The Private Practice of Michael Shayne by Brett Halliday Page B

obviously relieved.
    As Shayne turned away, he heard the click of a key in the lock behind him.
    He had to restrain himself to keep from taking the stairs two at a time, holding his body erect and dignified as be imagined a physician would do. He drew a deep sigh of relief when he reached the front door without encountering the housekeeper again.

 
Chapter Nine: GAMBLING WITH A GAMBLER
     
    SHAYNE DROVE slowly away from the Marco residence. He unbuttoned his shirt and transferred the articles of clothing to the side pocket of his car, tossing the automatic in after them.
    At Ocean Drive, he turned to the left and drove directly to Marco’s Seaside Casino, turning in the curving driveway and parking his roadster at the curb directly behind a glittering limousine.
    Tall royal palms with trunks like columns of gray concrete shaded the gambling casino. Its appearance was desolate by daylight. There was no uniformed and beplumed doorman on duty, and the grilled front doors stood open.
    Shayne heard the voices of cleaning women drifting out from rear rooms as he strode down the long hall to the stairway and went up to the second floor. A door directly in front of him came open as he reached the top, and he was confronted by the tall white-haired man who had taken Marsha Marco out of her father’s office last night.
    His crafty eyes glittered as he recognized Michael Shayne, and he asked in a soft voice, “Where the hell do you think you’re going?”
    Shayne said, “Right here for the moment, Whitey. When did you get out of Raiford?”
    “Last month, if it’s any of your damned business.”
    “It isn’t,” Shayne conceded mildly. “Marco got to the parole board, eh? Do they know you’ve got your old job back here at the casino?”
    “No. They got crazy rules about such things. You know how it is.”
    Shayne said, “Yeh, I know. They’d bounce you right back to Raiford if they knew you were working in a gambling joint, wouldn’t they?”
    Panic flickered in Whitey’s eyes. “They don’t know, see? And I don’t think nobody’s going to tell ’em.”
    “Maybe not,” Shayne agreed carelessly. “What did you do after taking Marsha Marco home last night?”
    “I didn’t—say, what the hell are you trying to find out?”
    “ Just that.”
    Shayne turned and walked down the hall to Marco’s private office, jerked the door open and found the Miami Beach councilman leaning over a litter of papers and account books on his desk.
    Marco said over his shoulder, “Is that you, Whitey? We’ve got to do something about that second roulette table. It got jammed up last night.”
    “Paid off to some of the suckers, eh?” Shayne said in a tone of shocked condolence. “You’ll certainly have to do something about that.”
    John Marco swung his heavy body sidewise in the swivel chair and stared at the detective through opaque blue eyes.
    “So, it’s you again,” his little, pursed mouth snarled. Shayne nodded amiably and moved past the desk to drop his long body into a leather and chromium chair. “It’s me—horning in where I’m not wanted.”
    “How’d you beat that Grange rap?”
    Shayne grinned.
    “Not your fault that I did. You didn’t skip the chance to put in your two-bits’ worth.”
    Marco pulled out his cheeks.
    “It was my civic duty to give the information in my possession to the authorities.”
    Shayne laughed harshly and lit a cigarette.
    “You’ve always been a heel, Marco. Getting yourself elected to the City Council hasn’t changed you. You’ve always hated my guts, and I consider it a compliment. But you’re getting too damned big for your pants. You shouldn’t have tried to hang a frame on me last night. I would have let you alone if you hadn’t been so goddam’ dumb.”
    “What do I care whether you leave me alone or not? Get out of my office unless you’ve got something to say.”
    Shayne leaned back comfortably and puffed on his cigarette.
    “I’ve got things to say,”