“I’m not surprised,” Painter exploded. “You’ve pulled this sort of thing time and again in the past without paying the piper. But this time we’ve got you cold.” He hammered a small fist into a smooth palm. “You’ve gone out of bounds this time and you won’t wriggle out of it.”
Shayne wrinkled his nose at the detective chief from across the bay. “You’ve played that record before.”
“This time you’re really out on a limb, Shamus. Kidnaping is a federal offense. It’s not something you can cover up locally. You picked the wrong man to intimidate when you picked Burt Stallings.”
“Painter is absolutely right,” Stallings told him in a measured tone which carried more weight than Painter’s vindictive snarl. “I refuse to be intimidated. I owe a certain duty to my constituents and, no matter what my own feelings in this matter, the issue is larger than any mere personal consideration.”
“So?” Shayne mused. He gravely sipped from his glass, keeping his face impassively blank. “All right,” he said sharply, “you refuse to be intimidated. Where does that leave us?”
“It leaves you smack behind the eight ball,” Peter Painter exulted. “You took a long chance and failed.”
“I haven’t failed yet.”
“Oh, yes, you have. You’re through, Shayne. Washed up.” Painter’s words were clipped and exultant.
“If you’d shut up this little twerp’s yapping,” Shayne said to Stallings, “you and I might come to an understanding.”
Painter trembled with rage. He drew his lips back for a retort, thought better of it, and laughed coldly.