A grossly fat man sat at a desk beneath a droplight. He looked up and smiled with a great show of welcome when Shayne stepped through the doorway.
“Ah, Mr. Shayne,” he said, extending a fat hand. “It’s delightful to see you here in my monastic retreat. If you’ll pull out the second drawer of that filing-cabinet behind you, you’ll find a bottle.”
Shayne said, “Thanks, Dumpty, but this isn’t a social call. You’re not going to like it, but I want one of your guests.”
“Indeed?” The fat man swiveled his chair back and looked up at the redhead from beneath gray-fringed and shriveled eyelids. He folded his pudgy hands over his paunch and said, “I’m afraid I won’t care for that.” His voice was purring and guttural. “The needy come to me for shelter.”
“Cut it,” said Shayne sharply. “The police let you run this dump because they pick up some info now and then — and because you’ve been careful to harbor only small-fry criminals. Don’t make the mistake of trying to cover up for a murderer.”
“I assure you I have no intention of covering for anyone,” Dumpty said mildly.
Shayne made an impatient gesture. “I know. But your place is known all over the country, and wanted men naturally drift here. Maybe you don’t know Whitey Buford killed a prison guard escaping from the pen. I want him.”
The fat man moved his round gray head from side to side. “There’s no one here by that name.”
“Hell, he wouldn’t use his right name.” Shayne took the clipping from his pocket and held it under the bright light. He pointed out Buford’s picture, a man with deep-set eyes and shaggy brows set in an emaciated face. His chin was sharp and pointed, as was his nose.
“Don’t bother telling me that man isn’t here,” Shayne said. “He’s wanted in connection with a local murder, and I’ll have your place raided in ten minutes if you don’t give him to me.”
“My, my,” said the fat man with a deep sigh. “Murder? I don’t like that. You put me in a quandary, Mr. Shayne. If this person were here, and I were to accede to your demand—”
“I’ll make it easy for you,” Shayne interrupted. “Send him out and I promise you’ll never show. Give him a message. Say a telephone message from Belle. Ask him to meet me in Degado’s Bar down the street.”
Dumpty swiveled his chair forward and drummed fat finger tips on the desk. “It might be,” he said cautiously, “that some of my tenants are acquainted with this Whitey Buford and could deliver the message to him.”
“I don’t care how he gets it. I’ll go to Degado’s and wait. If it’s more than thirty minutes, you’ll be through in New Orleans.”
Chapter eight:
Tied Up in a Bundle
After leaving Dumpty’s place, Shayne drove to Degado’s. He parked in the driveway with Belle Carson’s gun in one coat pocket and the pistol he had taken from Harvey Barstow in the other. Going up to the bar, he ordered cognac.
Two elderly men were drinking together at the far end of the bar. Otherwise, the place was deserted. When the low-browed proprietor set out a bottle of Hennessy, Shayne turned and looked at it in surprise.
Leaning on the bar, his eyes watching the door, he filled a double-shot glass from the bottle and sipped the drink slowly.
He emptied the glass and drank another, taking his time to enjoy it, then paid the bartender two dollars. He walked out, crossed the sidewalk toward his car as a tall, bony man neared Degado’s from up the back street. The man had a limp black hat pulled low over his forehead.
Shayne fumbled with the key in the lock of his car door and waited until the man was opposite him, then swung around with Belle Carson’s .38 in his hand.
“This is it, Whitey,” he said.
Whitey Buford cursed and dropped toward the pavement, his hand darting inside his coat.
Shayne shot him in the belly. Buford groaned, and his long body jerked at the impact of the bullet. He rolled to one side and slowly dragged out a gun.
Shayne stepped swiftly forward and kicked the gun out of his hand just as the two old men burst out of the saloon. Motioning them back with his gun, Shayne said curtly, “Police.”
They disappeared inside without asking any questions.
Shayne dragged Whitey Buford to his car and pushed him into the back seat. Buford was unconscious with a bullet in his stomach, but his pulse was strong. Shayne got behind the wheel and drove to police headquarters.
Doc Mattson helped Shayne bring the unconscious prisoner in. The plump little police surgeon made a quick examination and nodded.
“Nice shooting, Mike,” he said. “You nicked a large artery, but he’ll pull through.”
Shayne shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. You’ll just make him hang for a murder.” He hurried out and went across town to Inspector Quinlan’s private office. The door stood open, and he could hear Captain Denton swearing. He stepped a few feet away and listened.
“I got Shayne exactly where I want him this time.” His coarse voice was triumphant. “He won’t, by God, wiggle out of this. Mr. Barstow, here, is ready to swear out an assault charge and I can prove Shayne knew who Carson was all the time. As soon as my men bring in Jones, we’ll get the whole story.”
Shayne heard feet scuffling down the corridor behind him. He turned and saw Sergeant Frank and a patrolman with Skip Jones between them. Shayne grinned at Frank and followed the trio into the Inspector’s office.
“Found him in his room at the Park Plaza,” Frank was reporting to Denton. “But from what he says, I guess Shayne got to him first.”
“That shouldn’t surprise Captain Denton,” Shayne drawled, walking forward from the door. “I’ve been ahead of him all the way through the case.”
Inspector Quinlan sat erect behind his desk. Harvey Barstow sat slumped down in a chair off to one side, looking very unhappy.
Denton turned and looked at Shayne with his mouth wide open, then let out a roar. “Sure you have,” he shouted. “That’s what I’ve been telling Quinlan. You knew the stiff was Carson all the time. You withheld evidence while I chased laundry marks clear to Baton Rouge. You’re through, by God, in New Orleans!” He brought his fist down hard on Quinlan’s desk.
Shayne asked, “Is that your case against me?”
“It’s enough!” Denton was raging. “That, and assault on Mr. Barstow.”
Shayne grinned at the bank cashier. “I didn’t hit him very hard. I had to paste him in order to get back here and clean this thing up before you ruined everything.” Turning gravely to Inspector Quinlan, Shayne continued, “Denton’s wrong again, of course. The dead man wasn’t named Carson.”
Denton’s face grew dangerously red. He opened his mouth to say something, but Quinlan held up his hand and spoke in caustic tones.
“You’d better let Shayne talk,” he said.
“The murdered man’s name was Willis Durkin,” Shayne told them. “He was wanted in Atlanta, Georgia, on suspicion of complicity in a five-year-old kidnaping case. He doubled-crossed his partner out of a fifty-grand ransom and came to Cheepwee, where he took the name of Carson and bought controlling interest in the local bank.”
Denton’s jaw dropped open with amazement and chagrin.
“Here’s the story.” Shayne took out the newspaper clipping Jones had given him and handed it to Quinlan. “You saw the body last night. That’s his picture, taken five years ago.” Turning to Jones, he said, “Belle Carson didn’t commit bigamy. She merely followed her husband to Cheepwee and forced him to remarry her under the new name he’d taken. That’s why Carson was glad to pay you five hundred a month blackmail. If you ever broke the truth, Carson’s past would become known.”