Free Heads You Lose by Brett Halliday Page A

stations.”
    “Sure. Kline knows we will. I imagine you’ll find everything in apple-pie order.”
    “What the hell are you getting at, Mike?” Gentry’s voice came louder, baffled and aggrieved. “Damn you, first you act like you’ve got a smart tip, and then you hedge.”
    “I’m just giving you the dope I got,” Shayne assured him. “But I wish you would go to the records and get a list of every filling station he’s bought or leased. Manny Markle is probably handling the deals for him.”
    “Sure. I’ll do that. Are you getting anywhere on the Wilson murder?”
    “I’m learning things,” Shayne admitted cautiously. “For instance, Kline has been trying to buy Clem Wilson out, and Clem wouldn’t sell.”
    “What does that mean? You don’t think Dennis Kline is fool enough to kill a man just for a service station site?”
    Shayne said, “No. But it’s something to think about, Will.” He grinned as he hung up and cut off Will Gentry’s angry sputtering.

 
    CHAPTER
7
     
    ROGER, THE DAY CLERK, WAS ON DUTY WHEN Shayne got back to his hotel apartment. He raised his eyebrows and motioned to the switchboard where a girl operator was on duty. “I think Gladys has a call for you on the wire right now, Mr. Shayne. Want to take it here?”
    Shayne said to Gladys, “Switch it to the booth,” and went into the tiny compartment and closed the door.
    An unctuous voice came over the wire. “Mr. Shayne, this is Mr. Brannigan speaking… of the Motorist Protective Association.”
    Shayne said, “I don’t know you, do I?”
    “I believe not, but I hope you will. I wonder if you could drop into my office for a conference?”
    “What about?” Shayne asked.
    There was a slight hesitation at the other end of the line. Then Mr. Brannigan said heartily, “I think we should get together, Mr. Shayne. It appears to me we might be of mutual benefit to each other.”
    “How?”
    Mr. Brannigan’s soft laughter gurgled soothingly over the wire, like thick oil bubbling from a bottle on a cold morning. “You are certainly forthright, Mr. Shayne. I’d like for us to discuss certain information in your possession regarding what the morning paper calls a ration racket.”
    Shayne grinned. He said, “I’m open to suggestions.”
    “Good. I’d like to see you at once.” Brannigan quit purring and became brisk as he continued, “Our offices are in the Biscayne Building.” He gave a fourth-floor number and asked, “May I expect to see you soon?”
    “Right away.” Shayne hung up and stared at the inanimate instrument for an instant, then emerged from the booth worrying his left earlobe. He stopped, turned back, and riffled through the pages of the telephone book until he found Motorist Protective Association listed at the address Brannigan had given him.
    Shayne went out and started to get into his car, checked the gasoline by turning on the ignition, returned the keys to his pocket and walked with long, swift strides to the Biscayne Building between First and Miami Avenues.
    The lettering on the frosted glass door of the Motorist Protective Association looked fresh and neat. He went into a reception room containing new furniture, a soft blue rug, and attractive seascapes adorning the wall. A trim receptionist looked up from her desk and smiled at him, and asked, “What can I do for you?”
    “I’m to see Mr. Brannigan,” Shayne told her.
    “The name, please?”
    “Mike Shayne.”
    “Oh,” she said, and smiled again. “You’re to go right in, Mr. Shayne.” She sprang up and preceded him to a door chastely lettered, “President, Private.”
    The private office was newly decorated in pastel shades with long windows veiled by half-closed Venetian blinds. Soft lights reflected on an immaculate glass-topped desk and the man sitting behind it.
    Brannigan wore a double-breasted pongee suit, and the red carnation in the buttonhole matched his tie. His head was square, and the short stubble of dark hair