Counterfeit Wife Read Online Free PDF

across to the door, which stood slightly ajar, pulled it open and went in.
    A square-faced man faced him across a bare desk. The office was small, with a bright unshaded globe suspended from the ceiling. The room was shabby and dirty, with two cane-bottomed chairs placed in front of the desk.
    The square-faced man had large ears that protruded at a sharp angle from his head, and a large vise-like mouth. He wore a cream-colored shirt opened at the first button, revealing a thick, ruddy neck. He waited until the detective advanced close to the desk before asking, “Mind telling me where you got hold of this bill?” His voice was rasping, but not particularly unfriendly.
    Shayne frowned and took a drink from his glass before setting it on the desk. He sat down on one of the chairs and asked, “Why? Isn’t it any good?”
    “I’m asking you,” said the proprietor of the Fun Club patiently, “where you got it.”
    “I don’t think it’s any of your damned business.”
    “I’m making it my business.” The square-faced man’s voice remained rasping, yet not particularly unfriendly but colder, and he spoke more deliberately.
    Shayne shrugged and admitted, “Printed it last night myself. Thought I did a pretty good job.”
    “It is a good job, pal. One hell of a sweet job. You’ll save yourself a lot of trouble by telling me where you got it.”
    Shayne emptied his cognac glass and set it down with a thump. “I don’t see why you’re playing puzzles, but I’m tired of it. I cashed a check at the bank this afternoon.”
    “The bank didn’t give you this bill.”
    “I say it did.”
    “The cops won’t believe you, pal.”
    “Why don’t you call them and we’ll see?”
    “I think I’ll do that little thing.” There was a smirk on his thick lips and his slate-gray eyes stared coldly at Shayne. He picked up the desk telephone with a square left hand, laid it down and dialed a number with the first blunt finger of that hand. His right hand slid from the desk into his lap.
    Shayne’s eyes narrowed at him. “You didn’t dial police headquarters. The number is—”
    “I know what number I’m calling, pal. Just sit tight where you are.”
    The muzzle of a .45 inched up over the edge of the desk and rested there, leveled at Shayne’s mid-section. The square-faced man lifted the telephone with his left hand and said, “Perry? Put the big shot on.”
    Shayne sat very still with his hands folded in front of him. He wondered if the big blonde in the outer room had finished her drink.
    He studied the bill lying on the desk between them, then reached out and picked it up by one corner. The proprietor watched him with no change of expression, the gun steady in his square right hand.
    Shayne studied the bank note carefully, frowning and turning it over in his hands. It looked genuine enough to him, though he wasn’t an expert. He said so, and the man across the desk grunted something unintelligible.
    Shayne laid the bill down and folded his hands again. Juke-box music came softly through the open door behind him.

 
Chapter Three
    PLENTY OF TROUBLE
     
    “THIS IS BATES, proprietor of the Fun Club,” the man at the desk finally said. “I got a C-note from that batch of fifty G’s you been huntin’.”
    He listened for a moment, his face impassive, his gaze and the muzzle of the gun steady on the detective.
    “Yeh. I got him here. He ain’t sayin’ where he got it. Yeh. Tough-like. Oh, he’ll stick around till the boys get here. I got a gun on him that says he’ll sit quiet. Sure. That’ll be fine.”
    Bates pronged the receiver, picked up a half-smoked cigar from an ash tray, and settled back as comfortably as he could in the straight-backed chair.
    Shayne kept his hands straight in front of him. He got up easily, careful to make no sudden motion. “That gun of yours,” he told Bates quietly, “is going to make a hell of a noise if you trigger it in here. I don’t believe you want all your