Pay-Off in Blood Read Online Free PDF Page A

iron frying pan on the stove with the heat turned high.
    He tossed half a cube of butter into the pan, got out the pound of ground chuck and mashed it up in his hands, sprinkling both sides liberally with Lawry’s Seasoned Salt and working it into the meat with his fingers.
    The coffee water was boiling, and the butter had melted in the frying pan and was sizzling and brown. He reduced the heat, mashed the pound of meat flat between his palms into a thick patty, and dropped it into the hot grease.
    He poured the water into the top of the dripolator and drank half the cognac, got out a spatula and turned the gas flame high for a moment, then turned the hamburger and lowered the flame, and sipped at the rest of his drink.
    He got out a dinner plate and slid the beautifully-browned-on-both-sides and still-red-in-the-middle hamburger onto it, carried it into the living room, and returned to get a mug of strong, black coffee.
    He ate the entire pound of meat with gusto, washing it down with coffee, carried the empty plate back to the kitchen sink and poured another mug of coffee to which he added a couple ounces of cognac in the living room.
    He settled back comfortably with a cigarette and the coffee royal, and let himself think blissfully about bed.
    A good ten hours of shut-eye was what he needed. If it hadn’t been for Tim Rourke’s interference, he would have been asleep at least an hour ago.
    He yawned widely and carefully forced himself not to think about Rourke . Tomorrow would be time enough for that.
    He drained the coffee mug to its delectable dregs, got another cigarette going, and dragged himself to his feet. He turned out the living room lights and began shedding clothes on his way into the bedroom.
    He was naked down to his shoes and socks when he reached the bed, and he threw back the covers and sat on the edge, unlaced his shoes and kicked off his socks.
    He padded across to the window and opened it wide, went back and turned off the light and slid under the covers with a sigh of contentment.
    The telephone beside his bed began to ring. It was an unlisted number which only a very few people very close to him had.
    He dragged his mind back to awareness, groped in the darkness for the telephone and lifted it to his ear and muttered, “Hello?”
    He came fully awake and mad as hell when he heard Tim Rourke’s voice saying urgently, “Mike! Listen to me, Mike.”
    “You listen to me,” he grated. “What the goddam hell did you mean…?”
    “Did you go with the doctor, Mike? Make the pay-off?”
    “You ought to know,” he roared. “ Goddamit , Tim…”
    “He’s dead, Mike.”
    Shayne held the telephone away from his ear and shook his head angrily. He put it back and asked, “ Who’s dead?”
    “Doctor Ambrose, poor bastard. Gunned down in his own driveway on the Beach.” Rourke gave him the street address. “I just got a flash from the office. See you there.”
    The reporter hung up.

 
CHAPTER FOUR
     
    Michael Shayne lay very still for at least a full minute, staring upward into the darkness while unanswered questions churned through his mind. Ambrose dead? In the name of God, why? He’d made the pay-off in front of Shayne. Everyone had been satisfied. Maybe his death had nothing to do with blackmail, of course, but that was just too damned coincidental.
    Yet it couldn’t be worth risking a murder rap for the blackmailer to get the stuff back from the doctor. He must realize that the twenty grand he’d gotten tonight had bled his victim dry.
    The photograph? He hadn’t seemed particularly perturbed about it in the restaurant. Even if he had suspected that Ambrose had arranged to have the picture taken in order to identify him, he hadn’t kicked about it.
    Of course, there was a good chance that the man who received the money was just a go-between… that the real blackmailer had stayed in the background. In that case, the incident would have been reported back to him. And…?
    At that point