Target_Mike Shayne

by Brett Halliday

  “That’s just exactly what I did, as an extra precaution. Not bad, eh?” He chuckled. “I bet I know what you thought. You thought I took the sleeper for points north. You know I wouldn’t do that, Mike, after I gave you my word. You don’t mind if I call you Mike?”

  “No.”

  “And I wish you’d call me Walt,” Baumholtz continued. “If we’re going to be murdered together, we might as well get on first name terms. Frankly, Mike, I’m a little disappointed you thought I’d run out on you. I didn’t even think of it. Well, I might have thought of it, but I decided it wouldn’t really help.”

  “Where are you calling from?”

  “A booth. I thought I’d better not talk through the hotel switchboard, because you never know. Incidentally, how about that fellow at your end? He sounded kind of inquisitive. Can you trust him?”

  “I think so. Are you listening to this, Pete?”

  Pete’s voice said apologetically, “Well, Mr. Shayne, I thought you might want—”

  “Get off the line,” Shayne told him, and there was a small click.

  Baumholtz went on, “I just this minute thought of something, and I want to get your advice, Mike. What if Mrs. Baumholtz took it into her head to put in a call to me last night at the Fontainebleau? I know the way she is, she’d go on trying, and if she didn’t get an answer the whole night long she’d jump to conclusions. She may be showing up down here on the next plane.”

  Shayne grinned. “After it’s all over I’ll explain it to her.”

  “I want your promise on that, Mike,” Baumholtz said worriedly. “But I ought to warn you that she doesn’t think much of private detectives. She thinks they’re likely to be pretty crummy, as a matter of fact, and I don’t know if she’d make an exception in your case or not.”

  Shayne continued to grin. “I look forward to meeting her, Mr. Baumholtz.”

  “Walt,” Baumholtz corrected him. “Well, I just thought I’d better check in and find out if you’re still healthy, before I went through this damn foolishness of hiding under a beach umbrella all day. I’m glad to hear they didn’t catch up to you yet.”

  “They made another try at it, Walt, and I’d better tell you about it before you see it in the paper. There were two men. This time that’s definite. The cops made a tentative identification of one of them, a tommy gun artist. You’ll read about it in the News, but don’t let it worry you. It doesn’t change anything.”

  “They shot at you with a tommy gun?” Baumholtz said faintly.

  “And missed,” Shayne said. “I didn’t enjoy it naturally, but things are looking up. They’re in a hurry, for some reason, which makes it more likely that they’ll rise to the bait tonight. I’m not just trying to build up your morale, Walt. I mean it.”

  “But good Lord, Mr. Shayne—Mike—this puts a different complexion on matters. If they’re going to barge into a hotel and open up with a tommy gun—”

  “They were waiting for me outside.”

  “So much the worse. In broad daylight? And those cops from last night were probably still around? What I mean is, if they’d do a foolhardy thing like that, what’s to stop them from coming into that seafood restaurant with their goddam tommy gun and shooting me at the bar?”

  “They won’t do that,” Shayne said, hoping he could keep Baumholtz in line. “We’ll have to be a little more careful, that’s all. Anyway, the damage is done. The first edition of the News must be on the street by now.” He checked his watch; if he called Rourke within the next two minutes he could still hold up the story, but he didn’t tell Baumholtz that. He said, “I know its going to be a nerve-wracking day for you, but you can handle it. Meanwhile, the cops will be busy. Maybe they’ll turn up something and we won’t have to go through with it.”

  “God, I hope so, but I kind of doubt it. You’ve certainly given me a lot to think about, and as soon as the bar opens I’ll get a couple of snorts and see if I feel any better.”

  “Take it easy on the liquor,” Shayne said.

  “Don’t worry, don’t worry. I’m like you, I can handle liquor. Ask anybody back home. Well, not Mrs. Baumholtz, but any of my friends. I can sop up the whiskey all day and all night, and my mind will still be as clear as when I started—which may not be saying such a hell of a lot at that, because I don’t claim to be an Einstein.”

  He laughed. Shayne was beginning to suspect that he was already well along on his day’s drinking, and if he took a bottle to the beach with him, there was probably little likelihood that he would show up at the Seafarer. But it had always been an outside chance, at best.

  “Another thing,” Baumholtz said. “To set your mind at rest, because I know you’ll be worrying about me. Nobody’s going to sneak up on Walter Baumholtz and pump him full of lead. Not with impunity. I’ve got a gun.”

  “What!”

  “Yes, sir,” Baumholtz said, pleased with the detective’s reaction. “Not that I know much about firearms. In fact you may be surprised to hear that I never had a pistol in my hand before. But they’re simple to operate. The man in the pawnshop gave me a demonstration.”

  Shayne’s grip on the phone tightened. “You mean you just walked in off the street and some fool sold you a gun?”

  “I had to pay extra for it, because he said I was supposed to show him a license to carry it. But I’m not exactly the worst furniture salesman in the state of New Jersey, Mike,” he said complacently. “I talked him into it. I promised I’d walk right down to the nearest police station and fill out the forms. But not me. I know what you think of the cops in this town, Mike, and I share your sentiments. The less those knot-heads know about my affairs, the better I’ll like it.”

  “He didn’t sell you any ammunition, did he?”

  “Now what good would a gun be without ammunition? I bought a box at a sporting-goods store, and I finally got the damn thing loaded. I figured it out myself. I didn’t want to admit to that smart aleck in the store that I didn’t know how.”

  “What kind of a gun is it?”

  “He didn’t say, Mike. He just told me what size bullets to buy. Is there such a thing as forty-seven caliber? Hold on, I’ll look at the box. Forty-five.”

  “Walt, I’d like you to do me a favor.”

  “Yes, Mike?”

  “Get a paper bag in a drugstore, put that gun inside it, and drop it in the nearest trash basket.” Shayne found it difficult to speak with restraint. He had to remind himself that he needed Baumholtz. But of all the fool—“Walt, that isn’t a toy you’ve got there. You can kill people with it. A bullet doesn’t make any distinction between friend or enemy.”

  “I know that, for heaven’s sake.”

  “I don’t carry a gun myself, for good and sufficient reasons. Will you accept the fact that I have more experience in these things than you? I’ve seen more gunshot accidents than I like to think about. You’re an amateur, and these men we’re up against are professionals. Get rid of that gun.”

  There was a short silence at the other end of the line. “Gee, I thought you’d be pleased, Mike. I’ve done everything else you’ve asked, haven’t I? It seems to me I’m sticking my neck out pretty far. What if one of them runs into me during the day and goes for his gun? I’d be a dead duck. I’ll be careful, for heaven’s sake. I won’t shoot anybody unless I’m a hundred percent certain who it is.”

  “Walt—”

  “I’m sorry, Mike,” he said stubbornly. “It wasn’t the easiest thing in the world to get this gun, and I can’t just throw it away.”

  Shayne’s teeth grated together. “Is it on safety?”

  “On what? Oh, I know what you mean. That little thingamajig on the handle?”

  Shayne closed his eyes. “Yeah. That little thingamajig on the handle. It should be pointing to S, or there may be just a white dot. Do you see that?”

  “Just a minute. Oh-oh.” There was a slithering sound and a thump. Shayne waited without breathing until Baumholtz said, “It kind of slipped out of my
hands. But it didn’t go off. Yes, it’s pointing to S. All I have to do when I want to shoot is move that over and pull the trigger, right?”

  “Yeah,” Shayne said, deciding not to tell him how to cock the weapon and drive a bullet into the chamber. “But don’t move it, and don’t for God’s sake pull the trigger.”

  “I don’t expect I’ll have to, Mike, but it gives me—you know, more self confidence.”

  Shayne wished him luck and said goodbye. When he put down the phone he found that he was sweating.

  Agatha Wiley had nearly finished sewing up her blouse. She seemed much smaller inside Shayne’s shirt. Bent over the needle she said, “How on earth could those two men escape? From the way the sirens sounded, the streets must have been swarming with police.”

  “They got out of the Chevrolet and walked away,” Shayne said. “And there’s not a hell of a lot the cops can do about it now. They’ll start where they found the car and try to turn up somebody who saw them, a cab driver, or an old lady who was looking out the window. There’s always a chance they’ll get a tip from one of their pigeons. The Chief of Police on this side of the bay is an old friend of mine, and I don’t think Will Gentry is going to like the idea of a couple of mugs letting loose with a sub-machine gun a few blocks from police headquarters. He’ll do what he can.”

  She bit off the thread. “I still can hardly believe it. Those bullets couldn’t have missed us by more than a few inches. What if some children had been walking along the sidewalk on their way to school? It’s hard for me to imagine that any human beings could be so—so savage.”

  Shayne upended the cognac bottle and filled their glasses. “I’ll make you a promise, Miss Wiley. They won’t get away.”

  “I wish I could be sure. How can you make a promise like that when you don’t even know who they are?”

  “They’ve tried twice,” Shayne said. “The first time the odds were against me. This morning the odds were about even. The next time—” he picked up his cognac—“the next time the odds will be on my side. The more they have to improvise, the more mistakes they’ll make. How do you feel, Miss Wiley? If you’re up to it, I’d like to take you to my office so you can give my secretary a few vital statistics.”

  She held up the blouse, frowning. “I wish I’d had a more useful education. That looks dreadfully amateurish.”

  She started to get up, but sank back, her hand to her forehead. “I think I’d better stay sitting down a few minutes more, if you don’t mind.” She picked up the cognac tentatively. “Do you really think I should? The first one was wonderful, but I don’t know about a second. Well.” She drank about half of the cognac, shuddering as it took hold. “I couldn’t help overhearing, Mr. Shayne. If you aren’t at liberty to say anything about it, just tell me to mind my own business. A policeman identified one of the gunmen?”

  “There was a tommy gun killing out on the Coast a while back. He’d been reading the Wanted flyer on it, some punk named Jones or Smith.”

  “That sounds hopeful.”

  “It’s a lead. But unless there’s a good photograph and a set of fingerprints, those descriptions could fit almost anybody. I leave that kind of thing to the cops. It may pay off in the long run, but I can’t afford to wait.”

  She stood up, looking small and cute inside Shayne’s size 16 shirt. The shirt tails came down to her knees. He grinned at her.

  “Now don’t, Mr. Shayne,” she said. “I know I look funny. Before we get off the subject—I’m suddenly discovering I feel very vindictive about these gunmen. Are you really sure they’ll try again?”

  “As sure as I’ve ever been of anything. And they’re working against some sort of deadline. I’ll hear from them again within twenty-four hours.”

  The sewing kit slipped from her hand and fell to the tray, knocking over a glass of water.

  “I still seem to be rather trembly,” she said in confusion. “I’ll get a sponge.”

  “No, just leave it,” Shayne told her.

  “You’re so relaxed about everything,” she said admiringly. “That was the first thing I noticed about you. I suppose you’ve seen so much violence it doesn’t mean anything to you any more. But how on earth—and this is really the last thing I’ll ask you—can you hope to stop them without a gun?”

  “Strategy,” Shayne grinned, “and I hope to hell it works.”

  “But—”

  At that moment there was a quick tattoo at the door, and Lucy Hamilton’s voice called, “Michael?”

  “Gracious, I’d better—” Agatha Wiley said in alarm, starting for the bedroom.

  In two long strides, Shayne was at the door. He opened it, and Lucy came into his arms.

  “Michael, you are all right?”

  He held her close. “See for yourself.”

  She pushed him away. “You don’t have to squeeze the breath out of me. Michael, you don’t have the sense of a five-year-old child! You climbed down the fire escape to trick them into guarding my apartment all night, but you’re the one the killers are after, not me!”

  “I had a couple of cops downstairs this morning. They didn’t help much, angel.”

  The phone rang, and Shayne went to get it.

  “Yeah, Pete?”

  “Mr. Shayne,” Pete said breathlessly, “I hope I’m not butting in, but I thought you’d want to know I saw Miss Hamilton going up the side stairs.”

  “Good Lord!” Shayne said. “Thanks.”

  He hung up, and laughed ruefully. “Pete says a Miss Hamilton is on her way up. He’s getting to be quite an old lady.”

  “Chief Gentry called and told me what happened. He scared me out of my wits. Oh!”

  She stopped in the middle of the living room. Shayne turned and followed her look.

  The bedroom door was ajar. Agatha Wiley was facing the door, a guilty expression on her face. She had been hurrying, but not fast enough. She had taken off Shayne’s shirt and put on her pink blouse, but as yet none of the buttons were buttoned.

  14

  After a moment, which seemed quite long to Michael Shayne, Lucy looked away from the open door. Her eyes went to the cognac bottle and glasses on the coffee table. The glass that had been knocked over made it seem that not all the recent violence had been confined to the sidewalk outside the hotel.

  “Cognac and ice-water chaser,” Lucy observed. “At ten in the morning. I suppose you insisted?”

  “There’s an explanation for all this,” Shayne said, “if you care to hear it.”

  “There generally is,” Lucy said. “You’re known for your presence of mind.”

  Agatha Wiley came out, tucking the blouse into her skirt. All the buttons were now buttoned, a little late, in Shayne’s opinion.

  “Mr. Shayne, if you’ll introduce me—”

  “Miss Agatha Wiley,” Shayne said. “Miss Lucy Hamilton, my secretary.”

  “Your secretary?” the blonde said. “I see. I jumped to the wrong conclusion from the way you greeted each other.”

  “You’re not the only one who jumped to the wrong conclusion,” Shayne said, watching Lucy. “It’s like this, angel. Tim Rourke sent Miss Wiley over.”

  “Oh, are you one of Tim’s friends?” Lucy asked the girl.

  “No, I called him to get Mr. Shayne’s address. The moment I got here, all hell broke loose, and my blouse—”

  “I never knew you to have to tear their clothes, Michael,” Lucy said.

  Suddenly laughter welled up inside Shayne and escaped in great shouts. He laughed so hard that he had to gasp for breath. It was infectious. After a moment the blonde laughed with him. In the end even Lucy was smiling.

  “I fail to see what’s so funny,” Lucy said finally.

  “You are, angel,” Shayne assured her, and went on briskly, “I’ll bring you up to date, and don’t interrupt. Miss Wiley was in the line of fire when the tommy gun opened up. I had to knock her down, and in the process I tore her blouse. Not deliberately, believe me. She took a nasty knock
on the sidewalk, as you can see from her face. I brought her up here and fed her a drink, on Doc Willoughby’s recommendation. As a matter of fact, I needed a drink myself. If Painter had got hold of her he would have given her his usual treatment, on the theory that she had something to do with the shooting because she almost got shot. All clear so far?”

  “Oh, Michael,” Lucy said contritely, “I—”

  “Miss Wiley has a job for us,” Shayne continued, “and we’re going to start moving on it right away.”

  Lucy looked at him, her brown eyes puzzled. “But will you have time, Michael? Or aren’t you still planning that for tonight?”

  Shayne turned to the blonde. “Would you mind waiting in the lobby, Miss Wiley? I have a couple of things on the fire, and I’d better get them out of the way while my secretary is here.”

  “You won’t be long?”

  “I hope not. If I do get tied up, Miss Hamilton will take down the necessary details. I’ll call you.”

  She said hesitantly, “Mr. Shayne, I want you to know that I really appreciate all your kindness. I’ll never forget that your quick thinking saved my life.”

  She held out her hand, and Shayne shook it. She went out with a smile at Lucy.

  When the door had closed behind her, the detective grinned wryly at his secretary. “Angel, you come in at the most embarrassing moments. I was making pretty good headway with that girl.”

  Lucy sniffed. “So I could see.”

  Becoming completely serious, Shayne took her by the shoulders. “Lucy, don’t you really know that since I met you I haven’t given any other girl a thought?”

  “I—I guess so, Michael,” she said falteringly. “I don’t think you could get deeply involved with anyone, but as for an hour’s amusement, I’m not so sure. And this particular girl looked so—well, available, standing there half dressed.”

  “A lot more than half,” Shayne said. “I see that I’ll have to mend some fences when this is over. But there isn’t time now.”

  He released her. Going to the table, he moodily poured himself a short drink. “Angel?” he said.

  “Unlike some females I might mention,” she said, “I don’t drink this early in the morning.”