Murder in Haste

by Brett Halliday

  The longer Shayne thought about it, the worse it looked. And yet the only constructive thing he could think of to do about it was to collect Joe Wing and a few cops and walk in on the leadership of the Truckers. And that was only constructive by comparison with other ideas he’d had. He didn’t expect it to get him anywhere. He didn’t know what questions to ask. The Trucker officials weren’t amateurs; they wouldn’t break down at the sight of a badge.

  He went inside with Rose. In the front hall she forced a smile and started upstairs. Shayne turned into the waiting room, which had been the living room of the house when it had been a private residence. It was nicely furnished, with comfortable chairs and sofas. Several old people were watching a television program, and in one corner of the room a young doctor was talking to a man and woman, probably relatives of one of his patients. A small adjoining room had been turned into an office, where a young girl was serving a telephone switchboard.

  She was saying, “I’m afraid there hasn’t been any change. Mrs. Heminway is here now, if you’d care to speak to her.”

  Shayne listened idly, his attention divided between what she was saying and the loud dialogue from the TV screen. She went on, “That’s perfectly all right. I’m just sorry I haven’t any better news.”

  Shayne sauntered over to the doorway as she accepted another incoming call. “Sunset Nursing Home, good evening.” She seemed too young to be earning her own living, but girls of that age had a way of looking younger to Shayne each year. She plugged a jack into the board and looked up.

  Shayne said, “Doesn’t this job get monotonous?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “You’re—Michael Shayne, aren’t you?”

  Shayne admitted that was who he was.

  “That detective who came with Mrs. Heminway wouldn’t talk to me at all,” she said. “Is it true”—she lowered her voice and her eyes widened—“that somebody tried to kill her?”

  “I’m afraid it is,” Shayne said.

  She shuddered slightly. “I couldn’t believe it.”

  “Does her father get many calls?”

  She cheered up. “Oh, all the time, from all over. He must have a terrific circle of friends. It keeps me real busy, not that I mind. I try to say something cheerful, but the doctor doesn’t think there’s really much chance the paralysis will wear off, after this long. I probably should not say this, but I don’t think it matters, do you, I mean to tell somebody like you? Excuse me.”

  She answered another call and rang an extension.

  Shayne said, “When you said he gets calls from all over you mean long-distance?”

  “Yes, but I probably shouldn’t have said all the time. He does get a call every single night from his brother in Baltimore, and that’s just to mention one.”

  Shayne stopped smiling abruptly. “Baltimore? Are you sure?”

  “Oh, yes. It comes in around six-thirty. Ordinarily I wouldn’t know if a call was local or long distance, but one night there was a mix-up in the circuits, and I heard the Baltimore operator trying to straighten it out.”

  Another light flashed on her board. As she was attending to it, Rose came up behind Shayne.

  “There you are,” she said.

  Shayne lighted his cigarette. “You have an uncle in Baltimore, I hear.”

  “Of course I don’t. I have one uncle here in town and one on the West Coast.”

  Shayne went on smoking until the operator was free. He asked her, “Are you sure this Baltimore call was one of the regular six-thirty calls from his brother?”

  She smiled. “Oh, we’re on quite friendly terms by now. This was only a few days after Mr. Chadwick came here from the hospital. When I found out it was an out-of-town call, I asked him why he didn’t make it person-to-person, and then if his brother couldn’t answer the phone, the call wouldn’t be completed and it wouldn’t cost him anything. But he said he’d rather talk to somebody and find out if there’d been any change, one way or the other.”

  “How did he identify himself?” Shayne said.

  “The first couple of times, just that he was John Chad-wick, Mr. Chadwick’s brother. After that I recognized his voice.”

  “What kind of voice is it?”

  “I wouldn’t know how to describe it, Mr. Shayne. Sort of deep, no particular accent.”

  Shayne looked at Rose. “Do you have an Uncle John?”

  “He’s the one in California. He’s seventy-nine, and he hasn’t done any traveling in years. He’s called me at home a few times, and he knows I’ll phone him if there’s any news. He wouldn’t call here. It must be somebody using his name.”

  Shayne looked at his watch, a plan taking shape in his head. “Who’s the doctor in charge, Rose? This may be just the break we’ve been waiting for.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Six-thirty came and went. Each time the switchboard buzzed, the operator glanced nervously at Shayne before she threw the switch and took the call. Each time, after listening to the first few words, she shook her head. Rose, at the office desk across the room, was smoking one cigarette after another.

  At 6:45 there was another buzz. “Sunset Nursing Home, good evening,” she said, and an instant later she looked at Shayne and nodded excitedly. Shayne picked up the office phone, which was already plugged in. He heard a man’s voice: “John Chadwick again, and good evening to you. A little late tonight, but it couldn’t be helped. Any news?”

  The girl was so excited that she stammered “Y-yes, yes, there is Mr. Chadwick, there certainly is. We’re all so glad, I can’t begin to tell you.”

  “Good news?” the voice said tensely. “That’s wonderful! The paralysis?”

  “Even better than that. Naturally we want him to be perfectly well again, and he’s still having some trouble with his left side. But the wonderful thing is that he’s going to be able to talk!”

  “I should say it is wonderful,” the voice said heartily. “Almost too good to be true.”

  “That’s what we all think here. Dr. Shoifett is terribly gratified, because he’s been using an experimental treatment, which only works about ten percent of the time. I was hoping you’d call earlier so you could talk to the doctor, but he just left this minute. Mr. Chadwick said his first words about two hours ago. It was pretty fuzzy, but according to Dr. Shoifett that’s not the point. If the throat muscles function at all, eventual recovery is almost certain.”

  She looked at Shayne, who gave her an encouraging nod. Rose was leaning forward, fingers laced.

  The voice said, “That’s great. I’m having trouble taking it in. His mind was clear? He recognized people?”

  “I’d better not try to be definite on that,” she said. “I got the impression from the nurses that—but I’d better let you talk to Dr. Shoifett in the morning. The patient’s been given a strong sedative and he’s sleeping soundly. I probably shouldn’t have said as much as I have, but it’s so nice to be able to give somebody some encouraging news, for a change. Maybe the next time you call you can talk to him yourself.”

  “I’m certainly looking forward to that. Was my niece with him when he—”

  The girl looked at Shayne, who shook his head.

  “No, she wasn’t, Mr. Chadwick. She came over right away, but he was asleep by the time she got here.”

  The man on the phone repeated that his brother’s recovery of speech seemed almost a miracle, and thanked the girl several times before he hung up. She closed the switch and blew out her breath in a long sigh.

  “Did I say anything wrong?”

  “You were perfect,” Shayne said.

  Rose had put her clasped hands to her forehead. Her eyes were closed. Shayne touched her shoulder.

  “Don’t think about it, Rose. It may still actually happen.”

  She shook her head helplessly. “It’s not that. I know he’s no more or less sick than he was before. It’s just that—using him like this—”

  “I wouldn’t do it if I could think of any bet
ter way,” Shayne said. “He’d agree if we could explain it to him. More than one life is at stake. He won’t be in any danger. He’ll be in another part of town.”

  She looked up. “There’s danger to you.”

  “That’s what I’m paid for. Now let’s work this out with Wing.”

  She touched his sleeve. “Can’t I sleep in one of the third-floor rooms? With you here I’ll be as safe as I would be by myself in some hotel. I’d go out of my mind anywhere else.”

  “We can decide that after Joe Wing gets here.”

  He asked the switchboard girl for an outside line. He was passed along from one number to another until he reached Joe Wing at a restaurant near the jail.

  “Shayne,” the redhead said. “We’ve had some developments, and if you want to take part you’d better rearrange your schedule and come in to the Sunset Nursing Home off West Avenue.”

  “I know the place,” Wing said. “Be more specific, can’t you, Mike? I just sat down to dinner. I was going back to the jail to spell the sheriff. He’s asked the same questions so many times he’s getting punchdrunk.”

  “Why don’t you do that, Joe?” Shayne said with a grin. “I’ll take care of it, and if I catch the guy I’ll call you right away.”

  “All right, all right,” Wing said with resignation. “Tell them to make some coffee. I’ll be right there.”

  “We’ll need another man,” Shayne said. “And you might stop at a drugstore and pick up some benzedrine.”

  “Oh, it’s going to be one of those nights, is it?” Wing said. “It’s going to take more than benzedrine to keep me awake. I’m so tired I couldn’t even tell you my own name.”

  After Shayne hung up he said, “Nothing can happen till after dark. We have time to eat. And we’re going to need lots and lots of coffee.”

  “Wait in the dining room,” the switchboard girl said. “I’ll see that they take care of you.”

  Wing arrived as Shayne was pouring a second cup of coffee.

  “Just black for me, please,” Wing said. “Hello, Mrs. Heminway. Tell me what’s going on, Mike, and it better be interesting.”

  “Anytime I start boring you, let me know,” Shayne told him. “Mrs. Heminway’s Uncle John has been calling up every night around six-thirty to find out if Chadwick has been doing any talking, only he’s not really Uncle John. And one of his calls was long distance from Baltimore.”

  “Well, well,” Wing said, ignoring his coffee. “You’re not boring me so far.”

  “When he called tonight, I had the girl tell him his prayers had been answered. Chadwick had said a couple of words. Just a couple, and then the doctor gave him a sedative. In the morning we’re all pretty sure he’ll be his old self again.”

  “That’s taking quite a lot on yourself, Mike,” Wing grumbled. “I wish you’d cleared it with me first.”

  “I found out about it at six-twenty-five. I didn’t have time. Of course if you don’t approve of the idea we can always put a sign on his door that it was just a piece of good clean fun.”

  “Now Mike. I just wish I’d been told about it. What about the officials here?”

  “We have to persuade them. Rather, you have to persuade them. There has to be a certain amount of shifting around of patients, and we’ll need your authority for that. Chadwick ought to be moved to another hospital for the night, and we’ll need his room and the room on each side.”

  “What makes you think the guy knows Chadwick’s room number?”

  “He’s gone to a lot of trouble. He wouldn’t overlook a thing like that.”

  Wing left his coffee half-finished and went to find the director. When he came back he was more enthusiastic.

  “How’s the coffee, still hot? I hate to admit it, Mike, but the reason I didn’t jump at this right away was because it wasn’t my idea. I don’t see any reason why it shouldn’t work. That voice on the phone almost has to belong to the same guy who had Fred Milburn stabbed and sent the boys to shoot Mrs. Heminway. Chadwick must know something he was about to spill to Painter. It all comes back to Painter.” He looked soberly at the fresh coffee he had just poured. “And I’ve just about come to the conclusion that we aren’t going to find Painter in one piece.”

  “No!” Rose cried.

  Wing went on, still looking down into his coffee. “If only the jerk had told somebody what he was doing! It’s bad when a cop as important as Painter gets killed. It’s like losing a battle. The city won’t clamp down for months.”

  “He also happens to be a person,” Rose said quietly.

  “Well, yes. Technically I suppose you’re right, but that’s never the first thing that comes to mind when you think about Peter Painter.”

  “Did you fix things with the doctor?” Shayne said.

  “Yeah. He’s sending Chadwick to Jackson Memorial. I’m moving into Chadwick’s room. You can use the room on one side, Mike. I brought Norton with me, and he can use the other.”

  “This was my idea,” Shayne said. “I’ll be in Chadwick’s room.”

  “Out of the question, Mike.”

  Shayne smiled. “You’re in charge. There was something I wanted to tell you—what was it? Oh, yes. Four boys from the St. Albans were seen chasing Petey up Collins last night around nine in a Drive-Urself Chevy. But you’ll be busy here. I’ll work on that angle.”

  Wing ran his fingers distractedly through his hair. “I begin to get an idea why Painter felt the way he did about you, Mike. I wish I could end up ahead of you once. Just once, that’s all I ask. Okay, you win. Let’s have it.”

  An ambulance arrived for Rose’s father. She had persuaded Lieutenant Wing to let her stay, and she had been assigned to an unoccupied room on the top floor, under the eaves. Shayne drove to the nearest bar for a bottle of cognac, and then put his Buick in the garage where it wouldn’t be seen; beside Wing’s police car. Wing, meanwhile, had been giving orders by phone. There would be nearly as many police covering the Truckers’ convention as there were formal delegates. Names and descriptions of the four men Kincaid had seen had been circulated—one name and one nickname, and not much in the way of descriptions—and Shayne didn’t think there was much hope that they would turn up any sooner than Painter himself.

  Gradually the Sunset Nursing Home settled down for the night. The last visitor left. The doctor made his evening rounds, and lights began to blink out.

  Rose told Shayne goodnight at the bottom of the stairs to the third floor.

  “I know it’s a lot to ask you, but please be careful, Mike. I know it’s your business, I know you wouldn’t be in it if you didn’t enjoy it, but I couldn’t forgive myself if anything happened to you.”

  “Get some sleep, Rose.”

  “Sleep!”

  She started up the stairs, then turned suddenly and came in against him hard. Her arms went around him.

  “Mike,” she whispered. “I don’t want to ask you anything, but—the reason I wanted to stay here was so if you—wanted to—I get so lonely, so scared, in bed by myself. Oh, darling.”

  She raised her mouth to his and pressed her body against him.

  “Mike, can’t you, please? For a little while. He wouldn’t come yet, not till much later.”

  “No, Rose,” Shayne said. “Everything has to be set. There can’t be any moving around.”

  She looked at him seriously and whispered, “Then tomorrow?” Coloring slightly in the dim light, she turned and ran upstairs.

  Shayne went thoughtfully down the long corridor, making a mental note of something else he didn’t expect to tell Lucy Hamilton. As he came abreast of the room next to Chadwick’s, the door opened and Wing looked out. He was in his shirt sleeves, his shoulder holster showing.

  “You took your time, Mike,” he said. “I ate enough Bennies to stay awake for three weeks, and let’s just hope they work. I’m going” to sit in a straight chair next to the door, so I can’t fall asleep without falling down. That’s a noisy latch on your door. Let’s wait till the
guy opens the door before we grab him.”

  “Fine, Joe. I’m going to rig up something that will make a racket when the door opens. And don’t use that gun except to make him stand still. We want to talk to this man.”

  “I’m no rookie, for God’s sake.”

  In the room on the other side, Norton was prowling around in his stocking feet. Shayne looked in on him, then went into the room he was going to use. He plumped up the covers of the narrow hospital bed to make it seem that someone was sleeping there, and balanced a pair of scissors on the doorknob in such a way that it would be knocked off when the knob was turned. The kitchen had sent up a large pot of coffee and an electric burner. Shayne poured a cup of coffee, added cognac and sipped it slowly. Then he turned out the lamp.

  The room was on the second floor, facing south. Not much light came through the single window except when a car, coming along West Avenue, made the turn onto Biscayne Street. There would be a moon, but it was not yet up. Shayne waited until his eyes adjusted to the darkness. Then he began moving about the room, getting used to the position of the furniture. There wasn’t much furniture to worry about—a bureau, a standing lamp and two chairs.

  He moved one of the chairs to the wall near the door and sat down. The air-conditioning unit was humming quietly. He decided not to risk a cigarette. The patient who usually occupied this room, being paralyzed, naturally didn’t smoke. There was a smell of coffee, but it couldn’t be helped; Shayne couldn’t get through a second sleepless night without the help of coffee.

  The moon rose. It was three-quarters full. Shayne lowered the Venetian blind and tilted the slats, and poured another cup of coffee. He managed to kill fifteen minutes with that one cup. The night was very quiet, and he could hear Norton moving restlessly in the next room. After putting the cup on the bureau beside the pot he took several turns back and forth from the window to the door. He was fully awake, but the instant he sat down again he went into a light doze. The slightest sound at the door would have awakened him, but when there was a faint metallic clink at the window an hour or so later, it didn’t penetrate.