Fit to Kill

by Brett Halliday

  Shayne leaned an elbow on the desk and lit a cigarette. He said, “I realize this isn’t a public telephone, but … could you put a call through to Mrs. Wallace and let me pay you for it?”

  She said primly, “There’s a telephone booth in the corner over there.”

  Shayne said, “Thank you,” and went to the booth. He dialed operator and told her what he wanted. She got information, and finally a Littleboro number for Mrs. Wallace, but the number did not answer after she rang it eight times. Shayne told her to cancel the call, and emerged from the booth tugging thoughtfully at his left ear lobe.

  Lucy jumped up from a chair in which she had been waiting, and clung to his arm as he went out the door. “What has Mrs. Leon Wallace in Littleboro got to do with it, Michael?”

  He grinned and said, “How in hell do I know? I don’t even know where Littleboro is.”

  Lucy said, “It’s about a hundred miles upstate and inland. A farming town.”

  They went out onto the street together and she said uncertainly, “I guess I was foolish to bother you tonight. But Mrs. Groat was so darned worried … and like most people in Miami she has complete faith that a redheaded lug named Michael Shayne knows all the answers.”

  Shayne grinned down at the moonlight glinting off her brown curls and turned her away from his car parked in front. He said, “I’ll walk you home and come back for my car. It wasn’t foolish, angel. Here’s a guy just been rescued from the dead after ten days or two weeks keeping alive in a life raft … and he walks out on his ever-loving wife the first evening he’s back. No use getting her hysterical, but there’s got to be some reason.”

  They had walked east on the south sidewalk until they were opposite the modest building housing Lucy’s apartment, and as they started to cross the street, Shayne said quietly in a low voice, close to his secretary’s ear, “Don’t look now, but we’re being followed.”

  Her fingers tightened on his arm but she continued walking steadily beside him across the empty street. “Where, Michael? Who?”

  He said, “Behind us. I’ll find out who after I let you in your front door. Keep your place locked tonight.”

  He raised his voice as they reached the opposite sidewalk and crossed to the front door of her building. “Nothing else we can do about Groat tonight, Lucy. We’ll start wheels turning in the morning if he isn’t back. Got your key?”

  She said, “Right here,” in a steady voice. They stood close together at the top of the steps and she opened the outer door leading into a small hallway with mail boxes on each side. She put both hands on his biceps and pressed close to him, turning her face up in the faint moonlight.

  He kissed her lips and she drew away after a moment and whispered breathlessly, “Be careful, Michael.”

  He said, “I’m always careful,” and gave her a little shove into the foyer, letting the door close behind her, and then turned back to the moonlit street.

  2

  He paused on the curb, a tall and deceptively rangy figure, lighting a cigarette with casual deliberation while his gaze searched the palm-shadowed sidewalk across the street. There were small, private residences there, east of the Boswick Arms on the corner, built close to the sidewalk with narrow driveways separating them.

  As he exhaled smoke and spun the dead match into the street, Shayne caught a flicker of movement against a rose trellis in the driveway west of the opposite house. It was no more than that, and as he crossed the street with deliberate strides he was able to discern only the shadowy outline of a figure pressed close to the rose bush.

  He reached the sidewalk and turned right, his heels striking solidly on the concrete until he was directly opposite the man lurking in the driveway not more than ten feet away. Then he swung into the driveway with a swift lunge that covered the distance in two strides and smashed into a bulky body that had no opportunity to retreat or to get set for the impact.

  The man staggered back and would have gone down if Shayne’s left hand hadn’t grabbed the front of his coat and jerked him back. In the moonlight away from the shadow of the house, Shayne recognized the sullen, deeply tanned features of Cunningham, and he shook him angrily, with right fist doubled and drawn back, while he grated, “What kind of tricks are you playing?”

  Cunningham’s body was solid and heavy. He braced himself and clubbed Shayne’s left hand away with his forearm while he twisted back, grunting, “You don’t have to jump a guy like that. What the hell’s eating on you?”

  He continued to give ground as Shayne stalked him with right fist still doubled and cocked, “What’s your game, Cunningham?”

  “Just wanted a chance to talk to you alone,” the steward panted. “I knew Miss Hamilton lived close and figured you’d be coming back for your car after telling her good night.”

  Shayne stopped and shrugged. “All you had to do was say so.”

  “I’m saying so now.” Cunningham licked his lips and moved forward with squared shoulders that carried a faint swagger of insolence. “I figure you and me might make us a deal.”

  “What sort of deal?” Shayne turned abruptly and walked toward his car and Cunningham hurried his shorter legs to keep pace.

  “I’ll buy a drink,” he offered eagerly.

  Shayne said, “Get in.” He went around to the driver’s side and slid under the wheel and Cunningham opened the other door and sat beside him. The redhead started the motor and made a U-turn back toward the brightly lighted boulevard without glancing at the man on his right. “You know something about Groat you didn’t want to tell his wife?”

  “Not that exactly. I mean I still don’t know where he is tonight. But there are some things she mightn’t understand.” He was silent for a moment and Shayne was silent. He hesitated for the boulevard stop, made a left turn into the midnight traffic and drove south two blocks before turning onto a side street and pulling in to the curb in front of a lighted barroom. He switched off the ignition and got out and they went into the bar together where half a dozen men were seated on stools and three of the six booths lining the right side were occupied. The bartender was fat and bald-headed and was chewing on the end of a kitchen match. He lifted tufted gray brows at Shayne and turned to reach for a bottle of cognac on the top shelf, but the redhead walked past, saying, “We’ll rest our feet, Ernie.”

  He led the way to the last booth in the rear, and a pert waitress came to lean pointed young breasts over the table between them, and Shayne looked inquiringly at the steward who moistened his thick lips and said, “Bourbon on the rocks.”

  Shayne said, “Ernie knows mine.”

  When the waitress turned away, Cunningham put both palms of his solid hands on the table and said flatly, “First off, I’m bad worried about Jasper. I didn’t want to let on too much there in front of his old lady, but I swear to God something bad must have happened to Jasper to keep him from keeping that dinner date with me tonight. You know how it is when you’re in a spot like we were on that life raft? Nothing to eat and nothing to drink, and that’s all you think about after a few days.” He licked his lips and swallowed hard, dropping his eyes from Shayne’s hard gaze. “You talk about what you’re going to do first night ashore and what you’re going to eat and drink. Jasper and me … we had it all planned, see? A big celebration. It’s something … you know … a man wouldn’t run out on.”

  The waitress brought his glass with two cubes of ice in it, and she poured the bourbon on top of them. She placed a four-ounce glass filled to the brim with amber fluid in front of the detective, and placed a tumbler of ice water beside it.

  Shayne said, “I see what you mean. Jasper Groat knew where to get in touch with you if something did come up to prevent him meeting you tonight?”

  “Sure. He had my phone number.” Cunningham tossed off half his drink and set the glass down, moving it around in circles on the table in front of him. “It’s something to do with those Hawleys,” he said hoarsely. “You mark my words, Mr. Shayne. If you didn’t know Jaspe
r, you just can’t understand about it all. A real psalm-singer, he was. Sure enough religious, if you know what I mean. Praying all the time on the life raft, and telling that kid soldier and me we should both get right with God before it was too late. How we should confess our sins and humble ourselves before God and all that crap.”

  There was a venomous ring in Cunningham’s voice. He shook his head, lifted his eyes to Shayne’s and added sullenly, “Not that I got anything against religion. I always been able to take it or leave it. But Jasper … he bore down on a man.”

  Shayne took a long drink of cognac and a sip of ice water. He said flatly, “You didn’t hang around the Boswick Arms just to tell me this stuff.”

  “No. You’re right. I didn’t. I want to get this straight, though. You’re not really the cops, huh?”

  Shayne said, “I’m a licensed private investigator.”

  “Yeah. That’s what I mean. Like a lawyer, huh?” Cunningham lifted one hand vaguely. “You got a client, you don’t tell all you know to the cops, huh?”

  Shayne said, “I don’t obstruct justice by withholding information.”

  “Yeh. Sure. Those big words mean you just don’t cover up for a crook, I guess.”

  “That’s the general idea.” Shayne lit a cigarette without offering his pack to the man across from him. “Right now I haven’t got any client.”

  “Maybe I could be one, huh? Then whatever I told you would be private.”

  Shayne said, “I’ll have to be the judge of that. If it has to do with finding Jasper Groat …?” He let his voice trail off questioningly.

  “If I knew that I’d tell you. It’s this here diary that Jasper kept on the life raft, see. Has he got a right to sell that to a newspaper to be printed?”

  Shayne frowned. “His own diary? Why not?”

  “No matter what kind of stuff it’s got in it? About somebody else.”

  “About you?”

  “Well … yeh. I never thought about it until this morning, see? After that reporter read some of the stuff and started talking big money to Jasper for printing it. But there’s a lot of private stuff in there I wouldn’t want people to read. You know … things I told him on the life raft when we didn’t think we had a chance in hell of getting out alive. A man talks kind of crazy at a time like that.”

  Shayne said, “No reputable newspaper would want to print anything that might be libelous. They’d be pretty careful about deleting derogatory references to you or anyone else.”

  “Yeh. Well, I don’t know just what Jasper wrote down and didn’t. If I could get hold of it to see, I’d feel a lot better.”

  “Where’s the diary now?”

  “That’s what I don’t know. The reporter took it off this morning and I don’t know whether Jasper saw him again or not. One thing I’ve been wondering … with Jasper missing like he is … if something has happened to him … you know. Would that reporter still have the right to print his diary?”

  “You mean if Groat is dead?”

  “Well … yeh. Like I say, I know something kept him from meeting me for dinner.”

  Shayne said, “That would depend on whether they had concluded an arrangement to print it. Otherwise the diary would become Mrs. Groat’s property, I assume, and she’d have the right to arrange for publication.”

  “Could you get it back, do you think?”

  “I don’t know. Depending on who’s got it.”

  “I’d pay good money to go through it and mark out the places I don’t want published.”

  Shayne said, “I might arrange that … if a Daily News reporter has it.” He took another drink of cognac and set his glass down. “What about Leon Wallace?” he asked casually.

  Cunningham’s big hand jerked and he spilled some of his whisky. His eyes widened in consternation or in fear. “What about him?”

  “That’s what I asked you.”

  The steward’s expression hardened into a sullen glare. “What kind of game are you and Jasper playing, mister?”

  Shayne leaned back with a shrug. “I asked you a simple question.”

  “And I’m asking you what you know about Leon Wallace. Where’d you ever hear about him, that’s what I want to know.”

  “I’m a detective,” Shayne said quietly. “Remember? It’s my business to know about things.”

  “Yeh, but … Was that just a put-up deal with you and your secretary and Jasper’s old lady tonight? Was it, huh? Just to fool me so I’d blab off to you?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “The hell you don’t,” Cunningham spat out truculently. “The way they fed it to me was that when you walked in there tonight was the first you’d ever heard of Jasper or his diary. That was just play-acting to fool me, huh? What did Jasper tell you about Leon Wallace?”

  Shayne said, “Nothing.”

  “The old lady then? After I left, huh?”

  Shayne said, “She didn’t mention Wallace’s name either.”

  “You’re lying,” Cunningham said thickly. He half arose and leaned over the table, thrusting his square chin toward the detective. “Don’t think you’re cutting in on it, mister. To hell with that. Nobody’s playing Pete Cunningham for a sucker.”

  Shayne said, “Sit down.” His voice was like a whiplash and his gaze held the inflamed eyes of the younger man steadily. When Cunningham sank back slowly, Shayne said, “I don’t lie. At least to punks like you.” He stood up. “You’re paying for these drinks. If you decide you want to talk to me further, you can reach me at my office or this address.” He gave Cunningham the name of his hotel.

  He slid out of the booth into the aisle and strode to the front, nodding curtly to Ernie as he passed him.

  Driving home, he stopped at a newsstand to pick up the early edition of the Herald, which he carried up to his room after garaging his car for the second time that night.

  He laid the folded paper on the table beside the water tumbler that still held some unmelted ice, shrugged out of his jacket and loosened his collar, poured more cognac into the glass he had emptied after receiving Lucy’s telephone call, and settled down to read the front-page story about the dramatic rescue of the two civilian crew members of the airplane that had been lost at sea two weeks previously while flying forty enlisted men back to the United States for discharge after completing a tour of duty in Europe.

  Since they had been scooped on the story by the afternoon edition of the News, the Herald coverage was not so full or dramatic, but there was more background material presented in a sober and factual manner.

  There were photographs of Groat and Cunningham, bearded, that had been snapped at the dockside, and a picture of Albert Hawley, the young soldier who had succumbed on the life raft, which had evidently been dug out of the newspaper morgue. Jasper Groat was a thin, middle-aged man with sunken eyes and almost cadaverous features, while the picture of Albert Hawley showed a slender youth in riding togs and a debonair smile that was weakened by a slack-lipped mouth and a chin that was noticeably nonaggressive.

  Shayne read the entire newspaper account with care and without encountering any mention of the diary which Jasper Groat had kept during the ten-day ordeal on a life raft. Nor did the name of Leon Wallace appear in the story.

  The prominence of the Hawley family in the social and economic life of Miami caused a large portion of the account to be devoted to them and to their only son. It was duly noted that the young soldier was survived by his mother and a married sister named Beatrice. A portion of the background material was devoted to Albert Hawley’s marriage at the age of twenty, not much more than a year before, which was described as one of the gala social events of the season. It had evidently occurred just prior to the young man’s induction into the army, and, by reading between the lines, there was clearly evident a cynical interpretation of the marriage as a last-ditch and desperate attempt of a wealthy, spoiled young man to thus escape being drafted into the service of his country as a common soldier, an attemp
t which had been thwarted by a stern and incorruptible local draft board.

  Curiously enough there was no further mention of the widowed Mrs. Albert Hawley in the wealth of background material on the family. It was stated that no member of the Hawley clan was available for interview. No comment was forthcoming from the family on the death of young Hawley at sea, the only one on the passenger list miraculously saved from the crash along with the two crew members.

  It was duly noted by the Herald, however, that this seemingly cold-blooded reticence of the Hawleys was due in part, at least, to the fact that the family was already in mourning for the recent death of Ezra Hawley, Albert’s uncle and the actual, patriarchal head of the clan for the last six years, since the death of his brother who had been a partner with him in the Hawley Enterprises.

  Ezra Hawley’s death at the age of sixty-eight had occurred during the period after it was known that Albert’s plane had crashed into the ocean and before it was reported that Albert was the only passenger who had survived. This was coincidental enough to provide the writer of the story with a couple of paragraphs of philosophical comment on the Unknowingness of the Unknown and some vague conjectures concerning the disposition of Ezra Hawley’s immense fortune, which had not been released to the press.

  Shayne laid the Herald aside with a brooding and dissatisfied frown. He drank the last of his cognac and drummed blunt fingertips unhappily on the table top, while he tried unsatisfactorily to fit various fragments of unrelated information into place to form a complete pattern that would begin to make sense. He glanced at his watch and again dialed Timothy Rourke’s home telephone number which had not answered when he tried it in Jasper Groat’s apartment.

  Again he waited for a number of rings before hanging up. This time he tried the Daily News number and got the City Room. But Rourke was not on tap and no one knew exactly where he could be reached. Shayne settled for the City Editor, and when he was connected said crisply, “Mike Shayne, Dirkson. I’ve been trying to get hold of Tim Rourke.”