Here, at a glass-topped table, Peter Luce sat.
His hair was silver, his leathery face seamed, his body skeleton lean beneath the pale blue jumpsuit that covered it limply — but the dark eyes crackled with vitality, the white teeth gleamed like polished ivory in the afternoon sunlight as he rose to greet his visitor.
Peter Luce — nee Pietro Luccini.
“How kind of you to come!” The voice was soft as silk with just a faint undertone of sandpaper. “Sit with me and enjoy a drink.”
Before Mike Shayne could reply, another young man appeared bearing a tray, put a vermouth cassis in front of Peter Luce, a Martell on the rocks in front of the detective. Luce lifted his glass in a decorous salute, the redhead did likewise. Neither spoke further until the tumblers were again on the glass top of the table.
“Mr. Shayne,” Luce said, leaning back in his chair, “I wish to thank you for saving us the trouble in a certain — shall we say delicate? — matter.”
Shayne nodded. As long as Luce was willing to carry the conversational ball, the detective was quite willing to permit him. He was certain he had not been summoned here merely to receive thanks for the removal of button-man Mac Straka from the living scene.
“I feel that we owe you for it.” A pause, then, “As you probably know, Mr. Shayne, with the passage of time, our business grows more and more respectable.” And, as the redhead nodded again, “If there are occasional — regrettable necessities, they occur in other businesses as well. You follow me, Mr. Shayne?”
Once again, Shayne nodded.
“It is a part of our job to see that solution of these occasional regrettable incidents does not get out of hand. It is up to us to control such sad affairs.”
This time, when Luce paused, Mike Shayne spoke. “You are telling me, Mr. Luce, that you knew nothing about the importation to Miami of the capper called Mac Straka.”
“No, Mr. Shayne.” This accompanied by a firm head shake. “I did not say that. Of course, we knew of it.”
“But Straka was brought in without either your approval or control.”
“Ah, Mr. Shayne.” Again the dazzling smile. “You understand me perfectly.”
“Very well,” said the detective. “What is it you wish me to do?”
IX
The dark eyes bored into Shayne like twin laser beams from a face that was suddenly a mask of concern. The soft voice said, “We want you to take care of yourself, Mr. Shayne.”
There was a message here. The detective puzzled over it briefly, then stabbed. “Another unauthorized import?”
A slow nod. “Exactly, Mr. Shayne. A gentleman from Kansas City. He may be here in Miami now. We were not given the time of his arrival.”
“Thank you, Peter Luce. How will I know him?”
A shrug. “We do not have further details — yet. If you should feel you need protection...”
It was delicately phrased. The detective made his refusal polite. “I’ve survived this far. With all due respect, I feel I do better alone.”
“As you wish.” Luce accepted his turn-down without visible reaction. Then, “But there is always the undeterminate factor of fortune.”
“Let us hope good luck continues.” Shayne raised a hand with the fingers crossed.
Luce nodded, both men drank. Putting down his glass, the redhead said, “Mr. Luce, I hate to impose on you further, but there is a question I must ask.”
Peter Luce made a think-nothing-of-it gesture.
“Who the devil is backing Carl Meadows? I thought he was bankrupt.”
“I fear you will have to ask Mr. Meadows that in person, Mr. Shayne.”
“You don’t know?”
“We should very much like to find out. Perhaps, if, as you say, you are lucky, you will discover that for yourself. In that case, we very much wish you would allow us the information. It is information that could be of value to us.”
“If I am satisfied that divulging it will not hurt my client, Mr. Luce.”
“Of course.” The slow nod again. Peter Luce finished his aperitif, the detective his brandy. The interview was ended.
Shayne drove back to the office on Flagler Street. Lucy made a face at him as he entered, after a moment put the phone back in its cradle.
“Any luck?” he asked her.
She sighed with a pleasing swell of sweatered bosom, said, “So far, I’ve got a dry-cleaner lady, three males and seven d.a.’s. One of the males tried to date me.”
“What did I tell you to do if a man answered?” the detective reminded her. Luce wrinkled her nose at him again as she began dialling again, using a ballpoint to save her fingernails.
Shayne went inside his private office and dug out the, Martell. Thus far, the case made him feel as, if he were, caught in a giant electric blender. Round and round and around, with jolts of violence at irregular intervals. He was considering ways and means of getting at Carl Meadows when the desk phone rang, causing him to jump and slop brandy on the desk blotter.
It was Bertha Thompson. She said, “You owe me a drink, Mike. Feel like buying me one?”
“Any time, sweet.”
“Like how about now?”
Bertha was already at the Prince Gustav when Mike Shayne arrived. This time she joined him in a brandy on the rocks. She said, “Mike, let’s get smashed.”
“You go ahead,” he told her. “Better leave me out, though. I seem to have a problem following my footsteps.”
“Problems are my meat and drink. Hell, problems are my loving business, Mike.”
“I’m afraid this isn’t your kind of a problem,” Shayne assured her. “Now — to what do I owe you the honor of this drink?”
“Business — always business!” Bertha essayed a pout, failed to make it with her good humored face, said, “Ever hear of a man named Jake O’Reilly?”
“The factor?” He nodded. “Don’t tell me he’s angeling Meadows.”
“I don’t have to. You must told me.” A pause for a sip, then, “He’s the one.”
Mike Shayne thought that over, frowned, said, “That doesn’t tell us too much, does it? Like, whose money is Jake using to bankroll Meadows?”
“Come on, Mike, do you think I’m a dunce? I wouldn’t lay that on you to con a free drink. No, I got hold of Jake’s C.P.A. and... well, he owes me a favor.”
“Good girl. Who is it?”
“Ever hear of Ryan Akanian?”
“Let me think.” Shayne frowned into his cognac. The name was familiar but its connotations eluded him... until he thought of Roy Latimer, which made him think of newspapers. Then he had it.
“A media mogul — with a chain of TV and radio stations and newspapers in the Southwest?” he countered.
Bertha nodded, said, “It gives one to think, doesn’t it, Mike?”
“It does indeed.”
The afternoon was latening by the time the detective got back to Roy Latimer’s office. When Shayne informed him that Ryan Akanian was bankrolling Meadows, the News publisher slammer the flat of both hands down hard on his desktop.
“I should have known!” he exclaimed. “The son of a bitch is trying to force me to sell out through that damned libel suit.” He got to his feet and began pacing the carpet.
“You know him?” Shayne asked.
“I must have attended half a dozen publishers’ conventions with that bush-headed punk,” Latimer exclaimed. “I’ve heard he was a rapacious bastard, but he always seemed friendly enough to me. Why, that little...”
The fulminations continued for a full eleven minutes by the clock on the wall before the dynamic little publisher subsided. Then he flung himself back in his chair, looked at the detective gloomily.