reporter for the afternoon News.
“Just got a tip Osgood had you on the grill,” Rourke ejaculated, his nose twitching like a bloodhound’s on a hot scene. “What’s up, Mike?”
Shayne advised, “Ask Osgood,” and went down the hallway.
Rourke went with him, complaining, “All I know is what I read in the Herald. Give me an angle, Mike.”
“Play up the Herald angle,” Shayne said. “It’s a good one.” He stopped at the elevator shaft and pushed the DOWN button.
“But I figured on busting that story wide open,” Rourke said cheerfully. “Hell, it was practically libelous. They all but accused you of holding out for a bribe from the murderer for keeping your mouth shut.”
Shayne’s wide mouth twisted into a sour grin. “Maybe I could use a bribe.” An elevator stopped and he got in.
Rourke went in with him. “Don’t give me that. I made the mistake of falling for a shenanigan like that once before.”
When they got out on the ground floor Shayne took Rourke’s arm and guided him to the Flagler exit of the building. “Had breakfast yet?”
“No. I’ve been chasing around trying to dig up some dope.”
“And I’ve been dodging bullets and State’s Attorneys.” They went into a small restaurant and took a table for two in the rear. “Sit down and spread your ears, Tim. You can do something for me if I’m still alive when you go to press this afternoon.”
CHAPTER
6
AFTER BREAKFAST SHAYNE AND ROURKE ARGUED on the sidewalk outside the restaurant. Rourke was disgruntled and adamant, demanding a headline that had at least a hint of the truth in it.
“Sorry,” Shayne said, “but that’s the way it has to be,” and made his way to an old building on Miami Avenue.
A sardonic grin twisted his features as he entered and walked up two nights, turned to the right in the dark corridor and stopped before a wooden door on which a painted shingle read, MANUEL P. MARKLE, Atty. at Law.
Manny Markle was the shrewdest criminal lawyer in Miami. His clientele included the wealthiest crooks of the nation who flocked to the sunny, semi-tropical playground during the season. But Shayne knew that his expert legal mind was as dirty as the offices he maintained.
He turned the knob and entered a dingy room which appeared crowded with a desk and four chairs. It was unoccupied.
An inner door was marked PRIVATE. Shayne opened it and walked into an office twice the size of the reception room. It was lined with law books. Near the windows was a scarred desk which was dusty and cluttered with papers. A squat iron safe stood open behind it.
Manny Markle was alone in the office. He looked up from his desk and said, “Hello, Shayne,” without cordiality. His face was thin, almost gaunt, except for thick lips which looked puffed by comparison. His eyes were a pale, cold blue and predatory, overshadowed by heavy brows. A wisp of long hair made a grayish-brown strip across the top of his bald, pointed head. He wore a rumpled Palm Beach suit smeared with ashes.
“Hello, Manny,” Shayne responded. Upon closing the door marked PRIVATE he noted that it had a rusty iron bolt on the inside. “Your secretary taking the day off?”
“She hasn’t come down yet. The third girl I’ve had in three weeks and they get progressively worse. They try on jobs like they try on hats. Sit down,” he ended negligently.
Shayne sat down and leaned forward with his forearms on the attorney’s desk. He said, “I need a little information, Manny.”
“My fee is fifty dollars in advance.”
Shayne said, “This information isn’t going to cost me anything. I’m not trying to beat a rap.”
Markle rustled some papers in front of him and murmured, “You know I’m always willing to co-operate with the dicks.”
“Sure. I know that, Manny. That’s why this is going to come easy. It goes back a year. You represented three punks on a breaking and entering charge. A drugstore on Miami Avenue. They were Garson,
“Just got a tip Osgood had you on the grill,” Rourke ejaculated, his nose twitching like a bloodhound’s on a hot scene. “What’s up, Mike?”
Shayne advised, “Ask Osgood,” and went down the hallway.
Rourke went with him, complaining, “All I know is what I read in the Herald. Give me an angle, Mike.”
“Play up the Herald angle,” Shayne said. “It’s a good one.” He stopped at the elevator shaft and pushed the DOWN button.
“But I figured on busting that story wide open,” Rourke said cheerfully. “Hell, it was practically libelous. They all but accused you of holding out for a bribe from the murderer for keeping your mouth shut.”
Shayne’s wide mouth twisted into a sour grin. “Maybe I could use a bribe.” An elevator stopped and he got in.
Rourke went in with him. “Don’t give me that. I made the mistake of falling for a shenanigan like that once before.”
When they got out on the ground floor Shayne took Rourke’s arm and guided him to the Flagler exit of the building. “Had breakfast yet?”
“No. I’ve been chasing around trying to dig up some dope.”
“And I’ve been dodging bullets and State’s Attorneys.” They went into a small restaurant and took a table for two in the rear. “Sit down and spread your ears, Tim. You can do something for me if I’m still alive when you go to press this afternoon.”
CHAPTER
6
AFTER BREAKFAST SHAYNE AND ROURKE ARGUED on the sidewalk outside the restaurant. Rourke was disgruntled and adamant, demanding a headline that had at least a hint of the truth in it.
“Sorry,” Shayne said, “but that’s the way it has to be,” and made his way to an old building on Miami Avenue.
A sardonic grin twisted his features as he entered and walked up two nights, turned to the right in the dark corridor and stopped before a wooden door on which a painted shingle read, MANUEL P. MARKLE, Atty. at Law.
Manny Markle was the shrewdest criminal lawyer in Miami. His clientele included the wealthiest crooks of the nation who flocked to the sunny, semi-tropical playground during the season. But Shayne knew that his expert legal mind was as dirty as the offices he maintained.
He turned the knob and entered a dingy room which appeared crowded with a desk and four chairs. It was unoccupied.
An inner door was marked PRIVATE. Shayne opened it and walked into an office twice the size of the reception room. It was lined with law books. Near the windows was a scarred desk which was dusty and cluttered with papers. A squat iron safe stood open behind it.
Manny Markle was alone in the office. He looked up from his desk and said, “Hello, Shayne,” without cordiality. His face was thin, almost gaunt, except for thick lips which looked puffed by comparison. His eyes were a pale, cold blue and predatory, overshadowed by heavy brows. A wisp of long hair made a grayish-brown strip across the top of his bald, pointed head. He wore a rumpled Palm Beach suit smeared with ashes.
“Hello, Manny,” Shayne responded. Upon closing the door marked PRIVATE he noted that it had a rusty iron bolt on the inside. “Your secretary taking the day off?”
“She hasn’t come down yet. The third girl I’ve had in three weeks and they get progressively worse. They try on jobs like they try on hats. Sit down,” he ended negligently.
Shayne sat down and leaned forward with his forearms on the attorney’s desk. He said, “I need a little information, Manny.”
“My fee is fifty dollars in advance.”
Shayne said, “This information isn’t going to cost me anything. I’m not trying to beat a rap.”
Markle rustled some papers in front of him and murmured, “You know I’m always willing to co-operate with the dicks.”
“Sure. I know that, Manny. That’s why this is going to come easy. It goes back a year. You represented three punks on a breaking and entering charge. A drugstore on Miami Avenue. They were Garson,
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