In a Deadly Vein by Brett Halliday

See if they’re the ones.”
    “Glad to, Mister. Yes, sirree, I’ll be glad to ’blige you. Reckon it was one of them give it to Pete tonight?”
    “Not necessarily, but there might be some connection.”
    “You lead me to ’em” Strenk finished his third beer and combed his whiskers with broken nails. He took a red bandanna from his pocket and blew his nose violently. “Folks’ll mebby be tellin’ you that me an’ Pete had a failin’ out recent on account of I moved out from batchin’ with ’im, but Pete was still my friend an’ I’ll sure he’p all I can to find out who smashed his head in like that.” A watery film spread over the furtive glint in his eyes as they observed Shayne closely.
    Shayne said heartily, “That’s fine, Strenk. I suppose you’ve got an alibi for the time Pete was killed.”
    “You ain’t thinkin’ I done it?”
    “Nothing like that,” Shayne said pleasantly. “Alibis are just a hobby with me when I’m on a case.”
    “Waal, I can sure give you one, Mister.” Strenk’s voice trembled with righteous indignation. “But I won’t take it kindly for you to be thinkin’ I done it.”
    Shayne waved a big hand. “All I want from you is an alibi.”
    “I was playin’ dominoes with Jeff Wharthous, that’s what I was doin’. You can ast him.”
    “I will,” Shayne said. “Rather, I’ll ask the sheriff to check it. Right now I want you to go around with me and see if you can identify Two-Deck Bryant. We’ll try the gambling joints first—I beg your pardon, Sheriff—the charity bazaars.”
    The sheriff grinned. “From what I’ve heard and seen of the slot machines not paying off, I reckon it couldn’t legally be called gambling. It’s more like a cinch you’re donating to charity every time you pull a lever.”
    “Rollered tight?”
    “I don’t know what you call it, but it isn’t hardly gambling.” The sheriff pulled his big frame partially erect and squirmed out of the cramped quarters of the booth. “You two go ahead and mosey around some. I got to show my badge in public so folks’ll know there’s some limits in Central City tonight.”
    Shayne and Strenk pushed their way out into the street while the sheriff loitered to speak with friends.
    It was past midnight, and the night was clear and biting cold beneath a star-studded sky. Shayne shivered and drew the inadequate coat of his tuxedo closer about him while Strenk strolled along comfortably with a sweaty cotton shirt open at the neck and blue jeans flapping about his scrawny legs.
    The streets were jammed, and sounds of revelry came from every lighted building. Shayne started across to the two main gambling casinos, saying, “The man I’m looking for is a professional gambler, but they’re always suckers for a game on their night off. Let’s look over here.”
    “Them tourists sure go for this kinda trimmin’,” Strenk said scornfully. “They got a idee it’s like it was sixty years ago.”
    “Isn’t it?”
    Strenk guffawed and spat in the gutter. “’Tain’t no more a parcel of the ol’ times than a painted face is all of a sporty woman.”
    Shayne chuckled and led the way into a large room crammed with crap layouts and roulette tables, chuck-a-luck games and faro dealers; with every game of chance besieged by players waiting to lay their money on the long odds against them. At two o’clock, an early hour for the night-long carousal, the crowd was riotously good-natured and still reasonably sober.
    Shayne stayed close to Strenk as they made a slow circuit of the room, but neither Bryant nor his two gunsels were in evidence.
    After a thorough search, Strenk said, when they reached the door again, “Didn’t see any of ’em in there.”
    They repeated the procedure next door where a fraternal order was raking in charitable donations across the green baize, with the same negative result. When they were once again on the boardwalk outside, Shayne shivered and asked, “Any more