“Coming right up,” Marsh said and went through a swinging door into the kitchen.
The instant he was out of the room Naylor leaned forward and asked in a low voice, “What’s got into the chief? Has something come up that I don’t know about?”
Shayne said mildly, “You’re his campaign manager.”
“That’s just it,” Naylor responded, drawing his odd brows together to form a single matted line. “I’ve worked my head off and got the votes lined up — and now he talks about taking a runout powder — giving up before the votes are counted.”
Shayne frowned his disbelief. “First I knew about it.”
“He has been worried for weeks about the way things are going,” Naylor confided. “He’s new in politics, see? He doesn’t know the inside. He’s been cutting down on expense money, and you can’t win an election that way. I didn’t know we were backing a quitter.”
“Neither did I,” said Shayne slowly.
Naylor settled back with his cigar and highball as Marsh re-entered the living-room. “Here you are, Mike.” He handed a brimming glass to Shayne. “Lots of rye and not much soda.”
Shayne nodded and reached for the glass. “Naylor tells me you’re putting your tail between your legs, Marsh.”
Marsh shot his campaign manager a disapproving glance. He set his thin lips in a tight line and went back to a deep chair where his drink and pipe awaited him. “It looks utterly hopeless to me,” he said with finality. “I’ve been getting discouraging reports for weeks, and if the trend continues I’ll be a laughingstock when the votes are counted.”