Murder in Haste

by Brett Halliday

  “Don’t look at me,” Shayne said. “I can’t explain anything.”

  “You can’t or you won’t?”

  Shayne smiled. “It amounts to the same thing, doesn’t it, Joe? You’ve told me a few secrets, and now you expect me to tell you a few in return. But it doesn’t work out that way. Petey Painter has always been a mystery to me. Some of the time he seems fairly bright. Some of the time he seems to have an IQ of minus fifty. He’s a pain in the behind all the time, but I don’t need to tell you that. Logic? I gave up expecting that from Petey long ago.”

  “Why did Painter want you picked up? Why did he tell your client to put off your appointment? You’re in this up to your eyebrows, Mike, and I want to know how.”

  Shayne’s head filled with a sudden pounding, but he forced himself to speak quietly. “Mrs. Heminway’s not my client yet, but never mind that. I’ve had two conversations with her, both on the phone, both brief. You listened in on one of them. All she wanted to know in the other was whether I was available, and on what terms. I’d been wondering what I’d do while Miss Hamilton is out of town, so I said I was available, and the terms would depend on what she wanted me to do. That’s all. But I didn’t just arrive in Miami from outer space. I read the papers. I know that this Sam Harris who’s going to the chair next week killed a minor bank official named Heminway in a robbery.

  “I had Tim Rourke dig the stories out of the News morgue. Rose Heminway is the dead man’s widow. Harris went up on the strength of a bad reputation and two eyewitnesses, one of whom was this same Mrs. Heminway. Petey Painter made the case against him. This all probably means something. I could guess, but I like to let the cops do their own guessing. You won’t mind if I shave before I go, will you?”

  “Go where?”

  “I thought you said you’re arresting me.”

  “Mike, don’t be like that. And I thought for a minute you were going to break down and be human, for a change.”

  The lines around the redhead’s mouth deepened. He took his cognac to the bathroom and set it on the glass shelf over the washbowl. From the doorway Joe Wing watched him break out his shaving equipment.

  “I’m open to any reasonable compromise,” Wing said after a moment. “I know that complete cooperation is probably too much to expect—your quarrel with Painter goes too deep. You can make your own terms.”

  Shayne went on lathering his face without replying. When this operation was complete he began stropping his straight razor. Wing stepped into the bathroom and shut the door.

  “I wouldn’t want to be quoted on this,” Wing said in a lower voice, “but I think I share your feelings about Painter, Mike. You see him when you happen to be working on the same case, and that’s really not too often. But think of me. I’ve got him day in and day out. Thank God I’m a patient man. I never used to be, but it’s something I’ve had to develop. As far as I know you’re the one man in town with courage enough to tell him off, and listening to you do it is one of my few pleasures in life. That probably goes for most of the men in the department. But that doesn’t mean we want to see him killed.”

  “Keep it in proportion, Joe,” Shayne said, beginning to scrape off the lather. “What makes you think anybody killed him? If I have the order right, he was seen driving off after the shots were fired. Did you find any blood in the Cadillac?”

  “No,” Wing admitted.

  “Then there must be something else you haven’t told me. How did he happen to be using a driver at that time of night? Especially a plainclothesman like Heinemann. He sounds more like a bodyguard than a driver.”

  Wing exploded. “Now there’s one more fact I’ve given you, and you still haven’t given me one goddam thing. Yeah, he had a twenty-four-hour guard. He was looking forward to fireworks, and he told Heinemann they were up against professionals, or words to that effect. Heinemann can’t remember exactly how he put it.”

  “Do you think I shot him?” Shayne said.

  “I didn’t say you shot him! But you know more about it than you’ve told me, and don’t deny that again because it’s getting monotonous.”

  Shayne continued shaving methodically, while Wing watched his reflection in the mirror. “If you want something to occupy your mind, here’s a point. Harris or whoever hit the Beach Trust three years ago carried away three hundred thousand in cash and bearer bonds. When he was arrested, they found twenty-three thousand under the lining of a suitcase. I think the difference would amount to two hundred and seventy-seven thousand, and where is it?”

  “Well?”

  “I’m still not getting across to you, Joe. I got those figures out of the News clippings, and the only reason I bothered Rourke for them was so I’d have a little background when I talked to Mrs. Heminway. How long has Painter been going around with a bodyguard?”

  “Two and a half weeks,” Wing said.

  “What happened two and a half weeks ago?”

  “As far as I know, nothing. The same thing occurred to me, and I’ve been checking. Nobody remembers anything unusual. He just said he was going to need twenty-four-hour protection until further notice.”

  “It’s a funny way to do business,” Shayne commented, working on his lower lip.

  “Well it’s always been Painter’s way,” Wing said. “If he pulls something off it’s a surprise to everybody, and we stand around and admire him. If it doesn’t work we don’t know about it. This time I guess it didn’t work. Of course if he’s turned up by now he won’t be glad to hear that I’ve been dickering with you, Mike. But the Cadillac was abandoned out in the middle of nowhere, with the key still in it. Add that to the shooting, and it worries me. Maybe somebody fired those shots to decoy Heinemann around the corner. The only reason they’d do that would be so they could grab the Chief. You’re in the same business we are, in a way. It seems to me you ought to—why the grin, Mike? Did I say anything funny?”

  Shayne was grinning broadly. He rinsed off the remains of the lather, and the grin turned into a laugh.

  Wing watched him stonily. “Let me in on it, Mike.”

  Shayne went off into a shout of laughter. He groped blindly for a towel and began to dry his face. Heinemann knocked on the door. “Everything all right in there, Lieutenant?”

  “Yeah,” Wing growled. “Have a drink. We’re leaving in a minute.”

  “Hell, Joe,” Shayne said when he could stop laughing. “Think about it. Whatever this jam turns out to be, he got himself into it by acting even more like Peter Painter than usual. What if I’m the one who gets him out of it? It’ll damn near kill him.”

  A smile flickered across Wing’s face. “He won’t enjoy it. Then you’re going to put your cards on the table, Mike?”

  “Maybe I don’t have any cards to put on the table. That’s a possibility, Joe, and this whole thing is weird enough so you shouldn’t toss out any possibility. If you want me to make you an offer, here it is. I’ll ask Mrs. Heminway what she has in mind, and if I take the case I’ll pass on anything I find out, maybe not the minute it comes in, but within a reasonable time.”

  “That’s what I call a hell of a deal.”

  “It’s the only one I can give you, Joe. You might gain something by it. Stick me in jail and all you’ll get will be trouble.”

  “I’ve got trouble enough now,” Wing said, scratching his chin.

  “Did Painter see Mrs. Heminway before last night?”

  “She came into headquarters two or three times. He didn’t take any notes on the visits, and I couldn’t find anything with her name on it in the current file.”

  “Doesn’t Painter keep a file of his own at home?”

  Wing went on scratching his chin. Then he went to the door and pulled it open abruptly. The two other detectives were helping themselves to Shayne’s Scotch.

  Heinemann looked up. “Lieutenant?”

  “As you were,” Wing said, and closed the door. “I hope you don’t have this bathroom bugged, Mike, because I’d hate like hell to have
Painter find out I’m taking this kind of a handout, and glad to get it. I went through that private file of his, and that’s something else I hope nobody ever mentions to him. He uses his own filing system, and it’s possible I missed something. I thought of the Sam Harris connection when I heard the name Heminway, but there was nothing in the file under his name or hers, nothing that referred to that old killing in any way.”

  Shayne said carelessly, “Maybe somebody beat you to the file.”

  Wing’s eyes were narrow and hard. “Maybe. And I hope it wasn’t you, Mike.”

  Chapter Five

  Michael Shayne dialed Mrs. Heminway’s number again. Joe Wing was standing close enough to the phone so he could hear both ends of the conversation. This time it rang only twice and the voice that answered was both sleepy and irritated.

  “Hello? Who is it?”

  “Michael Shayne again, Mrs. Heminway. I hate to do this to you. I know you were probably just getting back to sleep. If I came over in half or three quarters of an hour, could you see me?”

  “Good heavens, no,” Mrs. Heminway said. “I’m anything but an early riser. As far as I’m concerned this is still the middle of the night. Why the urgency, Mr. Shayne? Only a few minutes ago you were saying—”

  “I know. But things have changed. I’d like to get going on it right away.”

  “Now wait a minute. Has Mr. Peter Painter been throwing his weight around, by any chance?”

  Shayne looked at Lieutenant Wing. His shaggy eyebrows rose. “No, I haven’t seen Petey for a couple of weeks. What makes you ask that?”

  “Oh—you said something about detectives, and it occurred to me that Mr. Painter might have been rash enough to try to put pressure on you directly. I understand you two aren’t on very good terms, I mean personally.”

  “That’s a fair statement,” Shayne said, grinning. “Personally and every other way. No, these were Petey’s boys, but he wasn’t with them. Put pressure on me to do what?”

  “Not to take the case. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man as upset as he was when I told him I was planning to hire you. But I made that promise in good faith, and I’m afraid I’ll have to stick to it, Mr. Shayne. One o’clock, then?”

  “Mrs. Heminway, did you run into a Lieutenant Wing when you went to see Painter?”

  “I believe I did. But—”

  “I’m putting him on the line.”

  He handed the phone to Wing, who said, “Joe Wing speaking. Mrs. Heminway, you’ll be doing us a favor if you’ll talk to Shayne now instead of waiting. The Chief isn’t here now, but he wouldn’t want to hold you to that promise.”

  “He certainly wanted to hold me to it last night. Well, you’ve succeeded in arousing my curiosity, if that was what you were trying to do. Tell Mr. Shayne I’ll want a full explanation. Half an hour?”

  Wing hung up. “What do you make of that, Mike?”

  “What do I make of it? What do you make of it? Did he have anything on his calendar for this morning?”

  “Nothing but routine.”

  “Nothing but routine!” Shayne said angrily. “Didn’t he have anybody he could trust?”

  “Not in the police department, I guess. Mike—” He broke off. “LaBanca. Heinemann. Go on downstairs. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

  “Won’t you need some help, Lieutenant?” Heinemann said, looking at the redhead.

  “No, I won’t need any help!” Wing snapped. “We’re not arresting Shayne after all.”

  “He talked his way out of it, did he?” Heinemann said.

  Wing made a threatening gesture. When the two detectives were out of the room he turned to Shayne.

  “I still don’t know if I’m doing the right thing, but maybe we’ll get a little extra this way. Just don’t try to play it too cute with me, Mike, because if you do—”

  “I’ll live to regret it,” Shayne said impatiently. “Save your breath, Joe. I’ve heard it from Painter.”

  “I happen to mean it,” Wing said.

  “And while we’re laying down the ground rules,” Shayne went on, “don’t put a tail on me. That’s what Petey would do in this situation, but if I spot anybody behind me our deal is off and it’s every man for himself.”

  “Sure, sure,” Wing said. “Now we don’t want to keep the lady waiting.”

  Shayne finished knotting his tie. He poured a last shot of cognac. Then he found a fresh package of cigarettes and they went out.

  The Bay Harbor Islands are several small man-made keys in upper Biscayne Bay, joined by the Broad Causeway. Michael Shayne parked on the white clamshell driveway beside Mrs. Heminway’s handsome house. The grounds were carefully landscaped and they seemed to be well looked after. As he crunched along the shell path to the front door, he noted the boathouse and dock, the smooth putting-green lawn, the flowering shrubs, and he put a price-tag of $65,000 on the property.

  Rose Heminway opened the door for him. Shayne saw a good-looking athletic woman with blonde hair, widely spaced blue eyes and a pleasant mouth. She was wearing a dark-red belted wrapper and high-heeled slippers. Shayne had given her ample time to put on make-up and brush her hair, and she had done both.

  She looked at him with approval. “You couldn’t be anybody else but Mr. Michael Shayne. I’ve heard you described. Come in. I think the coffee’s done.”

  She took him all the way through to a large kitchen, filled with the agreeable smell of freshly-percolated coffee. “You’ll have a cup, Mr. Shayne?”

  “Mmm,” he said. “Yes, thanks.”

  “That doesn’t sound too enthusiastic.” She looked over her shoulder. “I was a littly fuzzy when I talked to you on the phone. I took a pill to get to sleep, and I’m afraid I didn’t make much sense. Did I gather that you haven’t been to bed yet? Maybe you’d rather have a drink. Or some brandy in your coffee?”

  Shayne grinned. “The service seems to be very good around here.”

  “Sit down, Mr. Shayne. I don’t often see this room at this time of morning. It’s actually quite pleasant, isn’t it?”

  She waved at an alcove which was getting the early sun. She clicked from the refrigerator to the stove, to a counter, back to the refrigerator and then across to the table with a tray. He was satisfied to sit and watch. She moved well, and the robe moved in interesting ways of its own, opening and closing. She produced a bottle of brandy and poured a large slug in Shayne’s cup, and filled the cup with hot coffee.

  “Now,” she said. “Scrambled eggs. Canadian bacon. Croissants. All right?”

  “That sounds wonderful,” he said. “I didn’t know I was coming for breakfast, but I can’t turn it down. Do you mind if I ask some questions while it’s on the way?”

  “Go ahead, Mr. Shayne.” She began breaking eggs into a mixing bowl. “But tell me one thing first. Were those detectives trying to—I don’t know quite how to put it—well, intimidate you?”

  Shayne grinned again. “They started off with that idea.”

  “That settles it,” she said briskly. “After I told Mr. Painter what I planned to do, he stalked out with a look of black determination on his face. He told me to listen to the twelve o’clock news. I thought that meant he was planning to do something about the Harris case, finally, but apparently he was planning to do something about Michael Shayne!” She glanced at him. “Though I can’t imagine how he thought he could get any place with you.”

  “The only thing he wanted you to do was not to see me till afternoon?”

  “He didn’t really want me to see you at all. He went off like a Roman candle when I mentioned your name. I probably shouldn’t be telling you this.” She gave a low laugh. “He was so excited he spilled his drink in his lap.”

  “I seem to have that effect on Petey,” Shayne said.

  “He probably doesn’t like you to call him Petey either, does he?” When Shayne laughed she went on, “The whole thing was over my head. He said you’d crucify him. That was actually the word he used. But I couldn’t
change my plans unless he gave me a reason, and that he positively refused to do. He tried to talk me into hiring somebody else, if I insisted on hiring a private detective. The idea being, I suppose, that he wasn’t in danger of being crucified by this other man. Well.” She poured the beaten eggs into a frying pan. “I’ll have to begin by telling you some ancient history.”

  “I saw the newspaper clips on it yesterday,” Shayne said, “but I’d better hear it from you.”

  She began stirring the eggs with a wooden spoon. “You wouldn’t think I’d still have so much trouble talking about it, after three years. But here goes. My husband George worked in the estates department at the Beach Trust. He worked hard, but except during the tax rush every spring he kept regular hours. And it just so happened that one night he had to meet some kind of filing deadline and he worked late. A day earlier or a day later, and he’d still be alive. For some reason that’s the thing I can’t get out of my mind.”

  Shayne sipped his hot, aromatic coffee. “Accidents are like that, Mrs. Heminway. He could have been hit by a taxi on the way home.”

  “I know, I know. And I’ve got to stop thinking about it. He heard a noise in another part of the building and went to see what it was. It couldn’t have been much of a noise, because everything else about the robbery was highly professional. All the alarms were blown out. The watchman had been chloroformed. The vault was cut open neatly and efficiently, and when George, who shouldn’t have been in the building at all, suddenly got in the way, the thief shot him, neatly and efficiently.

  “I came down to drive George home, and I got there just in time to see somebody walking out of a side entrance with a suitcase. Sam Harris was arrested a few weeks later. He looked like the man I saw. Somebody else saw him as he got into a car, and her identification was more positive than mine. He was convicted. It was terrible, how much I wanted it. And when he was found guilty, I wanted him to be sentenced to death.”