Jorgensen.
Chapter Seven: HIS CARDS ON THE TABLE
SHAYNE FOUND JIMMY DOLAN and a few others of the staff lolling at their desks and listening to the clatter of the teletypes in the Courier office. Dolan was a wiry little Irishman with a big mouth, a crooked nose, and a soft heart. He was an ex-lightweight of Benny Leonard’s era, and did a sports column for the Courier.
He jumped up from his desk and came forward with a grin splitting his face, his feet and fists simulating a boxer’s, exclaiming, “It’s Mike Shayne in the flesh and a sight for sore eyes. If Tim could see you—”
“They say Tim’s bad,” Shayne answered, engulfing the sports writer’s smaller hand in his big palm.
“Mighty bad, Mike. I went to see him this afternoon. Laid out like dead with a pretty nurse tending him. If he’d open his eyes and see her, he’d be up and about his business in a hurry. She’s a cute blonde, and you know how Tim is about—”
“Blondes,” Shayne finished for him. “Did you talk to the nurse about his condition?”
“I told her I was official, see? From the office here, and she said they’d operate on him tomorrow morning if he was in shape. They’ve been filling his veins full of blood fast as it leaked out, and gave him some stuff for his heart. Now if they can just get him to come to, Tim would fight it out himself, but—”
“Do you know anything about those murders he was investigating?” Shayne interrupted. He had been on the listening side in conversations with Jimmy Dolan before.
“Not a thing, Mike.” Dolan shook his graying head disconsolately. “You know what a tight mouth he was on a story like that.” He led the way back to his desk and pulled up a chair for Shayne, got out a short-stemmed, foul-smelling briar, and began filling it from a zippered pouch, pressing the rough-cut down firmly in the bowl with a stubby thumb.
“I’m wondering about his pipelines,” Shayne said, as Dolan lit his pipe. “If I could get a lead in that direction I might learn something.”
“He had plenty, but no man ever knew who they were.”
“He mentioned affidavits in his last story. Any chance something like that would be stashed here in the office?”
Dolan didn’t answer until he had worried his pipe into burning evenly. He said, “Yes and no, Mike. I’d say the stuff might have been here once, but it isn’t now.”
“Did Tim take it with him? I understand he resigned.”
“Yep. It was like this, Mike. When the Old Man saw the Blue Flash, he saw red. Came stamping out of his office like a mad bull and yelling for Rourke. He went over to Rourke’s desk and started pawing through the drawers.” Dolan stopped to chuckle. “Then he saw the sheet of paper Tim left in his typewriter. Yessir, Tim beat him to the last punch. Walked out without saying a word to anybody.”
“Did he clean out his desk?” Shayne asked.
“Tim? I don’t know. I saw him putting some things in his pockets before he walked out. But some of the boys said Bronson came back to the office after supper last night and went through Tim’s desk and cleaned it out good.”
“How late after supper?”
“Eight or nine o’clock. Minerva could give you the dope on that. You remember Minerva.”
Shayne nodded. “What kind of a heel is Bronson?”
Dolan looked cautiously about him, lowered his voice, and said, “A puffed-up adding machine. Thinks he’s a tin God on wheels, likes to crack a whip just to hear it crack.”
“Why did he oppose Tim’s writing the stuff he’d been writing? Rourke had sense enough to steer clear of libel. And a campaign like that always jumps circulation.”
“Bronson claimed he thought it was bad for the community. Give people the wrong idea about Miami and scare the northern investors away. His henchmen didn’t like the stink.”
“Henchmen?” Shayne’s left brow arched quizzically.
“His big-shot friends—the Chamber of Commerce, and so forth.” Dolan took
Chapter Seven: HIS CARDS ON THE TABLE
SHAYNE FOUND JIMMY DOLAN and a few others of the staff lolling at their desks and listening to the clatter of the teletypes in the Courier office. Dolan was a wiry little Irishman with a big mouth, a crooked nose, and a soft heart. He was an ex-lightweight of Benny Leonard’s era, and did a sports column for the Courier.
He jumped up from his desk and came forward with a grin splitting his face, his feet and fists simulating a boxer’s, exclaiming, “It’s Mike Shayne in the flesh and a sight for sore eyes. If Tim could see you—”
“They say Tim’s bad,” Shayne answered, engulfing the sports writer’s smaller hand in his big palm.
“Mighty bad, Mike. I went to see him this afternoon. Laid out like dead with a pretty nurse tending him. If he’d open his eyes and see her, he’d be up and about his business in a hurry. She’s a cute blonde, and you know how Tim is about—”
“Blondes,” Shayne finished for him. “Did you talk to the nurse about his condition?”
“I told her I was official, see? From the office here, and she said they’d operate on him tomorrow morning if he was in shape. They’ve been filling his veins full of blood fast as it leaked out, and gave him some stuff for his heart. Now if they can just get him to come to, Tim would fight it out himself, but—”
“Do you know anything about those murders he was investigating?” Shayne interrupted. He had been on the listening side in conversations with Jimmy Dolan before.
“Not a thing, Mike.” Dolan shook his graying head disconsolately. “You know what a tight mouth he was on a story like that.” He led the way back to his desk and pulled up a chair for Shayne, got out a short-stemmed, foul-smelling briar, and began filling it from a zippered pouch, pressing the rough-cut down firmly in the bowl with a stubby thumb.
“I’m wondering about his pipelines,” Shayne said, as Dolan lit his pipe. “If I could get a lead in that direction I might learn something.”
“He had plenty, but no man ever knew who they were.”
“He mentioned affidavits in his last story. Any chance something like that would be stashed here in the office?”
Dolan didn’t answer until he had worried his pipe into burning evenly. He said, “Yes and no, Mike. I’d say the stuff might have been here once, but it isn’t now.”
“Did Tim take it with him? I understand he resigned.”
“Yep. It was like this, Mike. When the Old Man saw the Blue Flash, he saw red. Came stamping out of his office like a mad bull and yelling for Rourke. He went over to Rourke’s desk and started pawing through the drawers.” Dolan stopped to chuckle. “Then he saw the sheet of paper Tim left in his typewriter. Yessir, Tim beat him to the last punch. Walked out without saying a word to anybody.”
“Did he clean out his desk?” Shayne asked.
“Tim? I don’t know. I saw him putting some things in his pockets before he walked out. But some of the boys said Bronson came back to the office after supper last night and went through Tim’s desk and cleaned it out good.”
“How late after supper?”
“Eight or nine o’clock. Minerva could give you the dope on that. You remember Minerva.”
Shayne nodded. “What kind of a heel is Bronson?”
Dolan looked cautiously about him, lowered his voice, and said, “A puffed-up adding machine. Thinks he’s a tin God on wheels, likes to crack a whip just to hear it crack.”
“Why did he oppose Tim’s writing the stuff he’d been writing? Rourke had sense enough to steer clear of libel. And a campaign like that always jumps circulation.”
“Bronson claimed he thought it was bad for the community. Give people the wrong idea about Miami and scare the northern investors away. His henchmen didn’t like the stink.”
“Henchmen?” Shayne’s left brow arched quizzically.
“His big-shot friends—the Chamber of Commerce, and so forth.” Dolan took
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