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spill everything.”
    “You’re still solving a murder, and I’ve…”
    “You won’t get anything out of her,” Shayne cut in warningly, “as long as she believes Bob is innocent.”
    Captain Ott was silently thoughtful for a long moment, then said, “Your treatment is pretty rough for an old lady who’s trying to protect her son.”
    “You want him for desertion, don’t you?”
    The captain’s expression hardened. “We do. All right, I’ll let you handle it. We haven’t forgot your cooperation on the Nicholson case. Any time you want a commission, Shayne…”
    Shayne’s gaunt features contorted in a wry grin. “Thanks. But I’m not cut out for a uniform, and certain of your regulations might cramp my style. I think I’m worth more on the outside.”
    “There’s something in what you say.” Captain Ott lifted himself from the table and Shayne put on his trench coat.
    They shook hands and Shayne promised, “I’ll notify you the moment I get anything definite.”
    Shayne went swiftly and purposefully down the two flights of stairs, through the foyer, and outside. The un-blackened side of a few street lights shone dimly through the before-daylight mist and the streets were tomblike with utter silence. His trench coat felt snug and warm against the damp chill in the air, for in spite of the resort’s slogan of “June in Miami the year around” early spring nights were chilly in the semi-tropics.
    His big shoes made a loud tramping sound on the pavement as he made his way to police headquarters. He went directly back to the file room and spoke cheerfully to a gray-haired man in uniform drowsing in a cushioned chair. “Hi, Pop,” he called, and closed the door. “Brought you something to keep you awake.”
    The old man’s ruddy, seamed face broke into pleasurable wrinkles when Shayne pulled out his bottle. “’Tis a fine lad you are, Mike, to be thinkin’ of old Pop Gans on a night like this.”
    He took the bottle and tilted it to his lips, let a generous portion of the liquor trickle down his throat. His red-rimmed eyes beamed when he handed the depleted bottle back to Shayne. “And what was that bribe for?”
    “Just want you to look up an old case for me, Pop. Or maybe you’ll remember. About a year ago… three punks robbing a drugstore on the corner of Miami Avenue and Sixth.”
    Pop Gans squinted at him with rheumy eyes. “About a year ago, you say?”
    “Yeh.” Shayne frowned. “One of the men was named Willie Garson. And there was…”
    “The others were Red Axtell and Peewee Dimoff. Sure, I’ve got it now. What is it you’re wantin’ to know, Mike?”
    “What disposition was made of the case. What came out at the trial… whether anyone was back of them… any mob.”
    “The three of them took a guilty plea,” Pop told him. “There wasn’t any trial. But here’s something for you to chew on, Mike. Manny Markle appeared for them.”
    “Manny Markle? Where’d those three amateurs get the money for Manny’s fee?”
    The old man cackled loudly. “That’s the morsel you’re to chew on.”
    “I get it,” Shayne said slowly. “If Manny was fronting for them they must have had the right sort of connections. Thanks, Pop. That’s what I needed. Know what they drew?”
    “Five to eight years.”
    Shayne said, “I don’t see why the hell they keep any files in here,” and went out to his car.

 
    CHAPTER
4
     
    FROM THE POLICE DEPARTMENT SHAYNE DROVE to the garage of his apartment hotel, got out wearily and went around to the front door and into the lobby.
    Tommy was alone, dozing behind the desk. His head jerked up and his eyes popped open when Shayne’s heels thudded across the tiled floor. He jumped up and asked eagerly, “What happened, Mr. Shayne? Did everything turn out all right?”
    “Everything turned out lousy, Tommy,” Shayne said. He leaned both elbows on the desk and morosely tugged at the lobe of his left ear. “I’m sort of on the spot. You’ve