“Gambling? I don’t know anything about that. You’ll have to ask Mr. Bugler.”
Shayne reached out and circled the young man’s neck with his big fingers. He was breathing hard, and his hands tightened relentlessly about the bony neck. “I haven’t any time for the run-around. Start remembering — quick.”
The clerk writhed in Shayne’s grasp, choking and sputtering incoherently.
Relaxing the pressure on his windpipe, Shayne asked savagely, “Did that stir up your memory?”
“Y-Yes. I g-guess I k-know what you mean. Those old accounts. They’re locked in the safe. I h-haven’t a key.” The trembling sincerity of his voice was genuine.
Shayne took his hands from the man’s throat and stepped back. “All right, but you’ve seen them. How much has Stallings got on the cuff with Bugler?”
“St-Stallings?”
“Burt Stallings,” Shayne growled. “He did some heavy plunging when Arch had his games running in the back. How deep is he in?”
“I don’t know — exactly, that is. Ten or fifteen thousand maybe, roughly.”
“Roughly is good enough,” Shayne said on his way out.