Target_Mike Shayne

by Brett Halliday

  The patrolman pressed a button and the light changed. Shayne drove past, his face averted, wishing that his features weren’t so well known.

  He crossed the causeway without incident, and approached the Seafarer. He chose a parking place with care. He saw a narrow lot across Collins Avenue, adjacent to the bar where Baumholtz had been drinking the night before. Shayne leaned out the open window as the attendant, an old man with a week’s beard, came toward him. He took a five-dollar bill out of his wallet and folded it in half slowly while the attendant watched.

  “I’ve got a problem,” Shayne said confidentially. “I’m meeting a young lady in that restaurant across the street. She happens to be married, and her husband may have put detectives on us. I want to be ready to leave in a hurry. Would you mind moving that DeSoto at the entrance so I can get next to the street?”

  The attendant had him repeat the question, to be sure that was all he was being asked to do, and agreed promptly, reaching for the folded bill. He moved the DeSoto farther back in the lot, and Shayne backed into the open space, cramping his wheels toward the exit. He winked at the attendant, who winked back and leaned over to spit tobacco juice on the blacktop.

  Shayne walked a block north, crossed at the light and came back on the other side, swinging along carelessly, hatless like the vacationers around him. He was alert and wary, watching for the familiar faces of Painter’s detectives. He checked the cars in the lot next to the Seafarer. None of them belonged to the city.

  He turned abruptly and strode into the restaurant. After the warm mugginess outside, the air-conditioned atmosphere seemed colder than it was. The clam bar was unattended. There were only three drinkers at the main bar beyond, each alone with his drink. A carpenter was busy near the door to George’s office.

  George bustled up, rubbing his hands. “Moving along nicely, Mike!” he called, then started, glanced around and repeated the statement in a conspiratorial whisper, making himself and Shayne much more conspicuous than they had been before. “In half hour, all complete. No word yet from Mr. Whatever-his-name.”

  “Baumholtz,” Shayne supplied. “I didn’t expect him this early.”

  Going to the bar, he nodded to the bartender, who brought him a neat cognac, with his usual glass of ice water. The carpenter had drilled holes through the wall with a one-inch bit, and was now connecting them with a keyhole saw. Shayne tasted the cognac. Leaving it on the bar, he made a careful inspection of the premises, to get a clear idea of entrances and exits. George trotted beside him.

  “We’ll gobble him up, Mike,” he said. “He’ll be sorry he ever blew somebody up outside the Seafarer. But what if this Baumholtz fails to show up, eh? Then what?”

  “He’ll show up,” Shayne said, refusing to be worried. “And it may not matter if he doesn’t, so long as the killer asks for him.”

  He returned to the bar, finished his drink and ordered another. Two of the drinkers left and others took their places. The scarred Negro who presided over the clam-bar arrived and began opening clams and oysters for the dinner rush. The carpenter removed a rectangular panel measuring about nine by twelve inches, and went into the office. George hammered in a nail and hung the mirror over the aperture.

  And then Walter Baumholtz came in.

  He was looking in all directions at once and breathing hard, as though he had dodged from doorway to doorway, under sniper fire. His tie was loose, his white coat soiled and wilted. One side pocket sagged badly, under the weight of what Shayne knew to be the gun.

  He hurried over, plumped himself down on the stool beside the detective and gave a long sigh.

  “Double bourbon,” he called to the bartender. “No, make it a triple. What a day, what a day.”

  “I was beginning to think you wouldn’t be here,” Shayne said.

  Baumholtz gave him a sidelong glance. As he looked back at the mirror behind the bottles, he noticed that his hair-piece had been knocked slightly askew. He straightened it with both hands, and then scraped his fingers over the stubble on his jaw.

  “I didn’t shave this morning, and do I look like a bum! I’m ashamed to be seen in public. What made you think I wouldn’t be here? I suppose somebody saw me at the railway station? I don’t deny I was there, but I was just picking up a time-table. It never entered my head to run out on you, Mike. We’re in the same boat, and believe me, I know it.”

  “I’m glad you decided to stick around.”

  “Well, I’m not.” He looked along the bar, lowering his voice so Shayne alone could hear him. “I’m scared spitless, to be completely candid with you. When I said I’d do it last night I was feeling those drinks, and I was kind of devil-may-care. Liquor does that to me, I get reckless. I thought if he heaved a bomb in at me, all I had to do was duck. But tommy guns! That’s a different story altogether. Only one thing keeps me from finding a deep hole and crawling into it.” He patted his side pocket. “You know what I mean?”

  “I’d like to take a look at that,” Shayne said. “Are you sure it’s on safety?”

  “Sure, don’t give it a thought.”

  The bartender set the large drink in front of him. He raised it to his lips, his hands shaking. He drank some of it with a loud slupping sound.

  “Slide me down those salted peanuts, Mike. I didn’t have a bite to eat all day, I’ve been so on edge. You know Mrs. Baumholtz did call me last night? I called the hotel to see if there were any messages, and sure enough, there was a message. I was supposed to call operator such-and-such, and frankly, I didn’t have the nerve. Maybe I better hang onto this forty-seven—no, forty-five, isn’t it? I can’t remember the damn number.” He began popping peanuts into his mouth. “On second thoughts,” he said, chewing, “I wouldn’t shoot her, because I’d never hear the last of it if I did. I’ll just have to submit to some pretty barbed and unfair remarks, and make the best of it. What I wanted to ask, Mike—I know that bomb explosion would make the Northern papers probably, but what about the interview with me? I mean, being a Newark man, do you think the Newark papers would pick it up?”

  “They might,” Shayne said. “The wire services would send it out. Why?”

  “Because if Mrs. Baumholtz sees that, she’s really and truly going to show up. I know I said that before, as a sort of joke, but this time I mean it. It wouldn’t surprise me one bit to see her walk in off the street with blood in her eye, and then you’d better be prepared, Mike, because she’s going to take me and drag me out of here so fast it’ll make my head swim. She’d know I was up to some trickery, and you know the way wives are—she’d think there was a woman in it. For one thing, I said in the paper I’ve been eating here a lot, and Mrs. Baumholtz knows good and well that I don’t like fish.”

  Shayne laughed shortly. “Come on into the office, Walt. I want to see that gun.”

  Baumholtz bolted the rest of the bourbon, and signalled to the bartender for more as Shayne firmly moved him away from the bar and took him into George’s office. A busboy was sweeping up the sawdust. The edges of the hole were raw and splintered.

  “Tomorrow, he comes back and we smooth it all out,” George said. “Maybe we hang a picture over it. Fine view, Mike.”

  From within, the glass was somewhat purplish. Looking through it, Shayne could see the whole length of the bar, the drinkers, the Negro opening clams. The long mirror behind the bar reflected a half dozen tables at the front end of the dining room.

  “Okay,” Shayne said. Turning abruptly, he put out his hand to Baumholtz. “Now give me that gun of yours for a minute, Walt.”

  “Oh, Mike,” Baumholtz said reproachfully, backing away. “Don’t be like that. I’ve been careful with it, haven’t I?”

  “I just want to see it. I’ll give it back.”

  “Well, you’d better. The only reason I came here was because I had it. If I didn’t have something to shoot back with, I’d go crackers. If you take it away from me, I’m walking out of here right this minute, and I’m not coming back, either.”r />
  George gasped as Baumholtz produced the heavy automatic. It was a Colt, Shayne saw, with the raised letters U.S. on the pistol-grip.

  George said, “You promised no shooting, Mike. And here you bring out this—this cannon!”

  “See if Mr. Baumholtz’s drink is ready,” Shayne said. He looked at the automatic, and gave an exclamation of annoyance. “On safety, hell,” he said. “Look at that.” He moved the lever into its proper position, locking the hammer.

  “It must have got switched over in my pocket,” Baumholtz said.

  “I suppose you’re carrying a round in the chamber, too?”

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  Shayne pressed the spring-release that ejected the magazine. He tossed it onto the desk top and planted his hip beside it. Holding the automatic flat in his hand, he released the safety, drew back the slide, and a round of ammunition flew out of the chamber. It rolled underneath the desk.

  Baumholtz regarded him in astonishment. “I thought the bullets were down there in the handle.”

  “I’ll give you a lesson,” Shayne said. “Lesson number one—keep it in your pocket and forget all about it. Lesson number two—if you think you may have to use it, work this slide”—he pulled it back and let it go with a snick—“and that forces the uppermost round into the chamber and cocks the gun. It’s now ready to fire, but whatever you do, keep the lever on safe.”

  George returned with Baumholtz’s large bourbon. As Baumholtz took it, he looked away for an instant, and Shayne took the clip of dummy rounds out of his pocket. It was a simple gesture, hidden from Baumholtz. He rammed the clip home, shifting position so he felt the original magazine beneath his hip.

  “I’ll hold your drink,” Shayne said, giving him back the gun. “You’ll need both hands. Check to begin with. Is the safety on?”

  Baumholtz hunted for the lever. He nodded seriously when he found it.

  “Now pull back the slide,” Shayne said.

  Gingerly, Baumholtz pulled the slide into position and let it go.

  “Now it’s loaded,” Shayne said. “There’s a live round under the hammer. If you see the guy, put your hand in your pocket and take it off safety, but not till then. I’ll say this once more, I hope for the last time. Don’t try to shoot anybody. Even an expert marksman doesn’t do any shooting in a crowded room. Forty-fives aren’t that accurate.”

  “I just want it for insurance,” Baumholtz said, considerably chastened.

  He stuck it inside his waistband, buttoning all three buttons of his white jacket. The jacket was loose enough so no bulge showed, but apparently the gun cut into Baumholtz’s stomach, for after a moment he put it back in the side pocket, patting it through the cloth. He smiled at Shayne.

  “I wonder if anybody could loan me a razor? I haven’t gone a day without shaving in I don’t know when. My wife makes it a kind of fetish.”

  George told him he had shaving equipment in the employees’ locker room.

  “Go on and shave, Walt,” Shayne said, “and then we’ll set it up. I want you at this end of the bar, so you can see everybody as they come in. Don’t eat too many salted peanuts. Maybe George can get you a sandwich or something. I’ll be looking through the mirror. If you see him, come over to the mirror and straighten your tie. George, the boys probably have a pretty good idea what’s going on, don’t they?”

  “They’ve been talking about it.”

  “We’ll need some help. If anybody asks for Walter Baumholtz, pass it on to me in a hurry. That information is worth two hundred bucks. If the guy tries to run, pass the word that here’s five hundred more for anybody who grabs him.”

  “Five hundred?” George said happily. “I grab him myself. Then you come in a hurry, Mike, and take him away before I kill him.”

  “Okay,” Shayne said, grinning at the little man’s fierceness.

  “Okay!” George said.

  He and Baumholtz went out. Shayne got up from the desk, putting the .45 clip in his pocket. Looking through the one-way mirror he saw Baumholtz and the manager pass out of sight. It was almost six, and the bar was lined with customers. The first diners began drifting into the dining room.

  Ten minutes later Baumholtz was back, clean-shaven and looking much less seedy. He found a place around the turn of the bar, glancing self-consciously at the mirror on the wall. He was fairly tall when he held himself erect, and from where he stood he could command a view of the entire bar and the front entrance. From time to time he dropped his hand into his coat pocket, and Shayne knew that the damn fool was playing with the safety, snicking it on and off. The drinks kept coming.

  Inside the office, Shayne occasionally leaned against the wall, but he never took his eyes off the mirror. There was nothing to do now but wait.

  18

  A waiter brought Baumholtz something to eat. Shortly afterward, George approached, a worried expression on his face. Shayne met him at the door, sure that the break had come at last. But George shook his head. He took a flat pint of cognac from one pocket, a sandwich wrapped in wax paper from the other.

  “A pleasant surprise,” Shayne said. “What have you got in the other pockets?”

  “Eat, drink,” George said. “Time goes by. Perhaps he avoids the trap, eh, Mike? But I must get back before somebody else gets that thousand dollars.”

  “Seven hundred,” Shayne said.

  “But surely you said five hundred to grab, five hundred to report?”

  “Five and two. What do you want with money, anyway?”

  George made a flowing gesture with both hands to indicate a female figure, raised his eyebrows twice in the manner of Groucho Marx, and hastened out.

  The cognac was Hennesy’s Five-Star, the sandwich was ham on rye. Without leaving his observation place, Shayne uncapped the cognac and took a long drink, then wolfed down the sandwich, wishing he had six more exactly like it. He was becoming more and more concerned about Baumholtz. The strain on the furniture salesman had begun to tell. His face was beet-red. His hairpiece had slipped, just enough to give him a frantic and drunken appearance. He kept up a steady flow of conversation and argument with anyone within earshot, his eyes darting about continually.

  As the time passed, Shayne began to suspect that his plan had failed. The dining room was still crowded, but there was no longer anyone in the foyer waiting for tables. There were several unoccupied stools at the bar. It was nearly nine. Surely the killer would have shown up by now.

  Shayne put the cognac bottle in his pocket and reluctantly went to the phone on George’s desk. There was nothing to do now but call Painter and tell the chief of detectives he was coming in. Shayne grimaced, as though he had bitten into something sour. This would be a painful phone call, and there would be a painful interval to follow.

  He dialed the number of police headquarters, and asked for Peter Painter.

  “He’s not in his office right now,” the desk man said. “He went out about ten minutes ago. Who’s calling?”

  Something made Shayne look up. He saw Baumholtz, his red face framed in the little window. He was straightening his tie in the mirror, winking repeatedly as though he suffered from a tic.

  “I’ll try again later,” Shayne said hurriedly, and hung up.

  Baumholtz frowned urgently, his face continuing to work. He shook his head slightly several times, and left the mirror. Instead of going back to the bar, he started down the steep flight of stairs that led to the restrooms.

  The redhead went out, leaving the office door open so he would be screened until he reached the stairs. Baumholtz was waiting for him halfway down.

  “Did you see him?” Shayne demanded.

  “Damn right,” Baumholtz answered, his voice thick and slurred. “Not the right one, the point is.”

  “What do you mean, not the right one?”

  “Not the mechanic. Absolutely. Take my Bible oath. The driver.”

  A man came out of the men’s room below. They stood aside to let him pass.
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br />   “Didn’t notice him at the time,” Baumholtz said, “but I guess I saw him out of the corner of my eye. Came back to me the minute I saw him. Son of a bitch stayed in the car while the other son of a bitch got out. Yes, sir. He’s out at one of the tables, all by himself. What do you think of that?”

  “You’re sure he was the one?”

  “Take my oath on it. His face was swimming around, sort of, but I got hold of it, don’t worry.”

  “Sort of fat, middle-aged?” Shayne said skeptically.

  “No, no! Weren’t you listening to me? If you don’t want to listen, to hell with you.”

  “What’s he look like, then?”

  “He’s one of those juvenile delinquents, only older. Pale, long blond hair. Let’s go. We’ll make him say who the other one is. He’ll tell all right, once we start beating him up. I know the type, no guts.”

  “Wait!” Shayne snapped. “The cops already have a line on this one. He’s just a hired hand.”

  “Just!”

  Shayne rode him down. “If we pick him up now, the man who hired him will just take on somebody else, and we won’t be any better off. Let me think a minute. Look, Walt, do this. We’ll fake him out of position, and then I’ll tail him. You’re the one he’s looking for. Go up, turn right at the top of the stairs and go on out through the kitchens. I’ll be right behind you. As soon as he realizes you’re gone he’ll leave too, and I’ll see where he goes. What table’s he at?”

  “First or second. He’s alone, and that blond hair sticks out a mile. You can’t miss him. But what if he gets away, Mike?”

  There was a sound at the top of the stairs, and Shayne looked up. Peter Painter was standing on the top landing, looking down with an unpleasant smile. “Mr. Michael Shayne,” he said, “as I live and breathe. This time you really weren’t so goddam smart.”

  Shayne didn’t need to look below him. He was in a blind alley, and he knew there was no way out. The stairs ended in a little hall containing a cigarette machine and a phone booth, with the doors to the men’s and ladies’ rooms. The windows inside gave only on an airshaft.