Fit to Kill

by Brett Halliday

  “Did he get in touch with you at all?” Shayne asked.

  “Just once. He didn’t plan on filing any stories from there, naturally. We didn’t want him to end up as one of the roadside corpses. I got a postcard this morning, sent to my home address. All he said was that he was having a high old time, and it was too bad I couldn’t be with him. We’d agreed on the wording before he left. It meant he’d got onto something. Does this help you any, Shayne?”

  “I’ll have to think about it. What kind of a file do you have on the story?”

  “Hold the line and I’ll check. I think I know where I can put my hands on it.”

  There was a thump as he laid down the phone.

  Lucy asked, “Anything, Michael?”

  “Maybe,” he answered abstractedly. “Hand me my drink, will you, angel?”

  Lucy brought him his cognac. He had a chance to take one long warming swallow before the city editor was back on the line.

  “This isn’t my baby,” Dirksen said, “and you’ll have to bear with me. The clippings are in Spanish, which is one of the many languages I don’t speak. Most of them are from a Spanish-language paper the opposition puts out in Mexico City. One of the girls in the foreign department made a rough translation for Tim to read before he left. I doubt if he actually read them, knowing how he works. Here’s the student killing. That was the latest. But maybe you ought to come in and look through the folder. There’s lots of stuff here.”

  “I don’t have time,” Shayne said. “Never mind the killings for a minute. What else have you got?”

  “It’s all political,” Dirksen said. “Outrages. Atrocities. Stuff like that.”

  He was turning over the pages in the folder, murmuring to himself. The detective waited. Across the room, Lucy was nervously rearranging objects on the coffee table.

  “Here’s a bombing in a theatre,” Dirksen said. “Nobody killed. A couple of boys in a car were blown up when some dynamite went up ahead of time. Lawyer’s nude body found. Here’s an attack on a guard post, three soldiers knocked off with a grenade. Shayne? Still there?”

  “Go on,” Shayne grated.

  “Electricity cut off, capital dark for twenty-four hours. Print shop raided, printer jailed on suspicion. Here’s another killing, the doctor. We ran that one because of the Quesada angle. Most of this stuff, you understand, was too local. Here’s a robbery—I don’t know how that got in. Wait a minute. As the bandits went out, one of them hollered, ‘The dictator to the gallows!’ So the cops figured the opposition pulled the job to get funds.”

  There was a light in Shayne’s eye. “That was a jewelry store, Dirksen?”

  “Why, yes, it was,” Dirksen said, surprised. “You know about it?”

  “Read it to me.”

  “It’s not the word-for-word translation, just the high spots. The idea was, if Tim wanted anything more he was supposed to ask the girl. The store was a branch of Arthur Goldman and Sons, New York, located on the Avenida Gonzalez, which I think is their main drag. Three hold-up men involved.” He mumbled for a moment as his eye ran down the page. “Early-morning job, one of the guys pulled a gun on the assistant manager as he unlocked, and the other two took care of the clerks and so on when they arrived. A well-cased job, apparently. They twisted the manager’s arm and made him open the safe. They left the made-up pieces, and took only unset diamonds, which are harder to trace. The store puts a valuation of three hundred thousand on it.”

  “Dollars?” Shayne said.

  “Let me check the clip. Yeh, dollars. Then they walked out, and one of them yelled—I gave you that.”

  “Any description of the bandits?”

  “Young. No masks. No clues except that one yell. The next clip is another killing, this one—”

  “That’s enough for now, Dirksen. Thanks very much.”

  The city editor wanted to go on talking, and it took Shayne a moment to get him off the line. The detective weighed the phone, thinking fast. Lucy started to say something, but the look on his face stopped her. He dialed O.

  “I want a person-to-person call to a Mr. Arthur Goldman in New York,” he told the long distance operator. “I don’t know the number. There are probably several Arthur Goldmans, but this one is a jeweler, of Arthur Goldman and Sons, Fifth Avenue. Can you locate him for me?”

  “I’ll try sir,” the girl said, and took his name and phone number.

  “I’ll hold on,” Shayne said.

  He covered the mouthpiece and said to Lucy with a grin, “Now we’re beginning to move. I might make some money out of this after all.”

  “Michael, I’m dying of curiosity. What was that about a jewelry store?”

  “Diamonds, angel,” Shayne said, “a girl’s best friend.”

  “Michael!” she cried in exasperation. “Will you let me in on this before I go stark, staring mad?”

  The long-distance operator was querying New York information. Holding his hand over the mouthpiece, Shayne said, “It seems that somebody made a jewelry store down in Central America for three hundred grand. A couple of things point to the possibility that it was a political job, pulled by the revolutionaries to get dough in a hurry. I ran into Harry Mann tonight, an old pro and an angle guy, with connections. It could be that he’s taking a flier in the small-arms business, and he’s agreed to a payoff in hot diamonds instead of cash. But somewhere along the line, the diamonds were highjacked by Carla Adams. Or that’s the way it looks. She was afraid the customs would take them away from her, and somehow she slipped the stuff to Tim. I’m still a little vague on that, and I don’t know where the diamonds are now. Tim hasn’t got them. The Latins don’t have them, and neither does Carla. I certainly don’t have them. But—”

  The long distance operator was speaking to him. He said, “Three Arthur Goldmans? Take them in order. I’ll pay person-to-person charges on each call.”

  Lucy said, “I don’t understand one word of all that, Michael. I wish you’d explain it from the beginning.”

  “Later,” Shayne told her, and said into the phone, “Mr. Goldman? Are you the Arthur Goldman who owns a Fifth Avenue jewelry store?”

  “Sorry,” a voice came back from New York. “You have the wrong number.”

  Shayne broke the connection and told the operator to try the second number. This time a woman’s voice answered. When Shayne asked his question she said, “That’s our cousin, as a matter of fact. He lives in Greenwich. If you’ll hold the line, I’ll give you his number.”

  Shayne motioned to Lucy for a pencil, and wrote it down. There was a brief delay while the operator was ringing the new number. The detective finished his drink and drummed his fingers impatiently on the telephone table.

  Then he said, “Mr. Goldman? My name is Michael Shayne. I’m calling from Miami, Florida.”

  “Who?” the voice said.

  “Shayne,” the redhead repeated. “You don’t know me, but I can supply you with references, if that becomes necessary. I’m sorry to bother you at home, but the matter is urgent. I understand that one of the Central American branches of your firm has recently suffered a loss of unset diamonds, valued roughly at three hundred thousand dollars.”

  “That is correct,” Mr. Goldman said questioningly. “And your interest in this, Mr. Shayne?”

  “Is financial, naturally. Would you and/or your insurance company be interested in recovering this property for substantially less than the valuation?”

  Mr. Goldman, in Greenwich, Conn., hesitated momentarily. “You’re a private detective?”

  “That’s correct, Mr. Goldman. I’ve been in the middle of deals like this often enough so the people I’m in contact with will accept a verbal agreement. But the international angle complicates things slightly, and I have to have your answer tonight.”

  The jeweler sighed. “Was any figure mentioned?”

  “Forty-five thousand,” Shayne said promptly, and he winked at Lucy.

  “Forty-five—!” Mr. Goldman exploded. “D
amn it, Shayne, that’s pure and simple robbery! If it weren’t for shady operators like you—”

  Shayne interrupted. “I’ll be glad to hear your views on that subject some other time, Mr. Goldman, when I’m not paying long distance charges. There’s only one thing to be said for this method of recovering stolen property. That is that it saves everybody money. Unset diamonds are hard to trace. You must know that the loot from this particular hold-up can be disposed of easily through semi-legitimate channels. I’m dealing through an intermediary, of course, but I suspect that the reason the price is this low is that they are amateurs, with no connection in the diamond business, and they must need the cash immediately. So will you pass this along to the insurance company, please? It’s simple. A loss of forty-five thousand or a loss of three hundred thousand. My secretary will be at this number all night. How soon can you phone her?”

  “Within an hour, I expect,” Mr. Goldman said heavily. “Are the gems in this country?”

  “I have reason to believe that they are, sir,” Shayne replied.

  “Very well. I don’t mind admitting that it goes against my grain. It always has. But the insurance people will make the decision. Will you spell your name for me, please?”

  Shayne obliged, and gave him Lucy’s name and phone number. He was shaking his head when he hung up.

  “There’s a nice ethical point,” he observed. “The poor guy hates to deal with people who deal with people who deal with thieves. It makes him feel contaminated.”

  “But Michael, I thought you said you didn’t know who had the diamonds.”

  Shayne laughed. “That’s another point, angel, and it has nothing to do with ethics.”

  The phone rang.

  “This must be Philadelphia,” he said.

  He picked it up and said hello. But it wasn’t long-distance. It was Pete, the night clerk at his hotel.

  “I’ve been trying to get you, Mr. Shayne,” he said cautiously, “but the line’s been busy. I know you told me not to call you there except in an emergency, but this looks like an emergency. A very nice emergency, about five feet four, blonde—”

  “What about her?” Shayne snapped.

  “Well, she’s very insistent on seeing you. She’s sitting across the lobby, smoking cigarettes like a blast furnace. I’ve collected a five for my cooperation so far, but I wouldn’t have taken her dough, if I didn’t think you’d want to see her, Mr. Shayne.”

  “As usual, Pete, you did the right thing,” Shayne said crisply. “Remind me that I owe you another five.”

  “Should I let her wait upstairs in your suite?”

  “No. See that she stays right there where you can keep an eye on her. I don’t want anything to happen to that chick.”

  His face hard and furrowed, he slammed down the phone and stood up.

  Lucy was ready with his hat. “I wish you’d be that anxious to ask me some questions.”

  “I only have one question for you, baby. Do you love me?”

  “At the moment,” she said coldly, “not one bit.”

  He made an attempt to kiss her, but she moved out of range.

  “Angel, I’m sorry about this, but—”

  “But there’s forty-five thousand dollars on the line, as well as a tête-à-tête with a lovely blonde. And that’s a combination that’s irresistibly appealing to Michael Shayne.”

  Shayne put on his hat and said in his curtest tone, “If the Philadelphia call comes in, take down what he says, verbatim. I’ll call you as soon as I get a chance. When Mr. Goldman calls, agree with him that Mike Shayne’s a no-good skunk, and don’t settle for a penny less than forty-five thousand.”

  Her nostrils twitched. He thought for an instant that she was going to cry, but she exclaimed in horror, “My biscuits! I forgot all about them, and it’s all your fault, Michael!”

  She ran to the ktichen to take the second burned batch of biscuits out of the oven. Grinning bleakly, Shayne went out and carefully latched the door behind him.

  CHAPTER 16

  When Shayne came into the lobby by the side entrance, Carla Adams put out her cigarette in an ashtray that was overflowing with stubs, and stood up. She tried to smile.

  Shayne said, “I thought you said you were going to stay at Tim’s.”

  “I couldn’t, Mike. I absolutely had to see you.”

  Her eyelids trembled. In Shayne’s opinion, she was beginning to break up.

  “Let’s go upstairs,” he said gruffly. “You need a drink.”

  “You’re right about that,” she answered fervently. “Several drinks.”

  He took her to the elevator. The operator murmured a polite good evening, careful not to look at Shayne directly. Carla fingered the snap of her handbag, and her tongue came out to touch her lower lip.

  In the hall, her high heels tapped beside him, taking three steps to his two.

  “There’s not much doubt what he was thinking,” she said, “and as for the desk clerk—”

  “Don’t let it bother you,” the redhead said.

  He unlocked the door of his living room. Reaching in, he turned on the light.

  “The place is a mess. It was searched a little while ago, and I haven’t had a chance to straighten up.”

  Her breath caught. “Searched! What were they looking for?”

  “You’re going to tell me that, Carla,” he said. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll get some drinks.”

  In the kitchenette, drawers had been pulled out. Sugar and coffee canisters had been probed with a carving knife. Shayne got out bottles and glasses and arranged them on a tray. He opened the little refrigerator for ice cubes, and cursed as he found that the trays were empty. Apparently Sammy had melted the ice, on the chance that Shayne had frozen the diamonds into the cubes.

  He filled a pitcher with tap water and carried the tray to the living room. Carla had started another cigarette, apparently to have something to do with her hands.

  “There wasn’t any ice at Tim’s,” Shayne said, “and there’s no ice here either. You’ll have to drink it warm.”

  Cognac splashed into his glass, whiskey into hers.

  He said, “I have a feeling you haven’t been quite honest with me, Carla. This time I’d appreciate a straight story.”

  “You’ll get it,” she said eagerly. “I’ve made up my mind that I can trust you. I wasn’t sure about that at first. How about Tim? Is he all right?”

  “A little high, but otherwise fine,” Shayne said.

  “Thank God,” Carla breathed. “If anything had happened to him—”

  Shayne studied her as she drank. “If they put a bullet through Tim Rourke’s brain, dear, you wouldn’t turn a hair.”

  “Mike!” she cried, hurt. “How can you say a thing like that? I feel responsible about getting him into this, and I don’t care if you believe me or not.”

  Shayne grinned. “Let’s face it—I don’t believe you.”

  The phone pulsed suddenly. Shayne was bearing down on the girl, and his head jerked around.

  “Now what the hell? I told her not to call me here.”

  Going to the desk, he picked up the phone and growled, “Yeh?”

  “Mr. Shayne!” the desk clerk said anxiously. “I know you don’t want to be bothered, and especially not at this particular moment, but this guy is off-duty and he wants to get home. He’s got something he says is yours.”

  “What guy?” the detective barked.

  “Well, his name is Herman Gold, and he’s a cab driver.”

  “Sure, sure,” Shayne said. “I’ve been expecting him. Listen, ask him to wait a couple of minutes, will you? Tell him he won’t regret it.”

  “All right, but he’s kind of impatient.”

  The redhead put the phone back, a smile on his wide mouth, and turned to the blonde.

  “Where were we? I had an interesting talk with Professor Quesada. He doesn’t seem to like you much.”

  She bit her lip. “I don’t know what he said, but it
’s certainly poisoned the atmosphere around here, hasn’t it? He knows I’ve lost my girlish illusions about his movement, and that’s the one thing they never allow themselves to forgive. All right, I suppose you want to know why I came here. I’ll tell you.”

  She put down the glass and faced him bravely. “I didn’t tell you everything when I talked to you earlier, Mike.”

  “No?” he said, raising his shaggy eyebrows. “There goes my last illusion.”

  She ignored his sarcasm. “Tim did bring something in through the customs for me. I thought it would turn up in the ordinary course of events, but it hasn’t, and frankly, I’m at my wits’ end. You see—I knew they’d try to kill me when they found out I’d become an apostate, and so I took certain precautions. I had access to some incriminating documents, and I had them photostatted—”

  Shayne made a reproving sound with his tongue. “Carla, honey. You promised to tell the truth this time. Don’t talk to me about Photostats. Talk to me about diamonds.”

  Carla blinked just once, and came around smartly to the new tack. “I’d forgotten that you’re supposed to be a pretty good detective, Mike. You’re right, it was diamonds, and I don’t know what’s become of them.”

  “You’ve finally made a statement which I think is true,” Shayne said. “Let’s see if we can figure it out.”

  He went back to the phone and signalled for the switchboard. When Pete came on, Shayne said, “Send the guy up.”

  Returning the phone to its bracket and turning back to the girl, he said, “They were in some kind of package or envelope, I take it, and you didn’t tell Tim what was inside?”

  “No,” she admitted.

  “That’s understandable,” Shayne went on. “He had a grievance against the cops, and he’d be willing to take documents or Photostats out for you, but he wouldn’t be willing to take diamonds. So he put the package into his luggage. And what piece of reporter’s luggage wouldn’t the customs inspectors look at very closely?”