Murder in Haste

by Brett Halliday

  “I know just exactly how it is. Where is he, Kinky?”

  “Did I say I know where he is? I’m not that kind of source, Mike, and you know it better than I do. I give you these little items, and you put them together with the other little items you get from other people, and you end up with a big fee and your name in the papers, and more power to you. Only this time maybe my item’s not so little. I was debating about taking it to the cops, and then I thought what did they ever do for me?”

  “Kinky,” Shayne said. “Just give me the news.”

  “Okay, sure. I was on the Beach last night. I don’t know when, in the neighborhood of nine but I can’t be sure because I had to raise some quick dough and I’m without a timepiece at the moment. I was trying to promote a party later on in the week with some Midwest guys I happen to know. And here’s where the thing comes in. I know these guys, whenever they’re in town they look me up, and it seems funny they didn’t get in touch with me before. Too busy, maybe? They’re at the St. A. this time, and I see them in the lobby.”

  “The St. Albans?” Shayne said quickly.

  “Nothing but the best. Big Jack Klipstone and Mac something, I don’t know his last name, and they’re with two others. But they’ve got no time for their old contact Kincaid. Strictly. Every other time they’ve been in town, they always had plenty of time for me and the broads. They tell me ‘Later, later,’ and they walk past like big business men on the way to a board meeting.”

  “Yeah?” Shayne said when he paused.

  “Just taking a drag. What would you do in my shoes, Mike? I always like to know about these things because you never know when they might come in handy. I fake a quarterback sneak for the elevators, but I drift out the side door instead and I get around front in a hurry. I see my party of four get in a new Drive-Urself Chevy and head north. I get in my own Chevy, twelve years old, and I head north. After a while they park out in motel country. I park. And I’m very, very careful, Mike, I don’t have to tell you, because these guys I don’t want to know I’m up to any monkey business. The minutes go slow because I’m so nervous. My stomach starts to ache.

  “I’m beginning to think this wasn’t a hell of a good idea and I ought to stick to my own racket when one of those big police department Caddies comes up Collins like a bat out of hell, the siren on full blast, nearly busted my ear drums. When I say it was going fast, Mike, I mean fast. I didn’t get much of a look at who was driving. He didn’t have no hat on, and he was kind of low in the seat, but it wouldn’t surprise me one damn bit if it was your friend and mine, Peter Painter.”

  Shayne absently put a cigarette in his mouth. “What about the Chevy?”

  “They took off after him, Mike, the four of them. They were running some chances, too, getting off from a standing start that way. They really goosed that buggy. They were over the double line half the time, and where they went from there I don’t know. This was too rich for my blood. My Chevy was outclassed, even if I wanted to get into competition, which I didn’t. So I came home. Is this worth anything?”

  “Seventy-five bucks,” Shayne said promptly.

  “Hey!” Kincaid said. “Where are you, Mike? I’ll come over on my hands and knees and pick it up in my teeth.”

  “Stay where you are, I’ll send it over. That name was Jack Klipsjone? And Mac something? What are they doing at the St. Albans? Are they delegates to the Truckers convention?”

  “Not exactly delegates, Mike. They’re part of Harry Plato’s circus.”

  “Are you sure of that, Kinky?” Shayne said sharply. “They work directly for Plato?”

  “You won’t quote me, I hope, I hope,” Kincaid said, suddenly cautious. “The other two I never saw before, but the word is that there’s a lot of beef in town because there’s some kind of hassle in the union, and that’s what they looked like. Hard boys.”

  “You said from the Midwest. Where in the Midwest?”

  “St. Louis, maybe? I never ask that type too many questions because they might think I’m trying to get personal.”

  “This helps, Kinky. I’ve got a few questions about something else, and maybe you can pick up some more change. Put your mind back to the big bank job three years ago, the one they’re executing Sam Harris for. I wish I knew what happened to the take. That was a big score, according to all the publicity, but not much of it was found. Did any gossip about that come your way?”

  Kincaid thought a moment. “I remember the guys were saying it looked like a stand-in. But it’s stale by now. You couldn’t prove it by me.”

  “You mean set up from the inside?”

  “You know, Mike—where the inside man guarantees no trouble and takes the large end of the cut. I do remember we thought it was kind of fantastic that there wasn’t any hints around about who maybe did it. I don’t mean who actually, who maybe. Usually you run into all kinds of rumors, and the conclusion we came to was that this wasn’t a pro job at all, but some do-it-yourself guy with ambitions. Then they picked up Sam Harris, who didn’t go with that picture.”

  “There wasn’t any mention of somebody named Fred Mil-burn?”

  “Milburn?” Kincaid said, puzzled. “The one Milburn I know is very smalltime. A delicatessen man. He wouldn’t be robbing no banks.”

  “Did he ever do any work for the Truckers?”

  “I don’t follow, Mike. The guy’s an ordinary heister, in and out. I think I did hear, though, that he did a few stickups with Sam Harris. Are you trying to tell me that Painter and that carload of goons last night and a bank job three years ago are part of one and the same thing? Harry Plato’s no angel, and that’s putting it mildly, but he’s got sense enough to steer clear of robbing banks, for God’s sake. He makes a pretty good living out of robbing the union.” He added hastily, “Don’t quote me on that, either.”

  “Nobody knows I even know you, Kinky, so stop shaking. Think about it, and see what you can turn up. Can you give me a description of the other two guys in the Chevy?”

  Kinkaid thought for a moment. “Can’t help you there, Mike. Klipstone was the one I was trying to get hold of, and I only got this fast blur of the others. Sports shirts, no ties. But they gave you the impression you wouldn’t want to disagree with them because it wouldn’t be good for your teeth. I could probably pick them out of a line-up, but you know as well as I do that I’m not going to do any damn-fool thing like that.”

  “You don’t think one of them was a Cuban? Or a husky kid, about a hundred and seventy, thick jowls, thick neck?”

  “Sorry, Mike. No cigar.”

  “You’ve given me something to think about, Kinky,” Shayne said slowly, “and I’ll make that a hundred instead of seventy-five. If you go out, leave word where I can reach you.”

  “I’m sure as hell not going out till I get that hundred.”

  Shayne laughed and hung up.

  Chapter Twelve

  He waited a moment, thinking, his hand on the phone. It was too soon to ask Joe Wing to walk into the St. Albans ballroom and pick out Klipstone and the others. The identification was too shaky. One big trouble with this kind of information was that the source couldn’t be mentioned, if he wanted to go on getting information like it. If asked a direct question by someone in uniform, Kincaid would cheerfully swear on the Bible that he hadn’t been near the St. Albans lobby in weeks, and had never set eyes on Jack Klipstone in his life. Shayne still had some work to do before he could pass this on to the cops.

  He found a Western Union office, where he put a hundred dollar bill in an envelope, addressed it to Kincaid at his hotel, and paid the messenger fee. Then he drove to the nursing home on the Beach, where he had arranged to meet Rose Heminway.

  It was a rambling three-story building inside a tall spiked fence. It looked out over the lower bay, and was reached by a narrow shell road off West Avenue. Squire, the Beach detective who had been assigned to look after Mrs. Heminway, was rocking gently in a glider on the wide porch, half asleep.

  He
started to his feet as Shayne came up the steps. “Oh, you, Mike,” he said. “It’s been a long day. Do you think I could go home?”

  “Why not ask Wing for relief?”

  “What do you think I’ve been doing? I’ve been asking for relief all afternoon. But it seems we’re on emergency shifts, and if I fall asleep it’s just too damn bad.”

  “Keep your eyes open,” Shayne said. “You want to find Painter, don’t you?”

  “Oh, sure,” Squire said dryly.

  Hearing voices, Rose came out from inside. She was wearing a simple pink dress with large buttons, and in spite of the dark shadows beneath her eyes, Shayne thought she looked as fresh as if she had just stepped out of a shower. He corrected himself hastily, remembering that morning. For one thing, she had more clothes on.

  She put her hand on his arm. “Mike, you’re a comfortable sight. Detective Squire has been wonderful, but he’s getting a little drowsy. He was up all night, he tells me.”

  “He’s not the only one,” Shayne said. Squire was looking at him hopefully, and Shayne said, “I’ll see what Wing thinks. I’m going to be with Mrs. Heminway for a while, and there’s no point in doubling up.”

  Rose showed him a phone booth inside, and Shayne called Wing, who grudgingly gave permission for Squire to quit for the day. The detective left in a hurry before they could change their minds.

  Rose indicated the glider. “Or we could walk down to the water, Mike.”

  “Let’s walk,” Shayne said.

  They started down the steps, and Shayne said, “Can your father move in any way? If you asked him a question, could he react enough to say yes or no?”

  “Not now,” she said hopelessly. “I tried just that, as soon as he was able to move his right arm. But he can’t seem to communicate between his brain and his muscles. I’m convinced there’s no brain damage, no matter what the doctors say. I think he knows me part of the time. It’s terrible to see how he looks at me, as though he’s struggling to say something. What did you want to ask him?”

  Shayne didn’t answer. They were walking down the long lawn toward a sandy beach. “Apparently you didn’t have any trouble with the Lüger this morning.”

  “What do you mean, I didn’t have any trouble?” she said indignantly. “I finally worked myself up to pulling the trigger, and the wretched thing jumped right out of my hand. I mean it, that’s exactly what happened. It leaped up and went sailing over my shoulder. I only managed to fire the one shot, but you were right, the man outside was as nervous as I was. He didn’t wait to find out what had happened to his friend. The police must have passed him on the causeway. Did you find out where he went?”

  “Yeah. I’ll get to that in a minute.”

  “Mike, I thought I’d better say—I’ve been feeling embarrassed about the way I acted when you climbed in through the window.” She touched her face, which had reddened, and looked resolutely out across the water. “I thought you were—I know it was silly, and I don’t even know exactly what I’m trying to say now except that I hope you don’t think—” She broke off, flushing.

  Shayne grinned. “You were very cute, as a matter of fact, and that’s enough of that, if we’re going to get anything done.”

  She gave him a sidelong glance. “Yes, Mr. Shayne,” she murmured.

  They came to a wooden bench at the edge of the grass and sat down.

  “Quite a few things have happened since I saw you,” Shayne said. He offered her a cigarette and took one himself. “But first I’d like to ask you some questions. Don’t try to figure out why I’m asking. Just answer them as they come, and then we’ll see how they add up.”

  His lighter flared between them. “That sounds sensible,” she said, breathing out smoke.

  “To start with the robbery. Did you or your husband ever have anything to do, at any time, with either Sam Harris or Fred Milburn?”

  She shook her head. “I can’t be positive about George, but I certainly never heard either name.”

  “How much was your husband earning at the time he was killed?”

  “Fifty-six hundred. Everybody in the bank assumed he was on his way up, being the president’s son-in-law. But Father’s old-fashioned about things like that. I even think he leaned over backward, so people wouldn’t think he was playing favorites. He passed George over for one promotion which he really should have had, in my biased opinion. George had the responsibility, without the money or the title to go with it. I will say that George was too easygoing. He let people walk all over him. He didn’t care.”

  “You weren’t living with your father then?”

  “No, we had our own apartment. Mother was still alive. She was in and out of hospitals the last few years. It was a bad time for all of us.”

  “Did you and George live within your income?”

  “Why do—no, that’s right, I’m not supposed to ask any questions. Most of the time we came close, Mike. We had to borrow from Father now and then, but usually we managed to pay it back when we said we would.”

  “Was your marriage happy?”

  “Very,” she said quietly.

  “He wasn’t involved with any other women?”

  “Involved! Certainly not.” She looked at him directly. “I don’t care—I have to ask a question. Are you implying that he had something to do with the robbery?”

  “That’s what I’m implying. It’s not necessarily true. When people are given responsible jobs and not enough pay to make ends meet, they’ve been known to make ends meet by dipping into the till. I’m not saying that happened, but it would explain a few things.”

  She smoothed her dress. “Mike—I know strange things happen, but I honestly don’t think I could be that wrong about anybody. We were married three years. We were still as much in love as when we were on our honeymoon, and we just didn’t have any secrets from each other. We spent our free time together. When could he get mixed up with other women? In the morning coffee break? They didn’t have a coffee-break at the bank. It’s physically impossible. I managed our checkbook. I knew what came in and went out, to the penny. On top of all that, I knew George.”

  “Tell me again why he worked overtime that night.”

  “There was some kind of department deadline, something was moved up and he was the only one who could handle it. I don’t suppose anyone would remember now.”

  “But it wasn’t a regular thing?”

  “If it had been, I would have suspected he was seeing another woman.” Her face clouded. “He was depressed about something, though. It was a rare thing for him to worry. Our finances were pretty tight just then, and the way the hospital bills were piling up, Father didn’t have anything to spare. It was probably that. I couldn’t get him to cheer up. He went around with a gloomy face on all the time, very snappish and cross, and we had some bad fights. Not about anything, really. He was in such a rotten frame of mind that anything could set him off.”

  Shayne smoked for a moment in silence. “Did he ever belong to a union?”

  “No, he went to work at the bank just after he got out of the service, and there weren’t any unions there.”

  “Do you know the name Harry Plato?”

  “The name, but that’s all.”

  Shayne flicked his cigarette into the grass. “Or Luke Quinn? He’s an official in the international now, but he used to be head of the Miami local.”

  “Luke Quinn?” she said thoughtfully. “A serious-looking man?”

  Shayne nodded. “About thirty-five. He wears glasses now, and he looks more like a TV announcer than the popular idea of a labor leader.”

  “I think that’s the one. There was some kind of city-wide committee, I think for the Red Cross, with representatives from business and labor and the Kiwanis Club and so on. Father was chairman, and they sometimes met at his house. They divided the city in sections, like a military operation, and Father was very pleased when they raised more money than anybody ever had before.”

  “Let’s j
ump to the present,” Shayne said. “Did your father say anything to you before he went to see Painter?”

  “I’m ashamed to say, Mike, that we weren’t on very good terms. I don’t mean we weren’t speaking, but we weren’t speaking very cordially. We’d disagreed bitterly when I wanted to help Norma. The day of his stroke he just called a cab and put on his hat and left. He didn’t even say where he was going.”

  Shayne pulled reflectively at his earlobe. “Rose, I know you’ve been thinking about what happened this morning, and I hope you’ve come up with something.”

  She shook her head. “I had a long session with Lieutenant Wing, and we both kept thinking of the most far-fetched possibilities. But nothing helped. The name Cole means nothing to me. Baltimore means nothing to me. It’s very creepy, and I’ve been grateful for having a detective looking after me all day, I assure you. But what’s going to happen, Mike?”

  “There’s some kind of deadline,” Shayne said. “The obvious one is Sam Harris’s execution, but that’s not enough. The Truckers are electing officers tomorrow, but I can’t see that that means anything. Well, my next stop is the St. Albans, which this week is no place for a lady. I don’t want you to go home. I’ll put you in an out-of-the-way hotel, and you’d better register under a different name.”

  She stood up when he did, her face troubled. “Mike, that scares me. I don’t like to be all by myself in a hotel.”

  “Wing will assign you another detective if you ask him,” Shayne said. “But bodyguards work both ways. They give you a certain amount of protection, but they also attract attention. It’s safer just to drop out of sight. I’ll make sure that nobody follows us.”

  “You know about these things,” she said doubtfully, “but I can promise you I won’t get any sleep. I’ll just look in on Father before we go.”

  Shayne’s eyes were bleak as they went up the sloping lawn. He was doing some hard thinking. Somewhere there had to be a link, and he knew that much depended on how fast he could find it. In a city as large as Miami, he could hide Rose where she would be perfectly safe so long as she followed a few simple directions. He was worrying about Peter Painter. Rose had talked to Painter, and a gunman was sent to call on her. Fred Milburn talked to Painter, and he was knifed.