Since, there had been other favors, both ways...
When they were seated over her vodka Martini and Shayne’s Martell on the rocks, she said, “I heard about old man Lowman just now.”
“You hear everything,” the detective told her.
“If I don’t, it’s not for lack of trying.” She lifted her glass. “Here’s to crime, Mike-baby.”
They drank, then ordered luncheon. When the waiter had departed, Bertha rested both elbows on the tablecloth and said, “Between you and me, I’m not surprised Jim Lowman cracked up. He was carrying a hell of a load.”
“In what way?”
Bertha paused to marshal her thoughts. Then, “He was leading the defense battery in the Meadows-Latimer thing, you know — of course you do, since you’re on it. The inside is, Meadows was leaning on Lowman — real heavy.”
“With what?” Shayne asked.
Bertha opened her hands and shrugged, her not unhandsome if too-square face a question mark.
“Who knows for sure?” she countered. “Could be some past corner he cut for a client. Could be a few income tax shavings. Could be something more personal, if you dig, Shayne.”
The detective thought it added up. Lowman’s behavior had made him suspect something of the sort. The fact that he found himself not only in the position of having to double-cross a client but of being controlled by a murderer could account for his reaction to Shayne’s word on the Cathy Whiting killing.
He said, “But, dammit, Bertha, where in hell did Carl Meadows get the bread to throw his weight around so heavily? I thought Tim’s expose and the prosecutions that followed wiped him out.”
“Characters like Carl Meadows always seem to be able to get their hands on some loot,” she replied. “But it’s a good question, Mike. Let little Bertha see what she can find out.”
The luncheon arrived then. Able trencherman that he was, Shayne found himself hard-pressed to keep up with his companion. Bertha waded through the four-course meal as if food were about to go out of style permanently. A large plate of thick puree mongole was the first casualty. It was followed by a larger casserole of sliced pheasant and mushrooms in cream and butter sauce laced with Bordeau, an avacado salad and a rich glazed strawberry-and-cream custard tart. Coffee and liqueurs followed, with the redhead confining himself to cognac as usual.
There was no more talk of the case during the remainder of their luncheon. Not until Shayne escorted Bertha to her car, a smart, expensive little Seville, did she lay a hand on his arm and say, “Call me this evening, Mike — and thanks for a marvelous lunch. A gal’s got to keep her figure from falling away to a mere framework of skin and bones.”
The redhead half-grinned crookedly and shook his head as he waved farewell. Then he turned, and got in the Buick, which a uniformed attendant had just driven up to the en-driven up to the entrance.
Mike Shayne’s next move was to drive to a quietly plush restaurant-cabaret called The Golden Onion on Biscayne Boulevard. Although it was not officially open until the cocktail hour, it served during the day as the office of manager-part owner Lou Manning. It was Manning the redhead wanted to see.
VIII
Behind a hail-fellow well-met facade that made Lou an ideal front man for his restaurant lurked a photographic memory and ability to keep a secret. Over the years, the restaurateur had become an unoffical message center for denizens of the lower upper-world and upper underworld.
As he pulled into the Onion’s near-empty parking lot, Shayne figured it a 99-to-1 bet that Manning would know exactly what the connection was between Jim Lowman and Carl Meadows. Getting the information out of him, of course, would be something else.
“Come on in, Shayne.” The restaurateur’s broad, suntanned face lit up in a smile that made the whole office glow. “Glad you got here. I’ve been trying to reach you but that girl of yours keeps telling me you’re out.”
“Well...?” The detective let that one hang while he considered Manning’s motives in trying to reach him.
“Okay — so you are out. Have a smoked — a real honest-to-God Havana.” The restaurateur pushed a half-empty box of gold banded perfectos across his desk toward Shayne, who declined as he sat down.
“Okay, Lou,” he said. “You want to talk to me? I want to ask you a couple of questions.”
“That figures.” Manning nodded as he lit up his own cigar. “You go first.”
The detective pushed his hat back again, tugged his earlobe, said, “You heard about Jim Lowman?”
“About his attack.” Manning nodded again. “I also heard you were there.”
“I found him on his office floor,” said the redhead. “I’d like to know what put him there.”
The restaurateur blew two perfect smoke rings before replying. Then he said, “Maybe he ate too much. Maybe he smoked too much. Maybe he keeled over because you were coming to see him.”
“Negative, negative, negative,” said Shayne. “Come on, Lou — why was he afraid of Carl Meadows?”
“Old stuff, Shayne.”
“But not too old for the statute of limitations.”
“Only two crimes have no time limit,” Lou Manning said. “Murder and cheating on the Federal income tax. Take your pick.”
Shayne ran a thumbnail along the line of his jaw, then nodded. Like other men of mild habit, he supposed the stricken attorney was capable of killing in self defense. But not of a murder that would leave him legally culpable. That left only tax evasion. He said, “Thanks, Lou — now it’s your turn to ask the questions.”
“Not a question, an invitation. Peter Luce wants to see you — at your earliest convenience.”
The redhead’s left eyebrow rose half an inch. Peter Luce, officially retired from the fish freezing business that was his nominal source of livelihood, remained the unofficial czar emeritus of the Organization for all Florida south of Tampa Bay. If he wanted to see Mike Shayne, it meant the underworld was involved in some way with the Meadows-Latimer libel suit.
But what way?
Deciding there was only one answer to that question, Mike Shayne rose, thanked Manning for the information and headed for his Buick. It took him forty minutes to reach the gates of Peter Luce’s driveway off the Trail.
From its gilded cast-iron gateway to the furthest stretch of the mesh steel barrier that surrounded the twenty acres of landscaped grounds, the former fish freezer’s estate had been literally carved out of swampland. Set amidst impenetrable semi-tropical jungle, it was in effect an island impervious to invasion by water.
A perfect place of retirement for a man who had racked up more than his share of violent enemies during a lifetime of dealing with and inside of organized crime.
The young man who met Shayne at the gate and rode with him to the house itself was fair haired with a mod cut and clad in a costly blue denim leisure suit with enough patches for an old-fashioned quilt. He looked like a university student or recent graduate and, the detective judged, probably was.
Another attractive young man awaited them under the porte cochère of the mansion. Shayne got out and his companion slid behind the Buick’s wheel, drove it smoothly around a corner as the detective and his new escort-entered the large house.
Impressive was the best word the redhead could come up with — huge hall framed by a divided staircase leading to a balcony above. Costly rugs on the floor, costlier tapestries on the walls, costly black walnut furniture against the walls, a wrought-iron chandelier. Young man No, 2 led the detective softly through to a French window opening onto a flagged terrace overlooking rich gardens, a fountain and a porticoed swimming pool in the rear.