“You’re crazy,” Naylor fumed. “Hell, I’m in close touch with every precinct worker. We’ll roll up a two-to-one majority day after tomorrow.”
“I’m afraid you’re fooling yourself. I believe in looking facts in the face. As I see it, I have two choices. I can go on and take a terrific beating and lose all my prestige, or I can make the manly gesture of withdrawing tomorrow and conceding the election to Stallings.”
“Manly gesture?” snorted Naylor. “What about all of us who have worked so hard for you, and all the poor devils who have bet heavy odds in your favor?”
“All my campaign workers have been well paid,” Marsh retorted sharply. “I’ve done nothing but hand out money since the campaign started. As for the men who have bet on me — they stand to lose in any event.”
“You talk about losing prestige,” Naylor argued. “You flatter yourself if you think the public will remember for very long that you were defeated. But if you back down — take your name off the ticket because you’re afraid of defeat — well, they’ll never forget that.” Naylor turned to Shayne and pleaded, “Can’t you do something with him, Shayne?”
The detective was sitting laxly, staring into his glass. He lifted it and drank deeply, then moved his head slowly from side to side. “Why should I bother? A yellow-bellied mayor won’t do Miami Beach much good.”
“That’s not a fair attitude,” Marsh protested. “You can’t censure me — neither of you — for using my own best judgment and acting accordingly.”
Shayne’s laugh was short and ugly. He touched his bruised cheek and lips lightly with his finger tips. “And I took this for you. Talk about someone being laughed out of town! Where will I be if you withdraw?”
“We’ve tried hard,” Marsh insisted, avoiding the eyes of his visitors. “There’s no shame in fighting the good fight and losing.”
“That’s what I pointed out,” Naylor interposed hastily. “Lose if you must — but quit?”