Fit to Kill

by Brett Halliday

  She drew in her breath.

  “That’s right, baby,” Shayne said. “His typewriter. When I met him at the airport he let me carry it for him. You figured that out, didn’t you?”

  “Finally,” she said.

  “I’m surprised it took you so long. When you see a man with a broken arm carrying something, it’s natural to insist on carrying it for him. Tim put up an argument, but I won. I put the typewriter in a taxi. And then the damned thing slipped my mind.”

  “It slipped your mind!” she cried, appalled.

  “It wouldn’t have slipped yours, because you knew what was in it. I didn’t, and remember the situation. I followed your taxi to the Beach, and when you went into the St. Albans I jumped out in a hell of a hurry. I remembered a few minutes later that I’d left Tim’s typewriter in the cab, but by then it was too late. It’s a battered old machine that wouldn’t bring fifteen bucks at a hock shop. I knew I could pick it up at the cab garage whenever I wanted. And God knows I had more important things on my mind.”

  She gave a rueful laugh. “You told me the News reporter saw Tim’s luggage on the stretcher. Naturally I assumed the typewriter was included. I didn’t dare question you more closely.”

  “I heard somebody clattering around in Quesada’s house. I suppose that was you?”

  She nodded. “Oh, yes. I thought I’d handled things so cleverly, Mike. I had no trouble getting in. I found Tim’s suitcase, but the typewriter wasn’t with it. I got a little panicky, I guess, and they caught me.”

  A knock came at the door, and the detective went to open it. It was the taxi driver from the airport, and he had the missing typewriter in one hand.

  “Howdy, Mr. Shayne,” he said. He glanced sideways at Carla on the sofa, at the drinks on the low table. “I’ll have to apologize for busting in like this, but I’ve been hacking ten hours straight, and I’m bushed. I would have left it downstairs, only—”

  “Only you had to make sure it was mine,” Shayne said heartily. “You did just right. Come on in. Let me get you a drink.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t turn down a snort,” he said, coming into the room, and continued, “I was ninety-nine percent sure in my mind it was yours, Mr. Shayne, but when you push a cab around the streets all day everyday, you know how it is, things sort of overlap in your mind.”

  He set the typewriter down beside the sofa. “That’s what I call an antique. I bet that’s been in the family a long time.”

  “I want to pay you something,” the detective said. “We were just saying that the most you could get if you pawned it would be fifteen bucks. So how would that be?”

  “I wouldn’t take anything for it,” the driver protested.

  Shayne insisted, and forced him to accept a ten and a five. “It’s worth that much to me, and you deserve something for going to the trouble of finding out where I live. Now about that drink.”

  He went to the kitchenette for an old-fashioned glass, and poured whiskey into it. The driver belted it down. He pocketed the two bills and backed toward the door. Shayne saw him out.

  He turned. Carla was looking at him over the barrel of Rourke’s little .25.

  He sighed. “I keep forgetting about that gun. All right, just pick up the fifteen-buck typewriter and be on your way.”

  She gave her head a tight shake. “I can’t, Mike. It wouldn’t give me enough time. You’d call the police the minute I was gone.”

  The detective moved carefully forward, his big hands out from his sides. He said in a gentle tone, “So it’s come into your mind that you’ll have to shoot me? Think it over for a minute. The hotel people know you’re here. The cab driver saw you. Don’t forget there’s a general pick-up call out for you. The narcotics agents want you, and they’re very determined people. The customs boys want you. You’re hot, Carla. You couldn’t get through a terminal or depot. You could steal my car, but you wouldn’t get far in it. Half the cops in town know it.”

  He lowered himself into a chair, still moving very slowly. The muzzle of the .25 followed him down.

  She gave another short shake of the head, as though trying to control her rising hysteria. “I can’t lose it now, after everything—”

  “You won’t lose it,” Shayne said soothingly. “You’ll have to deal with somebody. Why not me?”

  The automatic didn’t waver, but he had succeeded in getting her attention. “Deal with you? How?”

  “Am I right in thinking that’s the take from the Goldman stick-up?”

  She nodded. “And they couldn’t have done it without me. I organized it. I bought a wrist-watch there and took it back several times for adjustment, and got the whole layout down pat. I drew them a diagram. And then one of them ruined it by shouting a foolish political slogan.”

  “They needed money to pay for the guns?”

  “Is it so astonishing that I told you the truth about something? It was part of my plan to take the diamonds to Miami myself, but at the last moment they decided not to trust me. And meanwhile, the police had found out about the trouble I’d been having with my wrist-watch, and they wanted me for questioning. I couldn’t have got away if it hadn’t been for Tim.”

  “In return for which, you nearly got him killed.”

  “I’ve said I was sorry about that. You’re trying to distract me so I won’t shoot you, aren’t you?”

  She clenched her teeth and squinted, her eyes seeming to go out of focus.

  Shayne said quickly, “Better check to be sure the rocks are there, Carla. That typewriter’s been kicking around all evening.”

  The automatic trembled. Shayne watched the little black hole at the end of the muzzle, all his muscles rigid. Very slowly, Carla felt on the floor for the typewriter with her left hand, keeping her soft unfocused gaze on Shayne.

  She eased the case onto her knees, and felt for the latch. She looked away from Shayne for an instant. He leaned forward slightly, getting his fingers against the edge of the coffee table. There would be a moment when she would have to look down into the open case to see if the diamonds were still in it. If she missed him with the first shot, he had a good chance, he thought, of taking the gun away from her.

  He tensed. There was a tiny click as the latch flew open. She raised the cover of the case, very slowly, raising the automatic with it. Shayne’s hands were now hidden from her, and he gripped the table-edge and shifted his weight in the upholstered chair.

  Carla’s lips parted. The automatic rested on the lid, the muzzle pointing a foot or so to Shayne’s left.

  Then she looked down. Shayne heaved up on the table and dived forward. The gun went off. Bottles and glasses hit the wall. The table pinned her to the back of the sofa. He seized her about the thighs and twisted her to the floor. He got her right wrist in both hands, and shook it until she let go of the gun. It slithered to one side, and he let her go.

  She lay on the floor crying, her blouse wrenched open. Shayne picked up the automatic and dropped it into his pocket. Squatting back on his haunches, he ran his fingers through his unruly red hair.

  “If I ever get killed,” he said, “it’s going to be with a .25. They’re so little I get careless.”

  “You damned fool,” she said. She was throwing her head from side to side, and the tears coursed down her cheeks. “You didn’t have to jump me. They aren’t there.”

  She gestured toward the typewriter case. The lid had closed as it slid off the sofa. Shayne opened it, and as far as he could see, there was nothing inside except Rourke’s old, beat-up portable.

  CHAPTER 17

  There was a heavy clamp to hold manuscripts firmly against the inside of the lid, but nothing was there. The detective unlocked the spring device that held the typewriter rigid. Taking the machine out, he examined it with care.

  “It seems the honest cabby wasn’t as honest as he pretended,” Carla said bitterly. “And we don’t even know his name.”

  Pushing back her blonde hair, she sat up with her back to the sofa. She
shook out a cigarette and lighted it.

  “No, you’re wrong,” Shayne said soberly. “Whoever has them, it’s not the cabby. He might look in to be sure it was actually a typewriter. That’s all he’d do. You could have taped them to the frame, but not without letting Tim know what you were up to. How were they wrapped?”

  The cognac bottle had rolled beneath the sofa. It was tightly corked and no cognac had spilled. His glass had also survived the carnage. He poured himself some cognac.

  Carla hadn’t answered, and he said impatiently, “Come on, come on.”

  She blew out a long plume of smoke. Her voice was lifeless.

  “I suppose it doesn’t matter now. They were in a flat box, nine by twelve, wrapped in heavy paper and sealed with Scotch tape. You said something about a deal.”

  The redhead grinned. “That was when you were holding a gun on me.”

  “But what about it, actually?” She picked an ashtray out of the debris and turned it right-side up. “I understand that private detectives sometimes act as go-betweens, and do the talking to the insurance companies. You’d know how to get the best possible price.”

  “But you don’t have anything to sell,” Shayne pointed out.

  “And if I did?” She looked up at him through her lashes. “When you told me to check inside the typewriter to make sure, did you know I wouldn’t find anything?”

  “No,” he said. “I just didn’t want to get shot.”

  Suddenly she threw her arms around his neck, putting her face against his.

  “If we work together, Mike, we can get them back. We can divide the profit. It should come to a hundred thousand, at least.”

  “Nowhere near that,” Shayne said.

  Instinctively, as she came close to him, he pressed his elbow against his side so she couldn’t get at the .25 in his pocket. She moved her face tenderly against his.

  “I was wrong to try to work this by myself. I need you, Mike. Together we can do it. Spending all that money could be quite wonderful. You’re so—”

  Her eyes closing, she raised her mouth. “Mike,” she whispered against his lips, “could we love each other for a little while?”

  “With or without the hundred thousand?”

  “Don’t talk about money now, Mike. Don’t you see—”

  She took his face in both hands and kissed him on the mouth. Her lips were warm and yielding. Her body went limp in his arms. Her lips opened, and she pulled him down after her as she turned in his arms. Her hand slipped along his arm, found his hand and carried it to her body. And then the phone began ringing. It rang three times, a fourth, a fifth. Each ring seemed more sharp and insistent.

  Shayne freed his mouth. As he raised his head she followed him up, her eyes still closed. Then her hold relaxed and she let him go.

  “Damn,” she said softly.

  Shayne stood up while the phone went on ringing. For an instant he looked down at the girl on the floor. She smiled up at him, without arranging her blouse or pulling down her skirt. Then he crossed the room in three strides.

  Tim Rourke’s voice tumbled out of the earpiece as Shayne picked up the phone. He was swearing wildly and drunkenly, the words running together.

  “Put him on, you low-down bastard,” the reporter shouted. “I don’t care if the Queen of Sheba is up there with him, ring that goddam room or I’ll come over and wrap your switchboard around your goddam neck!”

  “Tim,” Shayne barked. “Simmer down, will you? I’m on the line.”

  It took a moment for Shayne’s words to penetrate through Rourke’s drunkenness. “Ring that room, damn your soul, or—Mike? It’s about time you answered. I know who’s up there with you. I think I told you to lay off that babe. Where’s your sense of decency, you goddam baboon?”

  “Where are you, Tim?”

  “Where do you think I am? I’m right where I was. I can’t stand up, let alone walk. I’m really buzzed, brother. I’ve been soaking up that good blended rye like a goddam piece of blotting paper. Come clean, you bastard. She’s there, isn’t she?”

  Shayne grinned briefly. “I don’t care to make any statement at this time.”

  “Sure she is. But you wouldn’t come out and admit it like a man, because you know I’d bash your brains in. I took some chances for that doll, and what did it get me except a bang on the noggin and a few more gray hairs? Rourke, the perennial patsy. Beat him up. Break his arm. Why should he care? You claim to be a friend of mine, and the minute my back is turned—Mike, will you give me the kind of break you wouldn’t deny to a starving dog?” He screamed into the phone, “Give her back her gloves and her purse, and put her in a taxi, will you?”

  “Where’s the professor?” Shayne asked. “Is he sitting there listening to this?”

  “Certainly he’s not. He’s a sweet guy, the professor, a very warm personality, and I don’t care what you say, I’m fond of him. But he isn’t worrying his head about old Rourke. I passed out, see?”

  He giggled. Shayne said a trifle impatiently, “Is that what you called up to tell me?”

  “Absolutely, man. They lost all interest in the ace newshound because the son of a bitch can’t hold his liquor. He packed away over a fifth of ninety-proof liquor, so he won’t give them any trouble. But what they don’t know about me is my capacity.”

  “What did they do, put you to bed?”

  “They left me where I was, the bastards. Right in the chair. Wait a minute, I just remember what I called about. They took off.”

  “Who?”

  “Who?” Rourke yelled angrily. “Aren’t you listening? The professor and his boys. They locked the door on me but they forgot there was a phone in the room. And how could I call anybody? I was unconscious.”

  “Tim,” Shayne said intensely, “take it easy and tell me where they went.”

  “You’ve got to hurry, Mike. Stop amusing yourself with other people’s girl friends, and get moving.”

  “Get moving where?”

  “That’s the whole point. You’re closer to it than I am, and it’s going to take me some time to bust out of this place. If worst comes to worst I’ll jump out the window, only there’s a wicked barberry bush down below, and with the way the luck is running today, I’ll land in it. So take over for me, will you, like a good chap? This is where the thing makes or breaks, and if you do a real good job, I’ll give you ten percent.”

  “We’ll talk about terms later,” Shayne said. “You haven’t told me where they went.”

  “And another good thing,” Rourke went on, “if you’re mousing around the St. Albans, you can’t be feeding drinks to blondes and two-timing your best friend, now can you?”

  “They went to the St. Albans?”

  “How many times do I have to repeat something before it sinks in? Get the wax out of your ears, Mike. You weren’t like this in the old days. It’s what I keep telling you—you’re slowing down.”

  “Where at the St. Albans?”

  “They didn’t give me a floor-plan. I just heard the St. A. mentioned, and I had to listen hard to hear that. Then the key turned, and a couple of cars roared off down the drive. I open one eye, sly like a fox. I know I can’t get out and find transportation in time to do anybody any good, but luckily I think of my old double-crossing pal, Mike Shayne. And you certainly took your own sweet time about answering the phone.”

  “All right, Tim,” Shayne said. “Now listen to me carefully. You’ve got enough broken bones. Don’t try to jump out any windows. Have another drink and go back to sleep.”

  “Oh, sure,” Rourke said. “And let you collect the informer’s fee, as usual. No, sir. Stand back, everyone. I’m not a hero understand. I’m acting solely out of the profit motive, and that’s what made America great.”

  “Tim!” Shayne called. “Tim, be sensible!”

  He held the phone tightly to his ear, but heard nothing.

  “Mike!” Carla said behind him. “Let me in on it, for heaven’s sake.”

  S
hayne put the phone down slowly. “Apparently the diamonds are being delivered to Professor Quesada at the St. Albans. Come on. I think I’d better keep my eye on you.”

  “Delivered!” Carla said, frowning, putting on a shoe. “What did he say? Does he know where they are?”

  “Who could figure out what Tim knows? He’s not making much sense. Hurry up, get your shoe on.”

  “Mike, seriously. Something that might not mean anything to you—”

  “We’ll talk about it on the way, if we have to talk about it.”

  “Mike Shayne, you’re impossible!”

  She fitted the shoe over her heel. She straightened her nylons, smoothed the black skirt over her hips and buttoned her blouse, moving with maddening deliberation.

  “Are you sorry the phone rang just when it did, Mike?” she said, with a sideways look.

  “No,” he said. “Hurry up.”

  “I think you’re just a little sorry,” she said mockingly, and calmly renewed her lipstick.

  Shayne was at the door, holding it for her. At last she was ready. As she went out she gave him another impudent upward look.

  Pete, at the switchboard, gave Shayne an anxious glance, apologizing for breaking in at what he knew must have been a bad moment. Shayne reassured him with a half-wink.

  He had left the sedan near the side entrance. He wheeled around in a U-turn and headed for Biscayne Boulevard and the causeway. He drove instinctively, wasting no time. His eyes were preoccupied.

  Carla said thoughtfully, “Where did you meet Tim at the airport? I mean exactly?”

  “On the second floor of the administration building. He was heading somewhere in a whale of a hurry. Before long I hope to ask him where he was going, and why.”

  After that they drove in silence. There was little traffic on the causeway, and Shayne stepped up his speed. Then he lifted his toe from the accelerator and they slowed down, approaching the Beach. Collins Avenue took them north.

  Shayne had done all the thinking he could do at this stage. The tune of Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend was back in his mind. He was conscious of the girl’s soft, young body beside him. Her shoulder grazed his arm, and he smelled her faint perfume.