There was flat silence inside the office. Then Windrow let out his breath in a long wheeze. One hand groped out to the desk for support.
Cal Strenk slid back into his chair against the wall. His laughter had an obscene sound. “What’d I tell you ’bout him, Jasper? What’d I tell you?”
Windrow moved back and picked up his chair. He resettled his solid bulk in it, leaned forward with hairy forearms flat in front of him. He demanded, “Are you offering to suppress that evidence for a cash payment of two thousand dollars?”
Shayne looked at him in surprise. “Now, where in hell did you get that idea?”
Windrow started to go apoplectic again. “You just said—”
“I said,” Shayne told him coldly, “that if you and Strenk wish to do the generous thing and each put up a thousand dollars as my fee on this case, I might reciprocate by forgetting about the evidence we found indicating that Pete was the father of the murdered girl.”
“Hell,” snarled Windrow, “it’s the same thing.”
Pinpoints of anger flickered in Shayne’s eyes. “It’s a long way from being the same thing. You’re talking about a bribe, and, by God, that’s something I’ve never taken.” His voice had a ring of passionate sincerity.
Windrow’s upper lip curled away from his teeth. “Have it your own way.”
“It’s going to be my way or not at all.”