Pay-Off in Blood (14 page)

She paused, looking at the detective shrewdly. “And think what a wonderful position a doctor is in to collect a certain sum each month from his victims. Most of them are married, with husbands, who pay the monthly bills. They can’t ask for extra money from their husbands to pay blackmail each month, but it is easy for them to agree to have a small extra amount tacked onto their medical bill each month. What husband questions his wife closely as to how many visits she paid the doctor that month? Considering the temptation,” she ended, “it is probably to the credit of doctors that more of them don’t turn into blackmailers.”

Shayne grinned at this rather novel idea. “Perhaps they do.” He paused, collecting his thoughts again. “Was your son a gambler, Mrs. Montgomery?”

“Cecil? No. Why do you ask that?”

“Are you quite positive?”
persisted
Shayne.

“Yes. That is… I know where his money went. I gave him a definite allowance and required him to account
for every expenditure
that he made.”

“What about his friend, Fritz Harlan? Was he connected with the gambling crowd?”

“I really don’t know. I should think not because my son did not associate with that type of person.”

Shayne nodded and got to his feet thoughtfully. “I appreciate all the information you’ve given me, Mrs. Montgomery. If anything else important comes to your mind, please call my office.”

She said austerely, “You’re perfectly welcome, I’m sure. May I say: good hunting, Mr.
Shayne.
”

He said, “Thanks,” and went out of the room to find the maid waiting in the hall to escort him to the front door.

Shayne drove directly to Police Headquarters. Sergeant Fillmore shook his head when the rangy detective strode into the I. D. office. “I haven’t come up with anything on those three, Mike. Either they’ve been careful to stay out of trouble, or else they haven’t been operating long enough in Miami to pile up a record I can put my finger on.”

Shayne said, “Drop them, Sergeant. I think I’ve got an angle for contacting them personally. But I’ve got a full name for you to make another check. Harlan. Fritz Harlan. Strike any chord with that phenomenal memory of yours?”

“Maybe it
ain’t
so phenomenal, Mike.” Sgt. Fillmore shook his grizzled head sadly. “Fritz Harlan?
Extortion, too?”

“I doubt it. If he’s got a record, I’d look under homos.”

“Fritz Harlan,” the sergeant repeated thoughtfully, walking to the rear of the square room that was lined with filing cases.

Shayne leaned one elbow on the counter and lit a cigarette while Fillmore slid a drawer from a filing cabinet and began thumbing through the alphabetically arranged folders.

He came back whistling cheerfully and carrying a thin cardboard folder. “Here he is.
Nothing vicious about the guy, Mike.
Mostly, ‘Consorting with Known.’
Pulled in half a dozen times during the past six years.”

“Got a current address for him?”

“Sure.” Fillmore turned to the final, typewritten entry in the folder. “He’s on probation.”

“Who’s handling it?”

“Lincoln. You know him, don’t you?”

“Sure. Everybody knows Honest Abe.” Shayne hesitated, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.
“Anything in your files on Montgomery?
Cecil?”

“I’ll check.” Again the sergeant went back to his filing cases, but this time with no result. He came back, shaking his head.

Shayne nodded without surprise. “His mama has got enough money to cover up for him. Will Abe be around this time of day?”

“Probably up in the Probation Department. Else they can put you onto him.”

Shayne thanked Fillmore and went out of his office. Upstairs he found Abraham Jones Lincoln at his desk. He was a roly-poly man with twinkling, brown eyes, and he greeted the redhead cheerfully, “What’s with you this morning, Shamus?”

“I’d like to get a line on one of your boys… Fritz Harlan.”

“Not one of
my
boys… not really and truly, I mean.” Lincoln made his voice high-pitched and girlish.

Shayne grinned and asked, “Can you put your finger on him?”

“Sure. He’s clerking in a downtown store. What’s the squeal, Mike? Has
Fritzie
got frisky again?”

“I don’t know for sure. What does he look like, Abe?”

The Probation Officer used much the same words to describe Fritz Harlan that George
Bayliss
had used early that morning.

Shayne nodded. “That’s him. I think you’d better handle it, Abe. There’s a chance that he may have been mixed up in murder last night. The Ambrose
kill
on the Beach.”

“I don’t believe it,” Lincoln said promptly. “He shudders at the sight of a gun.”

“But maybe he wouldn’t shudder at the thought of fingering a guy for twenty grand,” Shayne suggested cynically.

“Maybe not.
Give me the pitch.”

Shayne gave him the salient facts as he knew them. “All we’ve got against him,” he ended, “is the fact that he failed to meet Montgomery and turn over the picture.”

“Knowing Fritz as well as I
do
, I’d guess he just got the piss scared out of him when he found out the thing had ended in murder. Remember, he’s on probation. My boys make a habit of keeping their noses clean.”

“I hope he did. But check it out, Abe. Right away, huh?”

“Sure. Reach you at your office?”

Shayne stood indecisively, a fierce light beginning to burn in the depths of his gray eyes. “I’ve got another piece of business to settle first. But call my office anyhow, Abe, and leave word with Lucy. I’ll be calling her.” He went out with long strides, all trace of indecisiveness vanished, his heels hitting the floor solidly and hard.

His first stop was at a small and dingy bar on Northeast 12th Street. The television set was on in the rear, and half a dozen beer drinkers were at that end of the room, watching it languidly. Shayne stood at the front of the bar as far removed from them as possible, and the bartender moved toward him with a grin of recognition on his wizened face. He paused to reach for a cognac bottle and an old-fashioned glass. He said, “Long
time no see
, Mike,” poured the squat glass half-full of cognac and placed a glass of ice water beside it. “People
gettin
’ killed all over the place, huh?
Keeps
you
jumpin
’.”

Shayne’s big hand closed around the glass and he asked, “What’s hot at Hialeah this afternoon, Sam?”

“Look here now.” Sam screwed his face up in patent disapproval. “Not you, Mike. Not in your old age, you
ain’t
gonna
start
buyin
’ oats?”

Shayne took a sip and grinned and asked, “How do you stay in business… discouraging possible cash customers?”

“Business?” said Sam virtuously, waving his hand toward the beer-drinkers. “You know… a mug of suds here an’ a slug of cognac there. I make out.”

“Sure, I know. Where do you little guys go these days to lay off a bet that’s too big for you to handle?”

Sam studied the hard look on the detective’s face for a moment, and then said softly, “I
ain’t
no
stoolie, Mike.”

Shayne made an impatient gesture with his left hand. “This is important… to me, Sam. I can get the info a dozen places, but I don’t want to waste time going a dozen places.”

“Well… you know… the Syndicate,” said Sam uneasily.

Shayne said, “I’ve been out of touch. Would that still be Big Vic Cartwright?” He paused and recited a telephone number from memory.

Sam nodded, obviously relieved that he wasn’t passing on any really secret information.
“Still at the old stand.”

“Bank of Bay Biscayne Building?”

When Sam nodded again, Shayne put down the rest of his drink and chased it with a gulp of ice water. He put a ten-dollar bill on the bar and said, “That was good cognac, Sam. Keep the change.”

He went out into the hot afternoon sunlight and got in his car, and five minutes later he was striding into the lobby of an office building on Flagler Street. He paused at the directory and found Cartwright Associates listed on the 5th floor.

There was a small, neat reception room with a pert blonde at the end of it, seated in front of a large switchboard. She was manipulating plugs and murmuring into the mouthpiece hanging from her neck, and Shayne stood beside her for thirty seconds before she glanced aside and said, “Yes?”

“I want to see Big Vic. Tell him it’s Mike Shayne.
Important and personal.”

She nodded and turned back to her switchboard. Shayne lit a cigarette and waited. She continued to flip plugs dexterously, and to murmur briefly into the mouthpiece, and in a short time she turned again and nodded.
“Second door on your left, Mr. Shayne.
Go right in.”

The second door on his left was simply lettered, PRIVATE. He turned the knob and went in without knocking.

There were four telephones on the big desk in the center of the big room. The man who sat behind the desk talking into one of the telephones was big enough to fit well into the setting.

He nodded his bullet head at the detective, spoke softly into the mouthpiece and listened for a moment, scrawled a notation on a pad in front of him.

Shayne sat down in a chair across the wide desk from him. Big Vic Cartwright replaced the telephone on its prongs and leaned his massive weight back in the swivel chair and clasped two
hamlike
hands at the back of a very thick and very short neck, and said genially, “It’s all right, Shamus. I’ll go quietly.”

Shayne said, “Somehow, I doubt that, Vic. How’s business?”

“So-so.” The right-hand telephone rang. He snatched it up and said, “No calls,
Vergie
.” He put it down and looked at Shayne benignly. “If it isn’t a pinch, what is it?”

“I need some information, Vic.” Shayne frowned and tugged at his left ear-lobe. “I’ve got a client who’s got his teat really in the wringer. He’s in deep.
’Way over his head, Vic, to at least a dozen boys around town where he’s established credit over the years.
But he’s had a real bad run of luck and they’re clamping down. Now, he can’t possibly pay off a hundred cents on the dollar. On the other hand, he’s a good Joe and doesn’t want to welsh. So he’s dug up a pretty fair bunch of dough which he hopes will get him off the hook. Instead of going around and trying to make separate deals with each one of the boys, he turned the thing over to me to see if I could clear it all off the books for him.”

“How much?” demanded Big Vic.

“Altogether, they’re holding markers for a little over thirty grand. I’ve got eighteen thousand of his money to make it right.”

Cartwright shook his head sadly. “You know that
ain’t
kosher, Mike. This sucker expects a clean pay-off when he wins, doesn’t he? He’s always got it, hasn’t he?
Fair and square, and cash money on the barrel-head.
So now he comes crawling and wants a discount on his losses. You know that’s no decent way to do business, Mike.”

Shayne said flatly, “I know that the boys around town will be damned lucky to divvy up his assets. They either take a share… or nothing.” He hesitated momentarily. “I don’t expect to make a deal with you, Vic. But I’ve heard around town that when a guy gets in deep like this there’s a sort of collection agency that takes over. They’re the boys who can deal with this. If I can’t convince them to take the short end of the stick, then it’s no skin off my ass. All the rough stuff in the world won’t get them any more money than my client has already dug up. But I want to lay it on the line… and all I want from you is where I go to lay it.”

Vic Cartwright nodded and unclasped his hands from behind his neck. “Take your problem to Jess Hayden. If there’s that much cash involved, he’s probably already got the whole thing for collection. I don’t say you’ll get anywhere with him, Mike, but you can try.”

Shayne shrugged his wide shoulders. “That’s all I want.”

Cartwright opened the center drawer of the desk and looked at a pad. “Try the
Splendide
Hotel.
Suite three-twenty.
That’s out on Biscayne Boulevard…”

Shayne said, “I know the place.
Three-twenty?
Jess Hayden. Thanks, Vic. If he’s inclined to be reasonable, we can do business together.”

He got up and went out with a wave of his big hand. The
Splendide
was one of the newer and fancier gimcrack hostelries that had been erected during the Fifties as one of Miami’s answers to the mushrooming tourist facilities on the other side of Biscayne Bay.

Shayne had never set foot in the place before, and he felt a little overwhelmed by the rococo lobby, the squads of extravagantly uniformed bellmen hurrying about to fulfill every guest’s slightest desire, the bustle and confusion of a huge afternoon crowd representing the total population of the hotel which
equalled
that of a small city.

With the unerring sense of direction of a homing pigeon, Shayne made his way among them to a quiet corridor at the rear of the registration desk and to a plain wooden door that was marked SECURITY.

He knocked perfunctorily and turned the knob and entered a small office with an erect, white-haired man seated behind a cluttered desk. He was in his shirt-sleeves, wearing a neat bow tie, and was relaxed with his feet on the desk and a paperbacked novel in his hands when Shayne opened the door. He hastily dropped his feet to the floor and straightened up and slid the book down onto the chair beside him and said frostily, “This is a private office.” Then he opened his eyes wider and stared for a moment and said happily, “Mike Shayne, by God! What are you doing in a classy joint like this?”

Shayne said just as happily, “Parson Smith! Last time I knew, you were a bouncer down in a little waterfront bar. Well, well! Congratulations are indeed in order.” He leaned over the desk and offered his big hand, and Smith took it in a hard grip and told him with a wide grin, “Sometimes I wish I were back there, Mike. It didn’t pay as well, but things did happen. Life is just about as dull as dishwater around this place.”