Bodies Are Where You Find Them by Brett Halliday

awaited him. “It looks utterly hopeless to me,” he said with finality. “I’ve been getting discouraging reports for weeks, and if the trend continues I’ll be a laughingstock when the votes are counted.”
    “You’re crazy,” Naylor fumed. “Hell, I’m in close touch with every precinct worker. We’ll roll up a two-to-one majority day after tomorrow.”
    “I’m afraid you’re fooling yourself. I believe in looking facts in the face. As I see it, I have two choices. I can go on and take a terrific beating and lose all my prestige, or I can make the manly gesture of withdrawing tomorrow and conceding the election to Stallings.”
    “Manly gesture?” snorted Naylor. “What about all of us who have worked so hard for you, and all the poor devils who have bet heavy odds in your favor?”
    “All my campaign workers have been well paid,” Marsh retorted sharply. “I’ve done nothing but hand out money since the campaign started. As for the men who have bet on me—they stand to lose in any event.”
    “You talk about losing prestige,” Naylor argued. “You flatter yourself if you think the public will remember for very long that you were defeated. But if you back down—take your name off the ticket because you’re afraid of defeat—well, they’ll never forget that.” Naylor turned to Shayne and pleaded, “Can’t you do something with him, Shayne?”
    The detective was sitting laxly, staring into his glass. He lifted it and drank deeply, then moved his head slowly from side to side. “Why should I bother? A yellow-bellied mayor won’t do Miami Beach much good.”
    “That’s not a fair attitude,” Marsh protested. “You can’t censure me—neither of you—for using my own best judgment and acting accordingly.”
    Shayne’s laugh was short and ugly. He touched his bruised cheek and lips lightly with his finger tips. “And I took this for you. Talk about someone being laughed out of town! Where will I be if you withdraw?”
    “We’ve tried hard,” Marsh insisted, avoiding the eyes of his visitors. “There’s no shame in fighting the good fight and losing.”
    “That’s what I pointed out,” Naylor interposed hastily. “Lose if you must—but quit?”
    Shayne finished his drink. He hurled the glass across the room and shattered it against the wall. He said bitterly,
    “Thank God I haven’t got any prestige to lose. You’re not running out on me, Marsh. Not by a damn sight. You’re going to stay in this election and win whether you like it or not.”
    Marsh set his lips stubbornly. “Further discussion is useless. My mind is made up.”
    “Then you’re going to unmake it.” Shayne got to his feet. He strode forward and stopped in front of Marsh on widespread legs. “No man is going to pull a fade-out on me. I always finish what I start.”
    “It can’t matter particularly to you,” Marsh protested. “You have no money invested in my campaign. I’m the loser.”
    Shayne studied him out of bleak gray eyes. Marsh’s wiry energy appeared completely dissipated. Except for the grim set of his thin jaw and the sullen determination of his elongated eyes, he was a picture of defeatism.
    “I’ve got something invested in this election that means the same thing as money,” Shayne said harshly. “My reputation for knowing my way around. Do you think I’ll let a weak-livered punk take that away from me?”
    “I refuse to be intimidated. It’s my decision and nothing can change it.”
    “I’ll see about that.” Shayne turned on his heel and went to the telephone, dialed a number.
    He said, “Hello, Joe? Mike Shayne talking. Are you making book on the local election? Fine! I’ve got a little two-to-one money on Marsh.”
    Out of the corner of his eye Shayne saw Jim Marsh’s face go ashen. The man jumped to his feet, ejaculating in a choked voice, “You mustn’t do that, Shayne. I warn you not to.”
    Disregarding him, Shayne said, “Is that so, Joe? You’ve got so much