A Taste for Violence ms-17

by Brett Halliday

  There was a puzzled frown between Lucy Hamilton’s misty brown eyes. “What a shame, Michael. If we could have been just a day earlier getting here… maybe…”

  “That jalopy of mine doesn’t fly,” he said sourly.

  She looked around at his hard-set jaw and brooding eyes. “What… does the headline mean, Michael? Who has been arrested?”

  Shayne said, “Scramble up ‘Pro-Communist Labor Agitator’. There may be a couple of letters missing, but it probably spells out George Brand. The actual arrest probably came just in time for them to jerk out the headline and substitute this one.” He emptied his glass of brandy and soda and mixed another.

  “But what about Brand’s alibi? How can they get around the testimony of three witnesses? Four, actually, if they count the woman with the headache who saw him drive up at five-twenty.”

  Shayne said, “If I’ve read the signs in this town right, those witnesses will be made of pretty tough stuff if they stick to their stories in the face of the grilling they’ll get from the police. And that noble speech of Seth Gerald’s will probably line the citizenry up on his side,” he ended disgustedly.

  “But… what motive did Brand have? He was leading the strike, and he said right out loud he was hoping they would be able to reach a settlement as soon as Charles Roche took over the management.”

  “What else would he say? Whether it’s true or not?”

  “Well… you can see that Mr. Roche was trying to reach a settlement,” she pointed out. “Why else would he be going to see Brand?”

  “Maybe to tell him he’d changed his mind about settling, and was prepared to fight it out to the end… by starving every miner. In that case, Brand might have lost his head and shot him. Look at it this way. Charles Roche was evidently schooled by Seth Gerald, after his father’s death, for his future management of the mines. Charles had been out of touch for several years when he was overseas. You read what Gerald thinks.”

  Lucy nodded her brown head slowly, twirling her full glass around. “It looks as though public opinion will be solidly against them, and they’ll have to give up the strike to repudiate the leadership of a murderer,” she acknowledged.

  “Yeh. That’s what’ll happen,” Shayne said, scowling. “Good God, you can’t stand up against that sort of propaganda. But killers sometimes fail to consider the possible consequences.”

  “Michael!” Lucy turned quickly toward him. “You’re not going to side against the miners in their strike! You’ve seen the awful hovels they live in… and read the statistics on annual income. You don’t blame them… surely… for wanting enough money to buy food… while the mine owners live in the lap of luxury!”

  “I’m not blaming them, Angel.” He was silent for a moment, then added, “I just don’t see where I come in.”

  “You can find out who murdered Mr. Roche. I know you can. You’ve got to earn that five thousand dollars.”

  “He hired me to prevent his murder,” Shayne told her grimly.

  “It’s not your fault we were too late for that. Now… it’s your job to find out…”

  “And what if that proves to be a certain George Brand?” He turned toward her and grinned.

  “It… won’t be. I just know it won’t. I’ll bet it’s that Gerald man. He’s probably been stealing money from the firm… and… well, he was right there on the scene about the time it happened.” She was thinking hard as she spoke, a frown puckering her smooth brow, “He could have done it,” she ended on a note of triumph.

  Shayne laughed heartily and poured himself a straight drink. “We’ll have dinner. Then I’ll pay my respects to Mrs. Elsa Maywell Roche and see what’s what.”

  5

  The Eustis Restaurant was beginning to fill up with evening diners. Most of the customers were young couples, the men in shirt sleeves, the women wearing simple cotton dresses; with a sprinkling here and there of overalled men who were obviously miners, scrubbed as clean as yellow soap could get them. Some of them were with their wives and families. Most of the children were tow-headed and pale, snub-nosed, their mouths open, suggestive of adenoids.

  Shayne sat back and tried to enjoy the bad brandy as he watched the people about him and listened to snatches of their conversation. Many had brought their own bottles or flasks, and there was a lot of quiet drinking, but there was little conviviality. There was an atmosphere of somberness and preternatural gravity. Even the tunes they selected on the jukebox were mournful ditties, and the men and women who fed coins into the slot machines had no hint of enjoyment or hope in their expressions as they pulled the bandit’s arm.

  It wasn’t a natural dourness, Shayne decided, nor yet an assumed solemnity, but more an ingrained listlessness and an apathetic acceptance of the unpleasant verities of life. He supposed this was a normal condition of life in Centerville, not directly attributable to the mine strike nor to the shadow of tragedy hanging over the town as the result of Roche’s murder and the arrest of George Brand.

  That, he thought, was the explanation. Violent death was not an uncommon occurrence to these people. They were inured to these tragic happenings. This was Centerville. They had been born and reared beneath the shadow of tragedy, and scarcely realized that it was perceptibly darker today than yesterday.

  The waiter brought them a dim carbon of a typed menu, and he and Lucy ordered the dollar steak dinner. The entree was preceded by a watery tomato soup, and accompanied by a limp lettuce and tomato salad. The steak was thin and tough and inundated with pale gravy. Carrots, mushy from over-cooking, and unseasoned mashed potatoes were served in thick white little dishes.

  Lucy struggled with her steak with a dull knife, amputated a portion, and began to chew. She chuckled and said, “I’ll bet the patrons of the Eustis have strong teeth.”

  Shayne sampled everything before him, pushing a forkful of mashed potatoes around in the white gravy before putting it in his mouth. “I was assured the Eustis was as good as any restaurant here,” he told her and made a wry face.

  After a few minutes they pushed their half-filled plates away. Shayne poured himself half an inch of brandy in his empty water glass, raised his bushy brows inquiringly at Lucy before setting the bottle down.

  Lucy shuddered. “Not for me. What are we going to tell Mrs. Roche, Michael?”

  “I am going to tell her as little as possible and find out as much as possible.”

  Lucy frowned at his emphasis on the personal pronoun. “You’re not going to leave me out there in that cabin to sweat it out while you visit a charming widow… alone.”

  “I do better with widows,” Shayne said, “if not accompanied by a lovely young secretary,” and grinned at her.

  “No,” said Lucy flatly.

  “You’re going to stay right here at this table with this bottle in plain sight. You’re going to look as desolate as you feel, because I’ve deserted you. You’re going to feed quantities of silver into the slot machines and nickels in the jukebox. You’ll have a host of friends when I come back… men who’ll be anxious to cheer you up in your loneliness and drink your liquor.” He was looking straight into her surprised eyes, a crooked grin on his wide mouth. “You’ll pick up more damned stuff about Centerville in the course of an hour than I could get in two weeks,” he ended gravely. The crooked smile was gone. His gaze brooded around the dining room.

  “All right for you,” Lucy flared angrily. “Go on… and I don’t care if you never come back.”

  Shayne drank the brandy in his glass and stood up. His face was grim as he stalked to the cashier’s desk without looking back. Those close to their table had heard Lucy’s angry outburst and were whispering among themselves, their eyes upon the flushed and bewildered girl he had left behind. Shayne looked back. Lucy was sitting stiffly erect, the half-filled bottle of brandy in front of her where he had placed it.

  Shayne paid the bill and indicated Lucy with a jerk of his head. “The lady,” he told the cashier, “isn’t quite ready to leave yet. “ />
  The cashier nodded understandingly, and Shayne went out. Darkness brought little relief from the sweltering heat. It was as though the sun’s burning rays lingered, pocketed there in the narrow gap between the two mountains and held by a roof of darkness, as though a heavy lid had been clamped upon it to prevent its escape.

  A middle-aged couple were entering the restaurant. Shayne addressed the man and asked, “Could you direct me to the Charles Roche home on Mountaincrest Drive?”

  They stopped, looked him over curiously, gave him the directions in a polite southern drawl, and went inside. Shayne got in his car and turned to the right around the first corner. He drove two blocks and turned to the left on a winding road, a sixteen-foot strip of macadam, which climbed steeply upward. The motor labored in second gear and the air grew cooler as he left the floor of the gulch. There were only a few residences here on the higher slope, and he passed two intersecting roads. He had been told he couldn’t miss the Roche house, that Mountaincrest Drive formed a dead end there. He kept pushing the car up until he reached the dead end in a wide gravelled circle in front of a one-story house blazing with lights from every window.

  Two cars were parked in the driveway. One a new convertible Cadillac coupe, cream in color; the other a 1946 Buick. Both had Kentucky licenses.

  Shayne parked behind them and got out. He walked up five concrete steps and across a wide verandah to twin french doors. The glass was heavily curtained, but enough light came through to outline an electric button. He pressed it, took off his hat, and the air was cool upon his damp red hair.

  The door opened and a bulky Negress looked out at him. She looked surprised, started to close the door, but stopped when she saw Shayne’s face. She said, “Yessuh?” and he recognized the voice that had first answered the telephone.

  He said, “I’d like to see Mrs. Roche.”

  She hesitated, then asked, “Whut did you say y’all’s name wuz?”

  “Shayne.” Shayne spread his wide mouth in an engaging smile. “Tell Mrs. Roche I’m an old friend of her husband’s just passing through Centerville, and when I heard the sad news, I had to come up and pay my respects.”

  “Yessuh,” she said, “I’ll tell Miz Roche,” and stepped back, leaving the door slightly ajar. Shayne could hear the sound of low voices inside. Presently a tall, pleasant-faced man came to the door. He was in his forties, his hair graying at the temples, and he was immaculately groomed in a dark blue business suit. He wore a white shirt and a black bow tie. Shayne thought he must be the local undertaker and was prepared to speak in a grave and sympathetic tone.

  The man stepped out on the porch and closed the door firmly behind him. When Shayne heard his voice, he knew the man was not a local undertaker. It was an incisive voice, pleasant enough, but aloof. The voice of an educated man and one accustomed to issuing orders. “Mr. Shayne, did the maid say? Mrs. Roche doesn’t recall anyone bearing that name.”

  “She probably never heard it,” Shayne told him. “That is, perhaps Charlie never spoke of me. I met him five years ago in Miami.”

  The man stiffened slightly. Immediately and intuitively Shayne felt he had made a mistake in using the familiar form for Charles Roche’s first name. He had an instant hunch that the dead man was one who was always called Charles even by his most intimate friends.

  The man’s voice was more austere when he said, “In that case I don’t believe it is necessary to disturb Mrs. Roche at this time. I will be glad to give her your name and your expressions of condolence.”

  “I would like to give them to her myself,” Shayne said evenly.

  “I’m afraid that’s impossible.” The tall man was courteously dismissing him. “She is prostrated with grief and I cannot allow her to be imposed upon by strangers.”

  Shayne was sure he recognized the rolling smoothness of the phrases from the news story in the Gazette. He said, “You’re making a mistake, Mr. Gerald. I’m quite sure Mrs. Roche will wish to see me when you tell her I had a letter from her husband three days ago.”

  The general manager of the Roche Mining Properties raised his black brows. “Indeed? I fail to see why that should interest her particularly.”

  “Enclosing his personal check for five thousand dollars,” Shayne continued, “and prophesying his death very shortly.” His vision was keener now, more adjusted to the dim light coming through the curtains, and he could discern the expressions on Gerald’s face better.

  “Ah.” Seth Gerald sucked in his breath and his dark eyes were reflective. He took a step nearer Shayne and looked at him with more interest than he had shown before. “Did you say the name was Shayne?”

  “Michael Shayne.”

  “From Miami?”

  Shayne detected a faint tremor of uneasiness in the flowing voice. “From Miami,” he said.

  “I see.” Seth Gerald moved aside and stood drumming his fingertips on the verandah’s low concrete enclosure. “I’ve heard the name, if I recall correctly.”

  Shayne didn’t say anything. He put his hat back on his head and took out a pack of cigarettes. He lit one and puffed on it.

  After a time, Gerald asked, “Exactly how much did Mr. Roche confide in his communication?”

  “Enough to bring me up here as fast as I could come by car.”

  “Would not the check have produced the same result?” Gerald’s tone was suave, but Shayne got the impression that he bared his upper teeth to ask the question.

  Shayne said, “No,” and puffed on his cigarette.

  “What do you want of Elsa… Mrs. Roche… now?”

  “To decide whether to return the five grand retainer or keep it,” Shayne said bluntly.

  “Indeed? And on what will your decision depend?”

  “Several things.”

  Seth Gerald stopped drumming on the concrete and strutted a few steps toward Shayne. He said, “Shall we stop fencing? As I understand it, you are a private detective from Miami who was called here by a letter from Mr. Roche written several days ago.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “And you arrived too late to be of any aid. Charles had discussed with me the advisability of calling in a private detective when he received those threatening letters, but I don’t recall that your name was mentioned. I don’t believe you need to bother Mrs. Roche with this matter, Mr. Shayne. I appreciate the ethics which caused you to consider returning the money, but I’m confident I can speak for Mrs. Roche in asking you to keep the money, since it was not your fault that you arrived too late to prevent what he feared. I feel quite certain Charles would wish it.”

  Shayne was not more than a couple of inches taller than Seth Gerald’s six feet. They were standing close together. Shayne lowered his eyes to look into Gerald’s through a cloud of cigarette smoke. He said, “You’re missing the point completely. If I keep Roche’s retainer, I’ll feel morally bound to find his murderer.”

  Seth Gerald took a short turn on the verandah, came back to face Shayne and asked, “Have you read the Centerville Gazette?”

  “That’s why I’m here.”

  “Perhaps you don’t fully understand the last-minute headline,” said Gerald stiffly. “The case against George Brand is complete.”

  “What about his alibi?”

  Gerald dismissed the question with an eloquent shrug. “Contemplating murder, Brand naturally prepared an alibi in advance. You can trust Chief Elwood not to be misled.”

  Shayne took a final drag on his cigarette and spun it over the concrete enclosure at his right. “This has been very interesting, Gerald. But not informative. I’ll have a talk with Mrs. Roche now.” He went to the double doors and turned a knob.

  Seth Gerald was quick. His hand gripped Shayne’s arm and he said harshly, “You can’t force yourself on a grieving widow.”

  Shayne shook his hand off and pushed the door open. “Can’t I?” he growled, and put a number twelve shoe over the threshold.

  Gerald grabbed him again before he reached the wi
de arch leading into the softly lighted and enormous living room which John Roche had designed for the wife of his eldest son. He snapped, “I warn you, Shayne…” then let his hand fall to his side when Shayne kept going.

  A young man was leaning over a cabinet radio. He was thin and colorless and his eyes were murky. He wore fawn-colored slacks and a tan sports shirt with the tail hanging out.

  Elsa Roche was relaxed in a deep chair, her small feet resting on an upholstered footstool matching the chair. She held a cocktail in her left hand and a long jewelled cigarette holder in the other. Black hair was brushed smoothly back from her low forehead, outlining the widow’s peak centering it. She wore a sheer black dress with a sweetheart neckline that revealed the beginning contours of youthfully pointed breasts. Long black lashes were lowered to half-close her eyes, and she did not raise them when Shayne entered the room.

  Gerald said in a tone evidently intended to warn Elsa Roche, “This man is a private detective whom Charles engaged to come here… by letter… some three days ago. He insisted upon coming in, even though I assured him the need for his services no longer existed.”

  The young man at the radio turned his head and looked at Shayne just as Shayne glanced in his direction. His dark hair was plastered down except where singed ends curled up. Shayne stared at him for an instant, noting the lack of eyebrows and lashes, and the puffy pallor of his skin.

  Turning back to Elsa, he said, “The name is Shayne. I have accepted a retainer from your late husband and feel obligated to look into his murder.”

  She said, “A private detective?” and made it sound like a ridiculous occupation. She did not change her position, but looked far up into Shayne’s face.

  “Michael Shayne? The private eye in Miami who’s always grabbing headlines?” the young man asked.

  Shayne said, “You have the advantage of me.”

  “I’m Jimmy Roche.” He straightened his body and took a step toward Shayne. “So Charles got up enough gumption to write you. What did he say?”