“This was where?” Painter interjected.
“Across the bay. Let me tell it. I’ll try to get it all in. As you may know, I don’t like to be slugged. I also like to get a polite answer when I ask a question. So I’ve been doing a little digging. Harry’s got a new racket these days. He’s peddling small-arms, in wholesale lots.”
“Harry Mann? That doesn’t sound like Harry.”
“It’s a special deal, a one-shot,” Shayne said. “He dropped his bankroll to the lawyers, and he’s trying to recoup.”
“We had a tip about some kind of shipment, but Harry Mann! I take it this professor and his bunch were on the receiving end?”
The stretcher carrying Professor Quesada was being carried out of the office. Shayne glanced into the outer office, noting that Rourke had not yet joined the reporters. Perhaps he had balked at the drop from the second floor window.
“Yes, I think so,” Shayne said, answering Painter’s question. “But I think the big hitch is that the guns haven’t been paid for. Harry probably got a down payment, with the rest payable on delivery. And it’s my guess that the professor didn’t have it.”
“What are you trying to say, Shayne? That Harry Mann shot him?”
“I don’t know. I know Harry was here. I saw him”
Painter’s nostrils flared. “When?”
“No more than a minute before the shooting. He’d just ordered me out of the hotel. I was having a small altercation with his boy when the shot was fired.”
“Where was Harry then?”
“Still in the lobby. But I was busy at the moment. I can’t place him anywhere exactly.”
Painter moistened his index finger and stroked the tiny mustache on his upper lip. A detective came in and laid a small misshapen lump on the desk, beside Rourke’s .25. Painter poked at it with the same finger he’d been using on his mustache.
“A .38 or .45,” the detective said. “It ought to be the slug that did the damage. We dug it out of a riser on the stairs. If you draw a line from there to the bloodstain and carry it on, assuming that the flight wasn’t diverted anywhere, you end at the elevators.”
“Bring in the elevator starter,” Painter said quickly.
“They don’t have one, Chief. No operators, either. It’s fully automatic.”
Painter grimaced his disappointment. “Keep plugging, Smitty. There are a couple of hundred people out there. It stands to reason that somebody saw it.”
He turned back to Shayne, but before he could go on with the interrogation, there was a noise in the outer office. A detective put his head in and reported, “We’ve got Harry Mann.”
“Bring him in,” Painter barked.
Shayne eased his hip off the desk and moved to another perch on the arm of the sofa.
Mann was hurried in between two burly detectives. He looked somewhat rumpled, as though he had made the error of objecting to being brought in for questioning. Sammy was with him. He caught Shayne’s eye, and for an instant the detective thought the hoodlum would come at him, in spite of the armed cops. But he caught himself.
Mann stumbled as he was released. Recovering his balance, he adjusted his coat and glared at Painter.
“I suppose I’d better get accustomed, now that I’ve got a record,” he said. “That’s all you know, you bushleague cops. Bring in the ex-cons and shove them around.”
“Where’d you find him?” Painter asked, looking at Mann but asking the question of the detectives.
One of them answered, “He ran through a red light on Surfside, going north. He was a little hard of hearing when we used the siren, so Chuck had to shoot out one of his tires. I heard Miami had a call out for him. He was coming from this direction, and I figured—”
“You figured right,” Painter said. “Was this character with him?”
“Yeh,” the detective answered. “He’s not local, so far as my personal acquaintance goes. He had a shoulder rig on, but no piece in it.”
“I’ll tell you now, Harry,” Painter said, “before you make trouble for yourself, that we have a reliable witness who puts you in the lobby at the time the shot was fired.”
“What shot?” Mann demanded. “What’s this all about? You don’t see this many cops in one place unless there’s been a homicide, but what does that make me? I haven’t even cut any corners on my income tax lately, because I haven’t had any income.”
“Cut out the gags,” Painter said. “Do you admit you were here?”
“Why should I deny it? I stopped in to see about a room, but I could tell from the lobby that it was too rich for my blood. So I turned around and walked out. I didn’t hear any shooting. I plead guilty to going through a red light. Send me to the electric chair, your honor.”
“Do you know a man named Professor Quesada?” Painter asked him.
Mann shot a finger at him. “Hold it right there, Chief. You forgot to tell me that anything I say can be used against me. I also have a right to an attorney. I hate to say this because of the money they cost me the last time. I’d better shop around for a cheap lawyer.”
There was a tap on the door. A detective came in with something loosely wrapped in newspaper. As he placed it on the desk in front of Painter, the folds of newspaper fell open, disclosing a heavy automatic. To Shayne, across the room, it looked like a service Colt.
The detective said smugly, “One of the parking-lot attendants saw somebody chuck this into a trash receptacle. The times check. Not much doubt this is the death weapon. I was careful about prints.”
Painter smiled at Mann. “It might fit in your friend’s empty holster, don’t you think?”
Beneath his prison sallowness, Mann had gone noticeably pale. “I’ll say just one thing, Painter, and that’s all. Sammy threw away a gun from the Haulover Pier. It wasn’t registered, and with so many cops around, it made him nervous. Get a diver down and you can find it. We’ll show you the spot.”
Painter’s smile was increasingly unpleasant. “You had an extra .45. You dropped it in the water in case anybody saw you ditching the real one in the parking lot. Very cagey.”
Mann opened his mouth, but closed it with a snap.
Shayne could have told Painter that the fatal shot couldn’t have been fired from Sammy’s gun. Sammy had brought it out only as Shayne started to run to the dying professor. The redhead had a cut on his neck to show where he had been slashed by the front sight. But he was glad that Painter had something to occupy his mind, so he sat where he was, swinging one long leg.
“Now let’s talk about machine guns” Painter said. “You haven’t been very clever about this, Harry.”
Shayne didn’t hear Mann’s answer, if he made any, for there was a sudden commotion outside. Shayne grinned, recognizing an angry, high-pitched voice.
Rourke had arrived.
The detective swung off the sofa, hoping to forestall his friend before he cold break in on Painter. But as he opened the door, Rourke met him in full career, knocking him back into the office.
The reporter had looked bad before, but now his appearance was truly appalling. Apparently he had landed squarely in the barberry bush. His clothes were slashed. There were long scratches across his face, not all of which had stopped bleeding. His eyes were wild. The breath that met Shayne was like the blast from a distillery.
Everybody in the room turned to look at him. He swayed, returning their looks defiantly. Then his gaze fastened on Peter Painter.
“Petey,” he cried, “whoever gave you the idea you were a detective? You couldn’t detect your way out of a paper bag! Why don’t you resign?”
CHAPTER 19
Shayne saw the quick rush of blood to Painter’s face.
“Get that drunk out of here,” the detective chief snapped.
Shayne moved forward to envelop his drunken friend. “Come on, Tim. I’m not sure I don’t agree with you, but let’s talk about it outside.”
“Outside hell!” Rourke shouted, and swung his cast against the redh
ead’s chest. “Not this time, by God! I know the procedure—Tim Rourke on the outside with his nose pressed against the window, and after everything is over they condescend to call in the poor reporters. Can you give a guy a handout, Mr. Painter? I need a headline or they’ll can me. Please, Mr. Painter. Well, not this time! I’m the guy who’s going to solve your goddam case for you. I’m not listening, I’m telling!”
The detectives were smiling covertly, but Painter’s face was dark with anger.
“Do you need help, Shayne?” he said acidly. “Is he too strong for you? O-u-t, out!”
Shayne dodged another wild sweep of Rourke’s broken arm.
“Tim!” he said urgently. “There’s something we have to talk about.”
“Look at him, ladies and gentlemen,” Rourke said. “My good friend, Mike Shayne. Known each other since we were pups, and the minute I’ve got something nice lined up, blonde and lovely and begging for attention from the old master, who moves in when I’m otherwise engaged, but my good friend Shayne!”
Shayne grinned. “The ideas this guy gets after a few drinks.”
Using Rourke’s good arm as a lever, he pivoted the reporter around. Rourke said belligerently, “A few drinks! If you’d been slugging down the booze the way I have, you’d be asleep right now. I ain’t kidding you a bit. And then to jump out of a goddam window on top of it—”
Shayne walked him through the door. With a jerk of his head he signed to one of the detectives to shut it behind them. Only grim determination had kept Rourke on his feet this long, and all at once he folded at the knees.
“Don’t feel so good,” he said weakly. “Must have been the lemon peel. The bastards were trying to poison me.”
One of the detectives moved out of a leather chair. “Set him down here, Mike. Pretty far gone, isn’t he?”
Shayne eased him down. The other reporters watched curiously.
The Tribune man remarked, “I’ve seen Tim tight, but he ought to get an award for this one. Mike, can you give us anything on this killing?”
“Sure,” Shayne said. “If you phone it in somewhere else. I’m going to be using this one.”
Picking up the phone, he asked the board for Room Service. “Two pots of coffee to Mr. Fine’s office,” he told the order clerk. “One large one and one small. Plenty of cups, cream and sugar.”
Hanging up, he told the reporters, “The murdered man is a Professor Quesada. It’s big. He’s one of the leaders of the Latin American exiles.”
He described the professor’s political activity, Painter’s theory about Harry Mann and the arms shipment. When he had finished, the reporters hurried out of the office, and Shayne went back to Rourke. There were only two detectives in the outer office, arguing about advantages and disadvantages of foreign cars. They paid no attention to Shayne or the reporter.
Rourke’s head rolled against the back of the chair. Shayne shook him awake.
“Now don’t go to sleep on me,” the redhead warned. “You’ve been doing fine, and for God’s sake keep it up for a few more minutes. What did you do with the—”
Rourke threw off his hand. “Get away from me, you double-crossing bastard,” he snarled. “Where’s the blonde? You’ve got her stashed away someplace, haven’t you?”
“I don’t know where she is, Tim,” Shayne said honestly. “When the gun went off, everybody scattered.”
Rourke leered up, forgetting that he was angry. “We spent a night in a certain hotel room. But don’t get the wrong idea, pal. It was all perfectly platonic, goddam it. I didn’t feel up to anything, to tell you the truth, on account of my arm. You wouldn’t think it to look at her, but do you know what that babe is? Believe it or not, she’s an international smuggler. Before I turn her in, I’m going to let her try to persuade me not to, know what I mean?”
Two waiters came in with loaded trays. Shayne took a cup and saucer and the small pot of coffee as they went by. Filling the cup, he held it out to Rourke.
“What’s that stuff?” the reporter said suspiciously.
“Coffee, Tim. Drink it. I can’t make a move until I get a few facts out of you.”
“What I need,” Rourke said brightly, “is a drink.”
“You need some coffee,” Shayne said. “Damn it, Tim, you’ve got to talk fast, or this thing will get away from us.”
“So you think I can’t handle my liquor, is that it? Well, let me tell you—”
“Tim, listen. What were you up to that got you a broken arm? When did this girl Carla Adams come into your life, and what did she tell you about herself? And I want some information about a certain nine by twelve package.”
An expression of delight came over Rourke’s face. “Not this time, Michael, my dear friend. I’m in the driver’s seat, and that’s where I’m going to stay.”
“Just don’t pass out at the wheel,” Shayne advised him. “There are other people interested in that package.”
“Don’t worry about Papa Rourke. What have you got in that cup?”
“Coffee,” Shayne said.
“Any cognac in it?”
“Plain coffee.”
“Well, you know what you can do with it, don’t you, buddy? Now go away and stop bothering me.”
“Tim—”
“I’m not going to sleep,” the reporter assured him. “I just want to rest my eyes. If Carla shows up, jostle me, will you?”
Giving up, Shayne went back to the desk and drank the coffee himself. Then he asked the switchboard for an outside line and dialed Lucy Hamilton’s number.
She answered promptly.
“Yes, Mr. Shayne,” she said coldly in her secretary’s voice, which meant that she was still miffed by his abrupt departure. “I trust you found everything to your satisfaction?”
“Hardly,” the detective said. “Tim showed up finally, but now the girl’s disappeared. And Tim’s gone to sleep on me.”
“Just resting my eyes” Rourke mumbled.
“Have you had any calls?” Shayne asked his secretary.
“Two,” she replied crisply. “Mr. Arthur Goldman has checked with his insurance company, and they agree to your figure. They’ll confirm it in writing. Mr. Yoseloff, your Philadelphia investigator, has collected the following information about the attractive and popular Miss Adams. She does indeed live in Philadelphia, and she did indeed go to Swarthmore for two years. Her parents weren’t very communicative. They said they had no knowledge of her present whereabouts, or her plans. But your man finally traced a girl who roomed with her during their sophomore year. The girl’s name is—let me see, I have it here—Mrs. William Peters. No longer in college. Yoseloff detected a note of animosity in her voice, and she was willing to talk. Carla was a brilliant student but erratic. Quite wild, few female friends, little care for proprieties, often went off for a weekend, and not too particular about who with. Another impression of Yoseloff’s is that she may have gone off for such a weekend with Mr. William Peters. Under the care of a psychiatrist, off and on. Periods of depression, periods of high spirits. She became infatuated with a Latin American exchange student, had a violent, semi-public affair, went off without taking June exams. Named Ramirez. Then—”
“What was that name?” Shayne said.
“Ramirez. She couldn’t remember the first name. It was a common one. Her friends never heard from Carla after that. If that’s not enough, Yoseloff wants us to call him back. Michael,” she said abruptly, “have you had anything to eat?”
“I had some coffee,” he said, grinning. “Maybe you’d better not count on me for dinner. There’s been some activity.”
“Will you call me? No matter how late it is?”
“Sure, angel.”
“And eat something, even if only a hamburger.”
Shayne said good-bye, watching Rourke speculatively. The reporter moved uncomfortably from side to side, and at last he opened his eyes.
“What did they upholster this chair with?” he complained. “Ballast? You make
me self-conscious, Mike. Don’t you want to go in and find out what Petey’s up to?”
“I have a pretty good idea what he’s up to,” Shayne said. “He’s being tough with Harry, and not getting far.”
Rourke stood up. “Got to find a bed. The paper won’t like it if I conk out in public. Cover me, will you, amigo? If they find out who did it, let me know, hmmm?”
Shayne moved toward the door with him. “They don’t need me here. I’ll go with you and tuck you in.”
“I can make it, thanks,” Rourke said with dignity. “I know you think I’m heading for the nearest bar, but I give you my word—”
“You shook me once tonight,” Shayne said, “and you may remember what happened. I’m sticking to you till you decide to tell me a few things.”
“You bastard—”
“And insults won’t get you anywhere,” the detective told him.
“Mike,” Rourke begged him, “forget about me, will you? Find out who knocked over the professor, and put him where he belongs. If you leave it to Petey, the guy’s likely to get away. I liked that professor. I don’t—”
The door to the lobby opened and a detective came in with one of the convention delegates. His big badge gave his name as Joseph (“Joe”) Petrucci, but he went past too quickly for Shayne to see his hometown. His expression was serious and self-important. Two reporters came in afterward. The detective took the delegate to the other door and went in, shutting the door in the face of the reporters.
Shayne and Rourke looked at each other.
“Of course you want to get to bed,” Shayne said.
“That little nap did me a world of good,” Rourke told him.
They both turned at the same instant and followed the others. Shayne opened the door. The detective inside scowled and started to say something, but checked himself.
“I guess you’re okay, Mike.”
Rourke came in after Shayne, walking with a dangerous list to starboard. He ended up with a small thud against the wall.
“Quiet over there!” Painter snapped. His attention was fixed on Mr. Joseph Petrucci. “And why didn’t you tell us this before?”
Fit to Kill Page 17
