“More or less.”
“Manners Aerosystems also has plants in a number of states, but it’s mainly a Texas company. As you may know, the Texas delegation pulls a disproportionate amount of weight in this town. But they couldn’t have done it alone. Redpath would be a good ally. He has twelve years’ seniority on the Finance Committee, where the brass hats have to come every year for money. If Redpath had a strong opinion on the merits of one contender versus the other, unquestionably he would have been listened to. But sooner or later most cloakroom rumors end up with me, and I haven’t heard this one. Oh, he may have made a few phone calls and written a few routine letters.”
Hitchcock’s eyes were wandering. He couldn’t seem to keep his mind on what he was saying. He said suddenly, “Here’s an idea. I recorded that phone conversation with Maggie. Why don’t I spring that on Toby? Tell him to stop putting pressure on her or I’ll give it to the papers. There’s no statute of limitations on publicity. I couldn’t put him in jail with it, but I could hurt him.”
Shayne stood up. “Leave blackmail to the experts, Senator. You could hurt Toby but you’d also hurt Maggie. He’d think it over and tell you to go ahead.”
Hitchcock’s face fell. “You’re right, of course.”
“I don’t suppose you want to tell me what Senator Wall is so hopped up about?”
“Tom Wall gets hopped up faster and more easily than any other man in the Senate. And sometimes for less cause.” Shayne pulled at his earlobe indecisively. “That does it, then. I can’t think of anything else.”
Hitchcock came to the door with him. “Mike, I keep thinking of reasons I ought to believe her. Toby must know I couldn’t drop the investigation at this stage even if I wanted to. After it gets to public hearings, it picks up it own momentum. It’s really been Tom’s baby, anyway. Why not pick on him? And rumors aside, giving the contract to Manners was the proper thing to do. He was well in the lead on performance points. He’s one of the few industrial geniuses still around. The time for an investigation would have been if National had got it.” His mind skipped back to Maggie. “Just because I haven’t promised not to see her again, don’t make that an excuse to hector her any more, Mike. I mean that.”
“I’ve done everything I can with the facts I have,” Shayne said. “You’re over twenty-one.”
“I’m glad somebody around here realizes that. You look tired. Go to bed and stop worrying. I can take care of myself.”
Shayne said goodnight soberly. He intended to go to bed, because he didn’t know what else to do, but he didn’t expect to stop worrying. Could Senator Hitchcock take care of himself? From what Shayne had seen so far, he doubted it very much.
CHAPTER 7
10:25 P.M.
The savage grooves around Michael Shayne’s eyes and mouth were deeply etched as he came out of Senator Hitchcock’s house on Q Street. If Senator Wall had turned up something that could damage Sam Toby or the Texas crowd in the next day’s hearing, they couldn’t be expected to stand still and wait for it to happen. Their Maggie Smith gambit had failed, for the time being. But no professional-and Sam Toby was clearly that-stays at the top of his league without developing an assortment of pitches. He had missed with his fast ball, and now he’d come in with his curve or his slider. More than ever, Shayne was aware of not knowing the rules of the game he was playing.
He hesitated before getting into his Ford. And in that half-second a flicker of movement a block away pulled at his eye.
A man stepped out of a parked car and started in his direction. Shayne’s years of living with danger had given him a kind of built-in warning system, and all the bells were clanging violently. He waited. The sidewalk was deserted except for the approaching stranger. He was built like a light heavyweight. He walked with a swing, on the balls of his feet.
In front of Senator Hitchcock’s house, Shayne decided, was the wrong place for trouble. He lit a cigarette unhurriedly and slid behind the wheel. Swinging the rearview mirror, he picked up the approaching figure. The man quickened his step, then slowed abruptly as Shayne put the Ford in gear and moved away. A heavy car left the line of parked cars behind him. It looked like a Buick, the largest model in the most expensive series. Picking up the man on the sidewalk, it followed Shayne’s Ford, accelerating.
Shayne still didn’t hurry. He waited till the other car was close enough so he could see that it carried Texas plates. Then he came down hard on the gas and shot away.
There was a slight grin on his lips and much of the tension had left his face. So far he had been groping his way blindfolded through an enemy minefield, knowing that the only safe thing to do was nothing at all. This was something he knew how to handle. These men were amateurs. If they had wanted to find out where he went, they should have stayed out of sight. If they had wanted to pick him up, they should have jumped him the minute he came out of the house.
He inched across each major intersection, making a big point of looking at street signs. The Texans too were in a strange town, and he didn’t want them to lose him before he found out more about them. He swung into one of the city’s numerous traffic circles, holding his speed at 35. A statue of a general on horseback drifted by on his left. Having passed that same statue several times, he knew where he was: in Sheridan Circle. There was a dazzle of headlights in his mirror. He didn’t bother to sort them out; if they lost him at this speed they weren’t worth worrying about. He was looking for the right kind of bar, and found it after turning onto Wisconsin Avenue-a small place called the Bijou, with a doorman and a marquee.
He parked on a side street. Walking back he staggered slightly, as though the cognac was finally beginning to take over. He stumbled, caught himself quickly and wished the Bijou doorman a pleasant good evening. The doorman gave him a suspicious look in return, but decided that he wasn’t quite drunk enough yet to be refused admittance. Out of the corner of his eye, Shayne saw the Buick coast past. As well as he could judge, there was only one man in the front seat besides the driver.
Inside, he had a choice between sitting at the bar or going on into a poorly-lighted room to listen to a woman with a ravaged face singing Cole Porter songs, leaning against the curve of a grand piano. She hadn’t attracted much of a crowd. The headwaiter tried to steer Shayne in to a table, where he would be subject to a cover charge. Shayne waved him away. Reaching out, he caught the rim of the bar and pulled himself in against it. He grinned at the bartender.
“I see a bottle of Martell’s on the back bar. That shows good taste on somebody’s part. In a wine glass, and I’ll have a glass of ice water with it.”
He swung onto a high stool at the heel of the bar, from which he could watch the new arrivals. There weren’t many. Leaning on both elbows, he rested. They knew where he was. They had to come to him.
He heard a spattering of applause in the other room, and the singer gave her small audience an ironic bow and walked off, leaving the pianist to continue without her.
A short way down the bar, two men were arguing drunkenly about Sam Toby. Probably, Shayne thought, this was the main subject all over Washington tonight. One of the men was sure that Toby would beat this rap, as he had beaten all the others over the years. He had half the Senate membership in his pocket, because he knew their weaknesses. And Hugh Manners-there was a man. Why didn’t the goddamn politicians leave him alone? What if he did have to bribe a few people so they’d let him stay in the competition? The other drinker maintained that Toby’s days were numbered. Why would they call him to testify unless they had something on him? Shayne, too, would like to know the answer to that question, among others, but he did not think he would get it here.