altogether. A guy named William Whitney, who worked for Mabel here before he disappeared. In two jobs. He had a legitimate one at the Lake Travel Agency, and was leg man for her H racket on the side.”

Mabel glared up at Shayne. “What do you mean, leg man? You know Marsh Tarbox was my leg man. He’s been for four years.”

All three men glanced at her, then Gentry and Curry returned their attention to Shayne.

The redhead said, “He was hooked and wanted to kick it. He couldn’t by himself, so he was going to turn himself in and blow the whistle on the whole deal. It would be quite a coincidence if Mabel didn’t have a hand in his disappearance.”

Gentry and Curry looked down at Mabel again. She stared at Shayne, then emitted one short, wild laugh.

“You think I had Bill killed?” she asked half hysterically. “My best man!”

“Best man for what?” Shayne asked.

She laughed again, one short, wild note. “Why shouldn’t I tell you? You’ve got me cold anyway. He was my top recruiter. His job was to bring in new customers.” Gentry said, “Retailers like Goodrich, you mean?”

“Retailers are easy,” she said scornfully. “I mean customers for the retailers to sell to. You must know the pitch. First you start them on reefers. Free, of course. Then, when they’re ripe, you suggest a brand new kick. That’s free too, until they’re hooked. After that they pay through the nose. Bill was the best in the business.”

Shayne said, “Nice try, Mabel, but it won’t work. I know he was turning himself in to kick the habit.”

“What habit?” she spat at him. “Bill never touched the stuff in his life. That’s for suckers.”

Mabel emitted another hysterical laugh. “The blonde photographer over at Club Swallow? She’s one of the suckers he recruited!”

Shayne looked from Curry to Gentry, then back at the woman. Frowningly he tugged at his left earlobe.

“Maybe this Rose Henderson led you up the garden path, Mike,” Gentry suggested.

“Yeah,” Shayne said slowly. “I’m beginning to think that myself. Why don’t you take Mabel downtown and book her, Will. I have a visit to make.”

Abruptly he crossed to the dining-room door, strode through the dining room to the kitchen and out the back door to his car, still parked in the garage...

It was after three P.M. when Shayne arrived at Rose Henderson’s apartment. He hadn’t had lunch, but didn’t want to stop for that. Since the girl got off work at midnight, he assumed she went in about four P.M., and if he delayed he was afraid he’d miss her.

She answered the door in street clothes, carrying a purse. Apparently he had caught her just as she was ready to leave.

“Oh, hello, Mike,” she said with surprise. “You’re just in time to run me over to work.”

Moving into the apartment, he pushed the door closed behind him and dropped his hat on an end table. “I doubt that the club will open today,” he said. “Both the manager and headwaiter are in the hospital.”

Her eyes widened. “What happened?”

“They caught some bullets in a gunfight.”

Instead of surprise, a look of satisfaction flitted across her face. With sudden viciousness she said, “Good. I hope they die.”

“The whole narcotics ring is broken up,” the redhead told her. “The members not in jail will be as soon as the police finish studying some records. You’re not going to be able to get the stuff for a long time, Rose. Not in this town.”

“That’s one way to kick it,” she said.

“Is that why you did it?” he asked.

“Did what?”

“Started me after their scalps. Told me Marshall Tarbox was a new leg man, when you knew he’d been supplying Club Swallow all along.”

She looked at him warily and made no answer. But there was a sudden fright in her eyes.

“You can’t have your cake and eat it too, Rose. You got what you wanted. I broke the gang wide open. But you might have known I’d discover what Bill Whitney’s real job was.”

“What was that?” she asked with simulated innocence.

“Recruiting. You were one of his conquests. That why you killed him, Rose?”

She looked at him for a long time, her face expressionless. Then it suddenly crumpled. She said in a dull voice, “He said he loved me. He even asked me to marry him. Just to get me to trust him. A new kick, he said. He pretended to use it himself, too, until he had me hooked. Then he just laughed at me.”

“He wasn’t a very nice guy,” Shayne understated.

“He deserved to die,” the girl said with sudden fierceness. “It wasn’t only me. There’s no telling how many other lives he ruined. I did the world a favor.”

“A lot of people deserve to die, Rose. It isn’t a perfect world. But you’d have anarchy if individuals went around bumping all the rats off.”

“Do you blame me?” she demanded.

“I’m not a judge, Rose.” He examined her with something approaching pity. “What’d you do with the body?”

“I drove over to the bay in my car and dumped it in,” she said. “Weighted. But I guess the police will find him.” Her expression became a little unsettled. “Who’s going to blame me for killing a rat like Whitney?” she asked. “What would you have done in my place?”

“I wouldn’t have gotten hooked,” Shayne said. “Come on. I’ll drive you downtown.”

“To the police station?” she asked fearfully.

“Eventually,” he said. “I’m against murder as a matter of principle, but some killers deserve their full constitutional rights more than others. I’m taking you to a lawyer first.”