Brett Halliday

Don’t Fence Me Out

An armed sentry stood outside the closed door. He nodded and opened the door when the rangy detective said, “I’m Mike Shayne.”

There were four uniformed men inside the room. Captain Ott, Military Intelligence, sat behind a flat-topped desk. Another officer sat at his right. A soldier, wearing the three stripes of a buck sergeant, stood a little back from in front of the desk with folded arms, his bronzed face impassive. A private stood at rigid attention in front of Captain Ott’s desk. He was young and he looked frightened. His thin cheeks were freckled and beads of sweat stood on his forehead.

Captain Ott nodded as the door closed behind the Miami private detective. He said, “You got here in a hurry, Mike.”

Shayne said, “I was going out for breakfast when your call caught me.” He pulled off his hat and looked around at the others with a questioning glint in his gray eyes.

Captain Ott leaned back in his swivel chair and said casually, “This is Captain Richards. And Sergeant Blake. And Private Carson. Michael Shayne.”

Captain Richards nodded and grunted something. He had a square, harsh face with round, unblinking eyes, Sergeant Blake said, “I’m pleased to meet you, sir.” Private Carson said nothing. He held himself very stiff and continued to stare at the wall over Captain Ott’s head.

Shayne ran knobby fingers through his bristly red hair and went past the desk to a chair at Ott’s left. A muscle was jumping in the private’s tight jaw.

“I called you over,” Ott told him, “because we may need your help. Private Carson killed a man last night.”

Shayne got a cigarette from his shirt pocket and waited for the captain to go on.

“In line of duty. Private Carson was walking post on guard last night at one of our installations on the keys south of here. At two-thirty a civilian approached his post. Private Carson ordered him to halt but the man continued forward. He repeated the order, and after the third ‘Halt’ he added the warning, ‘or I’ll fire.’ The man continued forward, and in the moonlight was seen to thrust his hand inside his coat. Private Carson fired, as was his duty. The man fell forward, then got to his knees and attempted to level a pistol. Carson fired again, killing him.”

Shayne shrugged and lit his cigarette. “He must have been drunk, deaf, or nuts.”

“It would seem so,” Ott agreed drily. “He was not drunk.” He glanced down at a notation in front of him. “From papers on the body, the dead man has been identified as Lester Moore, of Coral Gables.”

Shayne frowned down at his cigarette. “Dinky Moore? Short and slight? Dark-featured?”

Ott glanced at Captain Richards. He nodded. “That about fits him, doesn’t it, Sergeant?”

The sergeant said, “To a T, Sir.”

“Captain Richards is Company Commander,” Ott explained. “And Sergeant Blake was Sergeant of the Guard last night.”

Shayne crossed one knee over the other and slowly exhaled smoke. His forehead was corrugated above bushy red brows. “Dinky Moore wasn’t deaf nor crazy. A cheap punk — out for any crooked dollar he could get his hands on.” He shook his head. “I can’t see Dinky walking up against an Army forty-five.”

“That’s the curious thing. He didn’t seem at all afraid. As though he was positive there was no real danger. Isn’t that the impression you got, Carson?”

“Yes, Sir.” The young private kept his eyes straight ahead. His voice trembled. “He kept right on coming. Didn’t say a word.”

Shayne said, “This post on the keys. Is it by any chance the same post where practically this same thing happened not more than a month ago?”

“It is,” Ott told him flatly. “In that case, the man approached the front gate which was open. He was unarmed, but disregarded the sentry’s warnings in almost the same manner. It was proved, however, that he was quite drunk. We considered his death accidental until—” The Captain spread out his hands.

“You think there’s a tie-up?”

“It could be coincidence, but—” The Military Intelligence officer doubled his hands up into fists. “Since we entered the war there have been perhaps a dozen such unfortunate deaths throughout the country. Irresponsible youngsters showing off, or drunks. It’s pushing coincidence pretty far to have two of those deaths occur at one isolated post under almost identical circumstances within a few weeks of each other.”

“You think,” said Shayne carefully, “that Dinky Moore thought the fix was on? That he took the sentry’s warnings as just a gesture — expecting another sentry to be on duty?”

“I’m afraid I am thinking along that line. That’s why I called you in, Shayne. To help with the outside investigation, if you will. You know Miami — and men like this Dinky Moore. If we could get a line on his late activities—”

“Do you suspect attempted sabotage?”

“I don’t know what I suspect, Shayne.” Ott’s voice was weary. “I will tell you this: The military establishment in question is one of our most closely guarded military secrets. So far as I know, you are the first civilian to be told that it is, in reality, a secret submarine base for our Caribbean pig-boats. Captain Richards commands the infantry company on detached service to guard the installation. The navy personnel for refueling and refitting submarines live and work underground in carefully camouflaged quarters and shops.”

Shayne tugged at the lobe of his left ear and nodded slowly. “It’s a well-kept secret. I thought it was just a small post for our coastal patrol. Airraid warning or something.”

Captain Ott said crisply, “That’s what everyone is supposed to think. The need for secrecy has been drilled into Captain Richards’ infantrymen. They are allowed only rare six-hour passes off the post which gives them no time for carousing and indiscreet talk in town. No one is allowed inside the wire fence at any time.”

“Close-woven wire,” Captain Richards put in, “with the three gates under constant guard day and night.”

Shayne transferred his attention to the infantry officer. “How often are the guards changed?”

“A new detail every twenty-four hours. Twelve men with a non-commissioned officer in charge. There are four posts,” Captain Richards went on to explain. “Three men are assigned to each post. Two hours on duty and four off.”

“You were in charge of the detail last night?” Shayne looked at the sergeant.

“From four o’clock yesterday afternoon.”

“How did you select the men for their tours of duty on the various posts?”

“I had them count off by fours as they lined up for guard mount. The first four took the first hitch, four to six, on posts one, two, three and four in order. The second group took the second hitch, six to eight.”

Shayne considered this for a moment. “Then their position in line determined what time they’d be on duty at which post. Could a man plan where to get in line to be selected for a certain post at a certain time?”

“Not a chance of it.” Sergeant Blake shook his head doggedly. “We vary the routine of selection every day just to prevent that. Sometimes we count them off by threes — one, two and three for Post Number One, and so on. Sometimes we start at the other end. And sometimes we have them pull numbers out of a hat.”

Shayne shook his head hopelessly. “Then no man could know before guard mount which post he would be walking at a certain period?”

“That’s right.”

“And you don’t allow any trading of posts or tours after the men are assigned?”

“No, sir. That is — not officially. Sometimes the men may trade around a little among themselves.” The sergeant darted an embarrassed glance at his captain. “But there wasn’t any of that last night. I swear there wasn’t.”

Private Carson gave a slight start and cleared his throat. Captain Ott asked, “Do you want to add anything to what Sergeant Blake has just told us?”

The youthful soldier wet his lips. “N-no, sir,” he stammered. “I... no, sir.”

Shayne glanced at Ott. “Is the youngster under arrest?”

“No. Private Carson carried out his orders last night in a soldierly manner. As long as the man refused to halt he had no choice except to fire.”

Shayne nodded and got up. “I’ll nose around and see what I can find out about Dinky Moore.” And he told Captain Richards, “I’d like to look over the ground later, and talk to the other eleven men who were on guard duty.”

Shayne stopped his car in front of the shabby two-story apartment building and got out. It was on one of the side streets in the business section of Coral Gables, flanked by a neighborhood fruit stand on one side and by a shoe repair shop on the other.

Four concrete steps led up from the sidewalk to the open vestibule. Shayne looked at the names on the mailboxes until he found the one he wanted. The apartment number was 128. An unpainted wooden stairway led directly up from the vestibule. The stairs creaked under his weight as he mounted to a long hallway with rows of numbered doors on each side.

Number 128 was halfway down on the right. He knocked on the thin wooden panel and waited. After a full minute he knocked again.

He heard a sluffing sound inside, then the door opened a few inches and a woman looked out at him. Shayne lifted his hat and asked, “Mrs. Moore?”

She said, “You can come in if you’re from the insurance company,” and stepped back, pulling the door open. The shade was drawn and the interior of the room was dim. It was also stuffy and hot.

The woman said, “I’m not dressed for company.” Her bare feet were thrust into frayed slippers and her blonde hair was in curlers. She wore a short-sleeved kimono of sleazy red silk and apparently nothing else. She held the edges of it together at her left hip with one hand, and there was a wide gap in the front that showed half of one breast. She seemed unaware of this, or uncaring. She waved her right hand toward a wicker armchair and said, “Sit down, Mister—?”

Shayne said, “Mulrooney,” and sat down. “You are Mrs. Moore?”

“That’s right. Laura Moore.” She went past him to a wicker couch and sat down. She was tall and had a swinging stride. She had full lips that drooped petulantly, and her cheeks were flaccid. With a lot of fixing up, Shayne imagined she would be beautiful.

She crossed her legs and said, “When I called you folks this morning the man talked like it might be weeks before you paid off.” Her voice was low and husky, with an undertone of anger.

Shayne said, “It may not take that long.” He got a small memorandum book from his pocket and unscrewed the cap of his fountain pen.

“It better not. Why should it? It’s got to be paid. Everything’s in order. I paid the premium myself not more’n a month ago. And I can use that five grand, believe me.”

“No doubt. Your husband’s name was Lester Moore?”

“That’s right. Lester G.”

Shayne nodded and wrote in his book. “His occupation?”

She snorted. “Nothing. Not since Tropical Park closed and he quit touting. Naw. He was too good to work.” Her voice became shrill. “It was all right for me though. Sure. I could dance my legs off every night. A lot he cared. But he was always hanging around to bum drinks and watching to see I didn’t have any fun on the side. I pretty near lost my job two or three times account of him raising the devil when he thought I was dancing too close.”

“Where do you work, Mrs. Moore?”

“At the Lido. Say.” She narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously. “What’s all this got to do with insurance? He’s dead, all right. What else matters?” The kimono slipped from one bare thigh as she leaned forward. Again, she didn’t seem to notice or didn’t mind.

Shayne said, “These are just some necessary formalities. Do you know why your husband went out to that army camp last night?”

“I sure don’t. He must of been awful drunk — not to’ve stopped when the sentry told him.”

“What did he tell you when he started out there?”

“Nothing. I didn’t know he’d gone. I tell you — I was that flabbergasted when they told me what had happened.” She shook her head and made her eyes big and wondering.

“Did he have any particular friends at that camp?”

“None that I know of. Not in particular.” Laura Moore sucked in her lips. “He knew some of them I guess. From them being in the Lido. He was always hanging around,” she went on vindictively. “Like as if I couldn’t be trusted.”

“But he must have had some reason to go there at night,” Shayne insisted. “You see it’s this way—” He took a chance. “It might have some bearing on the payment of double indemnity or not.”

“You mean — maybe I get paid double?”

“In case of accidental death, of course. If it was suicide on the other hand—” Shayne paused suggestively.

“Suicide?” She wrinkled her forehead and faltered, “You don’t think—?”

“We’re simply trying to establish the cause of death,” he explained smoothly. He laughed. “After all, that would be a new and novel method of committing suicide.”

“And in case of suicide you won’t payoff? Is that your game?” Her voice was ragged with anger. “You can’t get away with that.”

“We’re not trying to get away with anything. We want to learn the truth. But if we can’t find any other reason for his strange action—” He let the words lie there before her.

“It wasn’t suicide. You don’t know Dinky,” she scoffed. “He wouldn’t have the nerve.”

“Think hard, then,” Shayne urged. “Didn’t he ever say anything that might explain what happened?”

“Not a word. He must of been awful drunk. Just wandered out there.”

Shayne closed his notebook and got up. He went to the door and turned back with his hand on the knob. “Your husband wasn’t drunk, Mrs. Moore. That’s been established. Unless we can learn a definite reason for what happened, I’m afraid I’ll have to recommend that we fight your claim on the grounds of suicide.” He went out quickly and closed the door behind him.

The Club Lido was a sprawling one-story structure of ugly brown stucco about half way between Coral Gables and South Miami. It lay a few hundred feet off the highway surrounded by a few dispirited palms. A gravel driveway curved in to a dusty parking lot by the side of the building. There were no other cars in the lot when Michael Shayne pulled in.

It was dark and cool inside, and the stale air had a hangover of beer smell and tobacco smoke from the preceding night. There was a long room with a bar running the length of it fronted by padded leather stools. A fat man with curly hair and twinkling blue eyes rested his bare forearms on the bar and watched Shayne come in. He was the room’s only occupant. At the rear was a curtained doorway with a hand-painted sign that said, DANCING. NO LADIES ALLOWED WITHOUT ESCORTS.

Shayne sat at the bar and laid a folded newspaper down beside him. The bartender said, “Mornin’,” in a not unfriendly tone.

Shayne said, “I could use a slug of cognac.”

The bartender sighed and shook his head. “How’ll grape brandy do?”

“California or New York State?”

He turned to look at the array of bottles behind the bar. “We got both. New York’s five years old.”

Shayne said, “A double shot of that — in the bottom of a beer glass.”

A large sign behind the bar caught his eye. It said, HAM & EGGS $1.50.

The bartender set a beer glass in front of him. It had two ounces of brandy in the bottom. Shayne said, “And an order of ham and eggs.”

“We got lots of eggs. No ham.”

Shayne sloshed the brandy around and wrinkled his nose at the odor. He arched red brows at the sign behind the fat man. “For a buck and a half you ought to have plenty of ham.”

The bartender shrugged. “No more ham till the first of the month. Maybe you don’t know it, Mister, but we’re rationed just like the rest of you.”

“It should last at that price.”

“But it don’t. I was tellin’ the boss coupla days ago — why don’t we put the price up to two dollars? Maybe we wouldn’t always be runnin’ out.”

Shayne asked, “Make it four eggs, over. Toast and coffee.” He took a sip of brandy.

When the bartender came back from giving the order, Shayne had the paper spread out in front of him. A headline read:

ARMY SENTRY KILLS CIVILIAN

Shayne pointed a forefinger at it and said, “That’s the damnedest thing.”

“I’ll say.” The bartender leaned on the counter in front of him. “That Dinky Moore. He musta been nuts.”

“The fellow that got killed? You know him?”

“Sure. He was in here last evenin’. He’s in here every evenin’. Wife works here and he hangs around watchin’ her most of the time.”

“Jealous?”

“Plenty. Not that he didn’t have a reason to. She’s some babe.”

“Hostess?”

“Yeh.” He jerked his head toward the curtained doorway at the rear. “We got ten of ’em work the joint every night. But that Laura, she’s tops. She’s got what the soldiers go for — but plenty.”

“Lots of soldier trade here?”

“All we do have nowadays. There’s the airport and that training center. And we get a little play from that post where Dinky was killed last night. This is the closest joint where they can get any night life on their six-hour passes.”

“Is that all they get?”

“That’s all. Six hours. Other outfits get twenty-four hours leave. But not them.”

“That’s funny,” Shayne mused. “Way out in a camp like that. You’d think they’d get extra time.”

“I dunno.” The bartender sounded uninterested. “They gripe about it plenty.”

“What do they do at a place like that? I mean, what’s the idea setting them out on the keys?”

“I wouldn’t know, Mister. And if I did know I wouldn’t talk about it.” He jerked a spatulate thumb over his shoulder to a gilt sign that said, “DON’T. He MAY Be a SPY.”

Shayne grinned and said, “Yeh. I guess you’re right.” He drained his glass and shuddered. “This Dinky Moore must have been friendly with some of the boys out there, huh? Visiting them at night?”

“He wasn’t friendly with nobody.” The bartender shook his head. “I sure don’t know what he was doin’ out there like that. Never took him for a hoppy.”

Shayne rustled the newspaper. “That gun in his pocket sounds like he was after somebody. Any of the boys from that camp been particular friendly with his wife?”

“Might be. She goes for some of ’em. Young ones, mostly. You know how a woman gets over a kid in uniform. Boss has warned her a coupla times.” The bartender grinned lewdly. “He figures she ought to keep all that for him.”

Shayne returned his grin. “Boss goes for her too, huh?”

“If Dinky had wanted to go gunning, he didn’t have to look no further than right here.”

“But he didn’t know about that, I suppose?”

The bartender wrinkled his forehead thoughtfully. “I dunno. You know how it is. Sometimes a man don’t see what’s right under his nose. And sometimes he don’t wanta see. She was knockin’ down plenty of jack here.”

“He was willing to let her earn a living for him, huh? No matter how she did it?”

The fat man shook his curly head slowly. “I dunno. We usta wonder. Dinky got plenty sore when she fooled with the soldiers. If he’d ever caught her and the boss outright — but he never did.”

“How did he act last night? Before he went out there?”

“I didn’t notice him special. He was around. Not drinkin’ much. Then he wasn’t around. And this mornin’, wham! There it is spread all over the paper.” The bartender waggled his head and went to the kitchen for Shayne’s breakfast in response to the ring of the bell.

It was 10:18 by Shayne’s watch when he left the Club Lido. He drove at a moderate speed through the town of South Miami, and on south into the rich Redlands, a flat expanse of small truck farms basking in the Florida sun. A short distance north of Homestead, he turned to the left onto a graveled road leading directly toward the ocean. The farming district was left behind after a few miles and the road led through a section of tall Australian pines, which gave way, in turn, to mangroves and stunted palmettos as the shoreline was approached.

The road began twisting, crossing wooden trestles over wide sluggish inlets which rose and fell with the tide, creeping out along a chain of half-submerged islands so it was impossible to determine where the mainland actually left off and the keys began.

It was 11:42 when Shayne stopped in front of an open gate in a ten-foot fence of closely meshed galvanized wire at right angles across the road. A sentry with a bayoneted rifle stood in the middle of the road between the gateposts. Beyond him, the underbrush had been cleared off a twenty-acre area of flat land, none of which was more than five feet above high tide. Three long unpainted buildings stood in the center of the clearing grouped around a flagpole surmounted by the American flag. Another small frame building stood behind the sentry near the gate.

As Shayne got out, the sentry called over his shoulder, “Sergeant of the Guard. Post Number One.” And to Shayne, he said, “Advance ten paces to be recognized.”

Eight of Shayne’s long-legged strides took him up to the guard who stood at attention with his rifle at port arms. A sergeant came trotting from the little frame shack. He was puffing a little as he reached them, and he said, “No civilians allowed in here without a special pass.”

Shayne said, “Captain Richards is expecting me. Shayne.”

The Sergeant scowled at him dubiously. “Michael Shayne?”

“That’s right.”

“Prove it.”

Shayne got out his wallet and flipped it open to show his private license. The sergeant carefully compared the picture on the license with Shayne’s face, then grunted, “All right I guess. You’ll have to leave your jalopy outside. Right up there. This end of the first building is the Orderly Room.”

The sentry stepped back and Shayne passed between the two men. He looked about keenly as he approached the Orderly Room, but could see nothing whatever except the small clearing to denote human activity on the key. It was a masterful job of camouflaging a submarine base.

A corporal stopped pounding a typewriter long enough to lead Shayne to a rear door lettered C. O. He rapped on the door, opened it, and said, “Mr. Shayne, sir.”

Captain Richards was sitting behind a desk. He surveyed the Miami detective stonily. “Have you made any progress?”

“A little.” Shayne tossed his hat on the desk and lowered his body into a chair. “I’d like to see all the men who were on guard duty last night.”

The captain called through the open door: “Corporal Yonkers. Bring last night’s guard detail into the Orderly Room. I replaced them with a new detail this morning,” he added to Shayne.

The redhead nodded. “We probably won’t learn much from them.”

“I consider this entire investigation a waste of time,” Richards told him emphatically. “Captain Ott’s fear of sabotage seems to me utter nonsense. What could one man hope to do if he did get in?”

Shayne said, “I agree with you. If he wanted information he could have gotten that from the man he expected to let him in.”

“Nonsense. I don’t believe he expected to be let in. As I see the affair, it was an accident.”

Shayne said, “I think it was murder.”

“That’s your job, isn’t it? To turn accidents into murder. That’s the way you make a living.” The captain’s tone indicated no respect for Shayne’s means of livelihood.

Shayne said, “Captain Ott asked me to make this investigation.”

Men tramped into the Orderly Room outside. Captain Richards made an impatient gesture and said, “Let’s get this over with.” He got up and stalked out of the private office.

Shayne followed him out. Twelve privates were lined up at attention. Sergeant Blake saluted and said, “Reporting the guard detail, Sir.”

Richards growled, “At ease. This is Mr. Shayne, men. A Miami detective investigating the trouble last night. Tell him anything he wants to know.” He turned abruptly and went back into his office, shutting the door.

Shayne grinned at the soldiers. They were all young, and all serious-faced. He said, “Even though it embarrasses your captain, I think I’m going to prove that a man was murdered last night.”

One of the privates gave a start and opened his mouth as though to protest. It was Private Carson. Shayne said, “Don’t take that personally, Carson. Moore’s murderer didn’t necessarily pull the trigger that killed him.” He paused, then demanded, “How many of you knew the dead man?”

No one replied.

“One of you knew him,” Shayne told them casually. “He wouldn’t have kept coming that way unless he felt sure he knew the man who was pretending to halt him. That is—” He glanced at the sergeant, “—if we’re sure Carson did try to halt him. Has that been verified?”

“Yes, sir,” a soldier down the line spoke up unexpectedly. “I was on Number Three Post. I heard Carson yell halt three times. And plenty loud.”

Shayne nodded. “Yet none of you admit knowing Moore? All right. How many of you knew his wife?”

There was a shuffling of feet. No other reply.

“Laura Moore. One of the gals at the Lido Club. This one.” Shayne’s hands described a series of voluptuous curves.

The men glanced at one another covertly. He could hear their breathing quicken, but no one said anything.

“How many of you have been at the Lido Club?” Shayne snapped.

Sergeant Blake answered for him. “Hell, they’ve all been there. Me too. It’s the only place a man can get to with only six hours leave.”

“If you’ve been to the Lido, don’t tell me you don’t know Laura. Not a bunch of soldiers.” Shayne’s voice was disbelieving.

Blake grunted, “Maybe we do. They’re all hot numbers at the Lido. But you don’t have to know a dame’s name to — dance with her.”

Shayne’s cold gaze travelled down the line of men. They stared back at him with stiff resentment. He said, “All right. All of you can go — except Blake and Carson. I want you to show me where it happened.” He went into the captain’s room without knocking.

Richards looked up and grunted, “Well. Which one are you going to frame for murder?”

Shayne’s eyes were cold and bright. “I don’t know — yet. How friendly were you with Laura Moore?”

The captain rose slowly. “You’d better get out of here, Shayne. I told Ott this morning that the military should handle its own investigation.”

Shayne said, “I want all of the guard detail given a six-hour pass tonight.”

Richards was breathing heavily. “I’ll issue the orders around here.”

Shayne said, “That’s fine. I want to see them all at the Club Lido.” He went out.

“Right here is where it happened.” Sergeant Blake stopped in front of a ten-foot gate in the wire fence. The gate was the same heavy mesh wire. The sergeant pointed through the gate at a pair of ruts leading through the underbrush.

“He was walking up that road. You can see the blood where he fell. About twenty feet away.”

Shayne stared through the wire, tugging at his ear-lobe. There was a well-worn path along the inside of the fence. A soldier wearing a webbed pistol belt came marching along the path as they stood there. He passed them with a curious glance and kept on down the path.

“That’s the guard on Post Number Two,” the sergeant explained. “He walks this whole east side of the fence. Takes him about five minutes to cover it.”

Shayne glanced at the ruts leading through the gate and the underbrush toward the camp clearing behind them.

“Where does this road go? What’s this gate for?”

“It goes to the supply dump. Mess and commissary. The trucks come in this way. This road runs east about half a mile and then swings north to the highway.”

“And this gate is kept locked?” Shayne stepped forward to examine it. It was a heavy latch lock, made to snap shut when the gate was closed.

“That’s right. We only unlock it when there’s trucks coming in.”

“Show me exactly where you were standing last night,” Shayne told the young private who was standing a few paces back, very much ill-at-ease.

Private Carson gulped self-consciously. “I was coming from back there.” He pointed behind him. “I saw this man walking up the road. I hurried a little to get here in front of the gate, and called my first halt when he was about forty paces away. He kept right on coming like he didn’t hear me. I... I yelled Halt twice more and then I... I didn’t know what else to do but shoot.” He set his lips tightly and gave Shayne an agonized glance.

“No one’s blaming you,” Blake told him gruffly. “At least, they got no right to.” He gave the detective a dirty look.

“You did some damned good shooting,” Shayne said calmly to Carson. He frowned and took off his hat to rumple his hair irritably. “Why the hell was Dinky Moore walking up that road at two o’clock in the morning? Could he have mistaken it for another road?”

“Don’t see how,” Blake said doubtfully. “Here’s something else that looks funny, Mr. Shayne. When we came back from Miami this morning, we found the car he was driving. He’d left it parked about a quarter of a mile down the road. Captain Ott found his fingerprints on the steering wheel.”

“What kind of car?”

“A station wagon. It was reported stolen from the Club Lido early this morning.”

“A quarter of a mile down the road?” Shayne mused. He asked Carson, “Did you hear the car stop?”

“No, sir. I didn’t hear anything. Not while I was walking post.”

“It’s nuts,” Shayne said impatiently. “He parks his car and walks up here to a locked gate armed with a pistol. But didn’t make any attempt to shoot you as he walked up?” he demanded sharply.

“No, sir.” The private shook his head with dogged determination and held his head high. “I can’t rightly claim self-defence. He didn’t make any motion towards his gun till I’d said I’d fire, and was leveling down on him. Seemed like he just suddenly got the idea I meant it. But I had to shoot the second time because I saw his gun was out.”

“Sure you did,” Blake growled. He turned his head and spat on the ground. “It ain’t murder when you obey orders. No matter what anybody says.”

Shayne said, “I know you’re all sore because I’m a civilian investigating what you consider a purely military affair. But this is still murder, and don’t forget it.” He turned and stalked away, following the road back to the clearing.

He was just emerging from the thick underbrush when he heard a low, “Hey,” from one side. He saw a uniform behind a clump of palmetto, and an extended finger beckoning to him. He turned aside and recognized one of the privates who had faced him in the Orderly Room a short time previously.

“My name’s Murtry,” he told Shayne. “I wanted a chance to talk to you where there couldn’t no one see us.” He was a short stocky lad, with swarthy features and flashing white teeth.

Shayne said, “All right,” and stepped farther back into the concealing underbrush with the private. “What’s on your mind?”

“Jim Carson is my buddy,” the soldier told him. “Is... is he in any real trouble about that shooting last night?”

Shayne studied Murtry’s troubled face for a moment, then nodded slowly. “Plenty.”

“How can you call it murder? Jim had a right to shoot him. It was his duty.” Private Murtry sounded as though it was an argument that had been going on over and over in his mind.

“That’s the way it looks at first glance. But I’m pretty sure the man was lured here just to get shot. I’m going to prove it.”

“In that case,” said Murtry doggedly, “there’s something I got to tell you.”

Shayne tipped his hat back and waited.

“I ain’t a snitcher. That’s why I hope you won’t tell no one who told you — why I didn’t want to be seen talking to you.”

Shayne said, “I can keep my mouth shut.”

The soldier drew in a long breath. “Something I heard last night. One of the other fellows on guard — Dave Laski — he was trying to get Jim to swap posts with him. Dave was on Number One.”

“I thought that was against regulations.”

“It is. That’s why I didn’t say nothing before. And Jim Carson wouldn’t tell — not till hell froze over. Even if he don’t like Laski. But the boys do trade posts sometimes. The Old Man would raise hell if he ever found out. He’s stric’ly military.”

“This Dave Laski was trying to get Carson to trade posts with him? In other words, he wanted to have the detail Carson was on?”

“That’s right. I heard them talking right after mess. He offered Jim five bucks to trade off.”

“Did he say why?”

“N-no. But I guess Jim knew all right. You see, it’s this way—” Murtry glanced around guiltily to be sure they were screened from prying eyes. “I wouldn’t tell you except that you’re trying to get Jim in trouble. There’d be hell to pay if the Old Man ever found out. But some of the boys — sometimes when they’re on that post at night — they have one of the girls come out from the Lido.”

“While they’re on duty?”

“Sure. I know it sounds bad, but it’s damn’ near the only chance a man ever gets to have a girl around here. We never get off the post. It’s like we were in jail.”

“This Laski. Is he one of them that makes a habit of having girls visit him while he’s on guard?”

“Well, he’s one of them, I guess. He’s always bragging about one of the skirts there that’ll jump through a hoop when he hollers. The way they work it, see, is the guard on Number Two, he lets the girl in. And some of his buddies are waiting there in the woods—”

“Wait a minute,” Shayne interrupted. “How does he get the gate unlocked?”

“They’ve — got an extra key to it. They keep it hid there under a rock by the gate.”

“How many men know about the extra key?”

“I guess we all do. All except some of the nom-coms that suck around after the Old Man. But there’s not many of them that’d ever use it,” he added. “Just Laski and some of that bunch.”

“Which one is Laski?”

“He was — second from the head of the line, I think — in the Orderly Room. Tall guy. Older than most of us. Sort of goodlooking and with a line that the dolls fall for.”

Shayne narrowed his eyes, recalling the faces of the men in the Orderly Room. He nodded slowly. “What’s your opinion?” he asked abruptly.

“What about?”

“Laski. And the dead man. Was Laski playing around with the dead man’s wife?”

“I don’t know. I swear I don’t. I go to the Lido with Jim sometimes, but not much. I just thought maybe you ought to know — about Dave Laski trying to get on Number Two last night. And I knew Jim’d never tell you.”

Shayne said, “There’s one other thing. You said some of the boys phone the Lido asking a girl to come out. Can you get to a phone while you’re on guard duty?”

“Well, yeh. There’s a booth in the P X. We’re supposed to stay in the guardhouse even when we’re not walking post, but a man can stop by the P X when he gets to mess.”

“But that would be his only chance?”

“Well, it’d be kind of hard to do it any other time. Of course, he might get some other guy to phone for him.”

Shayne said, “Thanks. If I use your information I won’t tell where I got it.”

Michael Shayne lounged back in a chair and listened while Captain Ott interrogated Private Dave Laski. Laski was tall and wiry, with smooth features and curly black hair that formed little ringlets on his forehead. He appeared to be about thirty, and was completely self-possessed.

He said, “Sure, I know Laura all right. I know ’em all at the Lido.” A faint smirk accompanied the statement. “But I never fooled with Laura much. Not after I found out she wasn’t a lay.”

“How well did you know her husband?”

“Used to see him around. He was always glaring at some soldier he thought was dancing too close with Laura.”

“Ever have any trouble with him that way?” Ott asked sharply.

“Not me.” A complacent smile curved Laski’s lips. “I leave the married dames to the punks that don’t know better.”

“Meaning who?”

Laski shrugged. “Nobody in particular. Some of the boys in camp are always getting mixed up with married women.”

“Who did you talk to at the Lido last night?”

“Me? I was on guard, sir.”

“On the telephone.”

“I didn’t telephone the Lido last night.”

“There was a call from the pay-booth in the P X at mess-time. Who did you talk to, Laski?”

“It wasn’t me, sir.”

“I think it was.” Captain Ott’s voice was harsh. “I think you called Moore and arranged to meet him at that gate on the two-to-four hitch, expecting to make a trade with Carson. Later, when Carson refused, you couldn’t get to the phone to call it off. As a result, Moore walked right into a death-trap.”

Laski shook his head stubbornly. “It wasn’t me that called. I swear it wasn’t, sir. If you ask me, I think it was Jim Carson,” he went on venomously. “And now he’s trying to put it off on me by snitching about us having girls come out sometimes.”

Ott didn’t tell him it wasn’t Carson who had blabbed. He demanded, “What makes you think it was Carson?”

“He went into the P X on his way back from mess. And I saw him chumming up with that Dinky Moore at the Lido a couple of weeks ago.”

“Did they appear to be friendly?”

“I’ll say. Thick as thieves.”

“That seems to indicate that Carson hadn’t been too friendly with Laura Moore.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure about that. I remember now that he used to dance with her most of the time.”

“You’re contradicting yourself by trying to switch suspicion to Private Carson,” Ott told him wearily. He turned to Sergeant Blake who stood near the door. “Take Laski back to camp. I’ll talk to Captain Richards about preferring charges.”

When the men had gone the Intelligence officer told Shayne: “I don’t like that man but I believe he was telling the truth.”

Shayne leaned back and tugged at his ear. “What did you mean about preferring charges?”

“He’ll be court-martialed,” Ott explained. “Unlocking the gate and admitting civilians to the camp is a pretty serious offense, particularly while a man’s on guard duty.”

“What’s your opinion on it now?” Shayne got out a cigarette.

“From what you’ve dug up, I’m ready to disregard the probability of sabotage. It looks to me like someone wanted Moore out of the way — and contrived to send him out on some false pretense that made him think the guard’s challenge wasn’t meant seriously.”

“His wife?”

“From what you’ve told me about her, she seems a logical candidate. She didn’t pretend any devastating sorrow, and she was ghoulishy eager about the insurance.”

“She isn’t going to do too much mourning,” Shayne admitted. “But there’s that telephone call made from the camp to the Lido.”

“Doesn’t necessarily mean anything at all. Any one of the boys might have called in to one of the girls. As for what Laski said about Carson: I believe he was fabricating that as he went along — because he thought Carson had accused him.”

Shayne nodded agreement. “It didn’t make a very plausible story.” He sighed and got up. “It’s still murder, and I’m going to keep on sticking my nose into it.”

It was not yet quite dark but the Lido was already doing a brisk business. The stools were all taken by soldiers and others were crowded up behind them, reaching over the shoulders of sitting men to get their drinks from three overworked bartenders.

A jukebox was going full blast beyond the curtained doorway, and Shayne strolled back to take a look inside. It was a large square room, lined all the way around three walls with wooden booths, leaving the center of the floor free for dancing. The booths had high partitions and curtains that could be drawn in front. There were a scattering of soldiers already in the booths, and two couples were dancing. One of the girls was young and plain-looking, wearing a green sports dress and dancing with her eyes shut, cheek pressed hard against her soldier-partner’s chest. The other dancer wore a flimsy evening gown and a lot of rouge and looked as though she had traveled a rough road graduating up to a roadhouse like the Lido. It looked as though the other hostesses hadn’t come to work yet.

Shayne turned back into the barroom and got close enough to the bar to order a double shot of brandy. The soldier seated in front of him was working on a large slice of fried ham and a pair of fried eggs. The ham was beautifully browned and exuded a tantalizing fragrance. As Shayne got his brandy he told the bartender angrily:

“I tried to buy a piece of ham in here this morning and got the brush-off. What do you do, save it for the soldiers?”

“We was out,” the bartender said. “Just got that in. An’ it won’t last more’n a couple of hours.”

The ham-eating soldier turned his head and grinned up at Shayne. “Must be tough to be a civilian. Join the army and quit worrying about rationing. We get ham every morning in camp. Not cooked like this though.” He took another mouthful and masticated it slowly and enjoyably. “Same damn ham, too, I betcha. What an army cook does to good chow is nobody’s business.”

Shayne’s nostrils twitched. “Ham every morning,” he muttered.

“Sure. They bring it in by the truck-load. Whole hams in cans. You could get a dollar a pound for it in one of these black markets you read about.”

Shayne drank his brandy. His eyes were bleak. He paid for the drink and went to the end of the bar and through a swinging door into the steaming kitchen.

A sweating cook looked up and scowled at him from in front of a hot range.

Shayne said, “County Health Inspector,” and flashed a detective’s badge.

The cook’s scowl deepened. He said, “Go ahead and look around,” wondering what a health inspector was supposed to pry into. He finally asked, “How do you dispose of your empty tin cans?”

“In that box by the door.” The cook pointed. “We clean it out every morning and mash ’em up for the Government salvage.”

Shayne went over to the box, half full of empty tin cans. A large kidney-shaped can lay on top of the rest. It was labeled Hormel, and it smelled of ham.

He picked it up and looked at the bottom. It was stamped USA Quartermaster Corps. He dropped it in the box and turned to go out. His way was blocked by a man as tall as himself who had come up behind him soundlessly. He recognized Grant Zenro, proprietor of the Lido. Zenro wore a faultlessly tailored suit of white pongee with white and tan sport shoes and a tan polo shirt.

Zenro said, “Is the detecting business so bad that you’ve started looking through garbage barrels, Shamus?” A threadlike black mustache quivered on his upper lip.

Shayne said, “The detecting business is looking up. I’ve been wondering where you got your hams.”

“And?”

Shayne shrugged. “Now I know.”

Grant Zenro smiled with his lips but his eyes were humid. “Perhaps you’d like to talk this over in my office.”

Shayne said, “Sure.”

Zenro turned and led the way out of the kitchen through a side door opening into the dance room. There were five couples dancing now, and more soldiers in the booths.

Laura Moore came out of a room marked ladies just as they emerged from the kitchen. She wore a glittering sequin evening gown and in her makeup was, as Shayne had surmised that morning, an exceedingly attractive piece of lush womanhood. She started a warm smile for Zenro, but it faded when she recognized Shayne behind him. She narrowed her eyes and stepped forward to put her hand on Grant Zenro’s arm.

“That’s the insurance man I was telling you about, Grant. What’s he doing here?”

Zenro stared at her, then looked back at Shayne. “Do you mean Mr. Shayne?”

“He told me his name was Mulrooney or something.”

Zenro gave her a little push and said quietly, “Go on to work, Laura. I’ll take care of this.”

He turned to the right and opened a door marked private, stood aside for Shayne to precede him inside.

It was a big office with modernistic furnishings and soft, indirect lighting. Shayne pulled a chromium and leather chair around to the front of the black and white desk, and sat down.

Grant Zenro walked past him and around the desk. He leaned forward with his knuckles on the glass top. “All right, Shayne. What kind of a shake-down are you working on?” His voice was suave and modulated with just a hint of weariness.

Shayne shook his red head. “This isn’t a shakedown.”

“Are you working for the insurance company — trying to prove Dinky Moore’s death a suicide to evade payment?”

Shayne shook his head again. “On the contrary. I’m going to prove Dinky was murdered.”

Zenro sat down slowly. He opened a drawer and got out a long black cigar, turned it over and over in his fingers, frowning down at it. “Does that tie in with your snooping around my kitchen?”

Shayne said, “I think it does.”

Zenro put the cigar in his mouth. “How?”

“Dinky drove your station wagon last night.”

“Without my knowledge or permission.”

“Maybe so.” Shayne’s tone was noncommittal.

Zenro flipped a chromium desk lighter into flame and leaned forward to suck fire into his cigar. He countered, “I reported it stolen this morning.”

Shayne didn’t say anything. Jukebox music came faintly through the closed office door. Grant Zenro leaned back and pointed the tip of his cigar toward the ceiling. He asked around it, “What are you trying to prove?”

Shayne said, “There must be a nice profit in ham and eggs — at a buck fifty a throw.”

“When we can get the ham,” Zenro agreed indifferently.

“The Army has lots of it. Whole hams in cans.”

Zenro sighed. He said, “So, all right. Maybe some of the boys pick up a can sometimes to trade off for the price of an evening’s fun. Can I help it if maybe my cook makes a deal?”

“An occasional deal like that wouldn’t be anything to raise too much hell about,” Shayne agreed. “But when murder gets mixed up with it, that’s something else.”

“So, we’re back to murder, are we?”

Shayne nodded. “That’s the way it looks to me.”

“I don’t know anything about Dinky Moore getting bumped. I don’t know what he was doing in my station wagon, nor why he was out there.”

“But it wasn’t inconvenient,” Shayne said quietly. “It must have cramped your style — having a jealous husband around underfoot all the time.”

Zenro’s black eyes blazed hotly for a moment. “Who gave you that steer?”

“I had a long talk with Laura this morning.”

“Damn a woman that—” Zenro checked himself. He took another puff on his cigar. “What are you after?”

“Dinky Moore’s murderer.”

“What’ll you be satisfied with?”

“Nothing less.”

Grant Zenro nodded slowly. His smooth, clean features were impassive. “Nothing more?”

“That’s all I’m after. Look.” Michael Shayne leaned forward. “If some fifty-a-month buck private picks up an occasional can of Army ham and wants to trade it off for your rot-gut, I’m not going to make a stink.”

“Fair enough,” said Zenro equably. “I’ll see what I can do about the other.” He paused, tapping manicured nails on the glass desk top. “What have you got?”

“You could have sent him out there — as you’ve sent some of your girls out to keep a date when the right man was on guard.”

“Go on.”

Shayne spread out his hands. “That’s about all,” he confessed. “Dinky drove your wagon out and parked it down the road, walked up to the gate thinking the fix was on and expecting the gate to be opened for him. He had been told that’s what to expect — by someone. He walked into it blind. He didn’t even try to pull a gun until it was too late.”

Zenro’s upper lip twitched. “Do you think you can hang it on me?”

“I don’t know.” The redhead frowned speculatively. “I can prove motive and opportunity. You never know how a jury will react.”

“But you can ruin me,” said Zenro bitterly. “And my business — just by bringing me to trial even though I can’t be convicted.”

“That’s about the way it is.”

“You’d frame your grandmother wouldn’t you, Shayne? Just to crack a tough case?” Zenro’s voice was thin with fury.

“This isn’t any frame. I’m talking about facts.”

“You can’t get a conviction.”

“I can try.”

“But you’d rather have a cinch case, wouldn’t you?”

“Sure.”

“All right. I’ll give you one.”

“I’m listening,” Shayne said softly. He leaned back in his chair and lit a cigarette.

“Suppose I gave you a soldier that had made a deal with Dinky. To come out there at night while he was on guard at that gate and deliver him some stuff — hams, say?”

Shayne rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. “I need a motive.”

“How about Laura?”

“Do you mean she’s in love with this soldier?”

“He could be in love with her.” Zenro’s voice was harsh. “Lots of them are.” He laughed shortly. “Kids away from home.”

“Here’s something that would be better.” Shayne stared down at his cigarette. “If she’d led the kid on — promised to marry him, maybe. That would tie it up in a knot. With the insurance money as an additional incentive.”

“Damn you, Shayne! So you are working for the insurance company?”

“Why no.” Shayne looked surprised. “I told you—”

Zenro exploded, “The hell with what you told me. That’d be as good as suicide, wouldn’t it? She can’t collect if you frame her into a position as accessory.”

“I hadn’t thought about that.”

“Nuts.” Grant Zenro stood up. His upper lip twitched away from his teeth. “Get out of here.”

Michael Shayne remained seated. He stretched his long legs out in front of him and contemplated the toes of his shoes. “I’ve still got you for a fall guy.”

Zenro said, “By God,” very softly.

Shayne dropped his cigarette and toed it out on the thick rug. Without looking at the Lido proprietor, he said, “A phone call was made here from the army camp last night. Know anything about it?”

“Should I?”

“It might help,” Shayne said blandly. “If it was for Dinky — and if you happened to answer the phone yourself. You might recognize the voice.” He stood up and yawned. “Think it over.” He opened the door and went out.

The dance floor was crowded. Michael Shayne stood outside Zenro’s office and surveyed the dancers moodily. He recognized some of the soldiers who had faced him in the Orderly Room that morning. Private Murtry, who had given him the dope on Laski, was dancing with Laura Moore. Dave Laski was dancing with a slim redhead who leaned back and laughed up into his face while his hand pressed against the small of her back held her firmly against him.

Sergeant Blake came away from the bar to meet Shayne when he strolled into the front room. The sergeant had a glass of beer and his face was flushed. He said, “I was to present Captain Richards’ compliments, sir, and say all the men are here.”

Shayne nodded. He saw Captain Ott standing inconspicuously at the front of the bar and he moved in that direction.

“Anything doing?” Ott asked sharply.

Shayne grinned and tugged at his ear. “I’m tightening a few screws. Something is going to snap.” He hesitated. “I’m going to talk to the widow. Have Blake round up Murtry, Carson and Laski. Bring them into Zenro’s office when I go in with Mrs. Moore.”

The dance was just ending when he reentered the rear room. Before the jukebox could start grinding out another tune, he went across the floor to Murtry and Laura Moore who were standing together. He tapped the private on the arm and said, “I think the lady wants to sit this one out.”

Private Murtry turned with his mouth open to expostulate. His lower jaw sagged when he recognized the redheaded detective. “Sure,” he stammered. “Sure,” and hastily stepped backward.

Laura was breathing hard and her eyes were baleful. In her husky voice, she demanded, “What’s the big idea? I’m paid to dance with these boys.”

Shayne took her bare arm. It was warm and firmly fleshed. He said, “It won’t hurt you to miss one,” and guided her to an empty booth.

A waiter was hovering in the doorway by the time they were seated opposite each other. Shayne shook his head and said, “Just pull the curtain and leave us alone.”

The waiter hesitated, glancing at Laura. She nodded and said, “It’s okay, Joe.”

He drew the curtain across the entrance and went away. Laura Moore put her hands flat on the table and demanded, “What were you talking to Grant about, and what’d he call you instead of Muhooney?”

“I was talking to Zenro about Dinky’s death, and my name’s Shayne. Michael Shayne,” he amended harshly.

Some of the color went away from Laura’s cheeks. “Mike Shayne! The dick?”

He nodded. “And not a damned bit interested in your insurance troubles.”

She leaned back, full breasts heaving beneath the flimsy cloth that only provocatively pretended to cover them. “What are you after?”

“Your husband’s murderer.”

“Still harping on that?” she asked contemptuously.

He said, “Grant’s not going to marry you. You were a fool to think he would.”

“What are you talking about?”

“He just told me so. He swears there’s never been anything between you. That you just work here.”

“Why, that—” Laura caught herself and narrowed her eyes. “What are you trying to do?”

“Just putting you straight,” Shayne told her wolfishly. “Grant’s throwing you over. He can’t afford to get mixed up in a murder rap.”

Her breathing was loud in the closed booth. She took a long time before replying. Then she chose her words carefully: “That’s all right with me. God knows, it’ll be a relief to be rid of him. But I don’t know what you mean by being mixed up in a murder rap.”

She sounded truthful. Shayne scowled and said, “He told me you were nuts about him.”

She threw back her head and laughed. “That’s Grant for you. Just because he’s the boss and we play up to him.”

Shayne sighed. He got up and pulled the curtain aside. “I want to hear you tell him that.”

“All right. Why shouldn’t I?” She got up defiantly. “I don’t have to keep on working in this dump. Soon as I collect that insurance I can tell them all where to head in.” She followed him around the dancing couples.

They passed Captain Ott who was lounging just outside the curtained doorway. Shayne nodded to him, went on to Zenro’s office and pulled the door open. Laura Moore went in ahead of him.

Grant Zenro’s eyes widened when he saw her. Shayne stepped between them. “You’d better think fast, Zenro. Laura’s spilled all about Dinky and the hams.”

“I only told Dinky I’d buy them if he brought them here,” Zenro snarled. “I didn’t know—”

“Shut up, Grant,” Laura cried. “He’s tricking us. I didn’t tell him anything.”

Through the open door behind her, Privates Laski, Murtry and Carson filed into the office. Sergeant Blake was right behind them, and Captain Ott came in last, closing the door.

Grant Zenro got up slowly while Laura shrank back against the wall, biting her underlip while her harried eyes went from one to another of the uniformed men.

“I don’t know what kind of convention this is,” Zenro began slowly, “but—”

“They’re all interested in what you were just saying about Dinky Moore and the hams,” Shayne interrupted.

Zenro licked his lips. “All right. I won’t deny it. God knows, I’m only trying to stay in business. Sure, I told Dinky I’d buy all the canned hams he could get me at a dollar a pound. He told me he had it all fixed with some soldiers out there.”

Shayne said, “I’m damned if I don’t believe you, Zenro. Then that telephone call must have been for Laura, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. But I didn’t know—”

Shayne turned away from him to Ott. “That clears up all the questions that have been bothering me. Laura Moore murdered her husband. She wanted the insurance and she wanted to get rid of him because he cramped her style with his jealous husband act.”

“It’s a lie,” Laura sobbed out. “I didn’t.”

“I’ve got enough evidence to hang you,” Shayne told her flatly. “You egged Dinky on to going out after those hams by telling him you had it all fixed with one of the soldiers out there. You knew what would happen. When you got that phone call last night—”

“She didn’t have anything to do with it.” Private Carson stepped forward stiffly, freckles standing out in relief against his white face. “I planned it all. Every bit of it. I got the idea after the other civilian got killed last month. When they didn’t do anything to the guard, I saw my chance to get rid of him.”

Laura moaned, “Jimmy. Don’t—”

“I’ve got to tell them,” he explained steadily. “Do you think I can stand here and hear them accuse you? She didn’t know what I meant to do, sir,” he told Captain Ott. “I called her last night and told her when I’d be on post so I could unlock the gate and let him in. I... I thought we could get married if he was dead.” Tears ran down his freckled cheeks and he seemed awfully young. He turned suddenly and lunged out the door. Blake made a flying tackle after him.

Captain Ott drew in a long breath and shook his head at Shayne. “You’re lucky the kid is young enough to believe in the sanctity of love. It sounded like an airtight case you had built up against the lady.”

Shayne smiled, tight-lipped. “I thought he’d crack. I knew it had to be Carson ever since this morning, but I didn’t know how he’d lured Dinky out there until I dug in a garbage barrel and began turning some screws.”

“You knew it was Carson since this morning?” Ott asked incredulously.

“It had to be. Have you seen that mesh wire fence around camp?” Shayne demanded. “He claimed he shot Dinky through the locked gate. The holes in the mesh aren’t much bigger than a forty-five slug. One bullet might go through without being deflected, but it was a million-to-one that it wouldn’t happen twice in the same night. That gate had to be open while Carson was shooting — which also explained why Dinky thought everything was on the up and up. And that meant Carson was lying from the beginning. Things began to shape up when Murtry told me about the extra key that Laski and the others used.” He shrugged his wide shoulders and went out for a drink.

Content

Brett Halliday
Don’t Fence Me Out