Shoot the Works

by Brett Halliday

  She said, “Don’t you worry, Mike. I like it best that way, too.” She leaned over him, putting her forehead against his, and her gown hung open so he could look down the length of her torso between her breasts. She stayed like that a long moment and said in a deep, unhurried voice, “God, I feel good, Mike.”

  He said honestly, “I do, too,” and twisted his head farther back so her face pressed against his and her mouth met his lips. Her lips and her tongue were hot and wet and pulsing with desire. She pulled away from him after a time and stood in front of him looking down at his upturned face with naked passion making her as beautiful as Bob Pearce had described her. She said in a thick voice, “I’ll make it a lot weaker this time. Don’t you worry, Mike. We’re really going to have ourselves a ball.”

  She went back into the kitchen and Shayne drank half his Bloody Mary and wondered, irrationally, why he didn’t seize the opportunity to get out of the apartment fast. He was still working on a case, and this interview seemed definitely stalemated. It was inconceivable that this woman was even aware that Jim Wallace was dead. Yet there remained the possibility that she had been the person for whom Wallace had bought the extra plane ticket and that someone who knew of the broker’s plan to steal the money and fly to South America with her was Wallace’s murderer.

  So he told himself that he would not be doing his full duty if he left before making every effort to extract whatever information she possessed. He didn’t know how much of this decision was a rationalization of his wish to stay with her and finish his drink, and he didn’t really care.

  She came out of the kitchen carrying her glass half-full of ice cubes and a clear liquid and held it up for him to see. “Just like I promised, Mike. No tomato juice at all this time. That stuff makes you drunk.”

  Shayne shook his head and said, “If that’s straight gin, lay off it until we talk a little bit.”

  “Talk about what, Mike?”. She lowered herself carefully onto the sofa and set the glass down on the table.

  “Jim Wallace,” said Shayne. “The stock broker you’ve been playing games with while his wife was away.”

  “Stockbroker, huh?” Her voice was becoming increasingly furry and a glaze was creeping over her eyes. “Didn’ know he had a wife. Didn’ act like it.” She closed her fingers very carefully around her glass and lifted it to her lips.

  Shayne sighed as he watched her drink from it. He was getting into a rut, the way his women were passing out on him these days. First Kitty last night, and now this one. And he hadn’t even learned her name yet.

  He said urgently, “I told you my name, but you never did tell me yours.”

  She set the glass down and leaned back to stretch her body indolently, watching him out of the side of her eyes. “You’re a funny one, all right. You sure are, Mike. Soon’s I saw you, peaking in the keyhole, I said to myself, ‘Now here comes a real ball. Here’s a redheaded hunk of man a girl can get drunk with and like it.’ But you’re not gettin’ drunk. You keep talkin’ and talkin’ and don’t do anything.”

  She closed her eyes and let her head loll back and belched happily.

  Shayne didn’t hear the key in the lock. He wasn’t conscious of any sound that caused him to turn his head and see the man standing in the doorway. He was tall and young and slightly built, and he wore a snap-brim hat pulled low over smouldering eyes and he carried a battered Gladstone bag in his right hand.

  He set the bag on the floor and closed the door behind him with one heel, while his hot gaze fastened itself on Shayne’s face. His thin, bloodless lips moved as though they tasted something good, and bubbles of spittle came out between them.

  He said, “Hi-yuh, tramp,” and his voice was thin and high, trembling with youthful bravado and inner anguish. He stood where he was, leaning forward from the waist, both hands on his hips.

  Shayne got to his feet slowly and heard a low gasp from the girl on the sofa behind him. He said soothingly, “Take it easy, guy. Don’t get any wrong ideas.”

  “Sure, I’ll take it easy. Why should I get any wrong ideas? Maybe we could pour me a drink and make it a nice cozy threesome, huh?”

  Behind Shayne, he heard the girl moan, “Gene, honey. I don’t even know this square. He just barged in, see? Woke me up outa bed and pushed right on in. I swear to God, Gene. You gotta believe me.”

  “Sure, I believe you.” The young man straightened and slid one hand into the side-pocket of pleated slacks. It came out with a six-inch switch-blade which snapped open in his hand. His voice came out cold, and it had ceased to tremble. “So maybe I better cut him up a little so he won’t make the same mistake and get in the wrong apartment another time.” He spread his legs a little and his sharp chin jutted forward. His eyes were as hotly venomous as a snake’s.

  Shayne said, “You can get yourself in bad trouble with a thing like that in your hand. Put it away and let me explain.…”

  “Trouble, Mister? Me get in trouble? Unh-uh. You’re the one that’s in trouble. Real bad trouble.” Light glittered on the long blade of the knife as it weaved back and forth in front of him in an intricate pattern.

  The girl was sobbing softly behind Shayne. He heard her slithering across the room toward the kitchen, but Gene’s gaze did not so much as flicker in her direction.

  Shayne said, “I’m a detective.” He made his voice hard and measured to try and force the meaning of his words past the hysteria and into the mind of the knifewielder. “A man was murdered last night and I came here.…”

  “So, you’re the Law?” snarled Gene. He lowered his body into more of a crouch and began to take short, mincing steps forward, holding the knife well in front of him, edge upward and slanting toward the floor in the best cutting style.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Shayne saw the girl reappear in the kitchen doorway. Her eyes were wild and her features distorted with fear and he had the swift impression she was about to fling herself on the other man.

  He called out sharply, “Not Don’t try.…”

  Gene swung about at his words, and Shayne leaped forward to cover the distance between them, and Gene’s left hand flailed out in a vicious back-hand swipe across the girl’s face at the same instant that Shayne’s fist reached his jaw.

  They both went to the floor together and they both lay there quietly. Shayne halted his rush and looked down at them somberly. She shuddered and moaned a little, and looked up at him with lustreless eyes. He leaned down and took the knife from Gene’s lax hand, and straightened up, snapping it shut and dropping it into his pocket. Then he knelt and felt his pulse, found it full and strong and even.

  The girl had straightened to a sitting position when he rocked back on his heels and said drily, “He’ll come around all right. Want me to call a doctor?”

  She was abruptly sober. She said, “No, goddamn you. Get out, that’s all. Haven’t you caused enough trouble?”

  Shayne said, “I guess I have at that.”

  Gene’s body began to twitch slightly as Shayne stood up again. The girl crawled across the floor to him and lifted his head and cradled it in her lap, leaning forward so that her black hair obscured her face, and crooned over him.

  Shayne left them like that. It was good to get out into the sunlight and the sanity of Flagler Street again.

  CHAPTER NINE

  There was a police car parked up the street from the apartment house on Fortieth when Shayne stopped in front. He strode into the foyer and found the button above “James Wallace” and pressed it. There was a speaking tube near the inner door with a receiver on a hook, and Shayne took it down and put it to his ear. In a moment a gruff voice said: “Who is it?”

  “Mike Shayne. I’d like a look around.”

  “I dunno,” the voice said doubtfully. “Mike Shayne, huh?”

  “Who’s speaking?”

  “Ed Donovan up here.”

  “Didn’t Chief Gentry tell you I’m working on the case?” asked Shayne impatiently.

  “I heard
you were, but he didn’t tell me to let you in.”

  “Then call in and ask him. Try the brokerage firm of Martin, Wallace and Tompkins, if he isn’t at headquarters. I left him there a short time ago.”

  There was a short pause and Shayne knew that Donovan was weighing the redhead’s known friendship with Chief Gentry against the fact that he hadn’t been issued direct orders to admit him. But the body had been removed and the Homicide Squad had been over the place with a finetooth comb and there was no real reason for refusing the private detective admittance, and Donovan said grudgingly, “I guess it’s all right.” The release buzzer sounded and Shayne opened the inner door and went up to the fourth floor.

  The door of the Wallace apartment stood open and the bulky figure of the city detective was standing half out of it when Shayne got out of the elevator. They knew each other slightly, and there was a look of good-natured curiosity on Donovan’s broad face as he asked, “What you want in for, Mr. Shayne?”

  Shayne said truthfully, “I don’t know. More a hunch than anything else. I was here last night after Will’s boys finished and I don’t suppose they missed anything, but it won’t hurt to look again.”

  “I guess not.” Donovan stepped inside and Shayne followed him. A highball glass stood on a table in the entrance hall, and Donovan picked it up with a deprecatory cluck. “It’s a dry job sitting here to answer the phone if it rings … which it hasn’t. It’s a cinch Wallace won’t miss a little of that good scotch in the kitchen, but I just as soon you didn’t tell the chief.”

  Shayne said, “I won’t, Ed. I may join you after I look around. Keep an eye on me, huh, so you can swear I didn’t plant anything or take anything away?”

  Donovan said good-naturedly, “I’ll do that for sure.” He took a sip of his drink while Shayne opened the door of a hall closet and looked in.

  A woman’s woolen coat and a topcoat, and two raincoats hung neatly on hangers, and there were rubbers on the floor and two umbrellas, and both male and female headgear on the upper shelf. Shayne moved the hats on the shelf and looked behind the coats on the floor to make certain there was no attaché case there, then lifted down the topcoat and searched the pockets while Donovan watched him idly.

  The pockets were empty and Shayne replaced the coat on its hanger, passed Donovan into the living room and looked around with a frown.

  It was just as it had been the preceding midnight and he didn’t see any hiding places that might have been overlooked. He started for the bedroom and Donovan said behind him, “Those two partners of Wallace’s were here earlier and they poked around a little. But when I told them they’d have to get an okay from the chief, they said to skip it and left without bothering much. Wouldn’t tell me what they were looking for.”

  Shayne nodded and said over his shoulder, “I suppose they went through the bedroom?”

  “Started opening drawers and such until I told them they’d have to get permission. One of them, the slim one, acted like he was going to offer me a pay-off, but I guess he got cold feet when he saw the way I looked when he reached for his wallet.” Donovan’s voice was thick with self-praise. “I didn’t say a word, mind you. I thought to myself, just let him try and see how fast I run him in for attempting to bribe an officer.”

  Shayne muttered, “Very laudable.” He stood in the bedroom doorway and studied the room. There were chalk marks on the floor showing where the corpse had lain. The suitcase still lay empty on one bed, the piles of clothing on the other. The wallet was gone, of course.

  He thought about the wallet for a moment, tugging at the lobe of his left ear. It would be at headquarters with an inventory of its contents. If Wallace had checked the loot before returning to pack his bag, the check or locker key would most likely be in the wallet, and Gentry would already have investigated anything like that. But he made a mental note that it was something to check with Will.

  There were two bedroom closets, well-filled with dresses and with the broker’s suits, and Shayne looked cursorily in both for the attaché case while Donovan stood negligently in the doorway and’ watched him, sipping from his highball glass.

  From the closets he moved to a chest of drawers with a man’s toilet articles on top, and began opening the drawers and making a superficial search through the contents, though he wasn’t exactly sure why he did so. Except that the two surviving partners had been so insistent that he promised to make a thorough search and he felt he had to go through the motions to earn the fat retainer he planned to charge them.

  He found the small, folded note in the third drawer from the top, under a pile of neatly folded sport shirts. He had his back to Donovan, and his big fingers closed over it and cupped it in his palm, and he continued to look through the drawer, without pausing or giving the detective any indication of his discovery. When he closed the drawer he casually dropped his hand to his side and slid the folded paper into his pocket, then opened the next drawer and continued to go through the motions.

  When he finished with the bottom drawer, he straightened up and told Donovan sourly, “I know this is nuts, but it’s a job. Will’s boys don’t miss anything on a job like this.”

  Donovan said, “That’s what I told Wallace’s partners when they were fooling around that bureau this morning. I always did wonder why people put out good money to a private dick for a job the cops do better for free. I guess it’s just human nature, huh? To think something you get free isn’t as good as what you pay out dough for. Damned good dough, too, from what I hear about the fees you charge, Mr. Shayne. I wouldn’t mind being in your racket myself.”

  Shayne said, “It’s a living, Ed, but there’s times I wouldn’t mind having a steady salary coming in.” He looked around the bedroom with a shrug. “Let’s try the kitchen?”

  Donovan brightened as he looked down at his empty glass. “Why not? There’s some imported cognac along with the scotch.”

  He led the way out and down a short hallway to a small but pleasant kitchen with sunlight streaming in through ruffled red and yellow curtains. It was neat and clean with nothing disarranged or out of place, and he squatted down in front of the sink to open a drawer and gesture inside. “I’m surprised there’s anything left after last night, but I guess the chief hung around until most of the boys left.” He chuckled and lifted out a squat bottle of scotch and hesitated. “Cognac for you? Or is that just newspaper talk that you’re always swilling it?”

  Shayne said, “I’ll have a small one just to keep you company.” He stood quietly while Donovan got ice cubes from the refrigerator and a clean glass. He poured brandy over two ice cubes while Donovan sweetened his drink with three fingers of liqueur scotch and added a dollop of tap water, and then they drank companionably.

  Shayne rinsed out his glass, dried and replaced it and said, “Much as I hate to leave good company, Ed, I don’t believe there’s anything here for me.”

  He started out briskly, paused and stepped aside as the telephone rang in the living room. “You’d better take that.”

  Donovan lumbered past him to the telephone and lifted it. Shayne stood behind him and listened, fingering the folded sheet of paper in his pocket.

  The detective said, “Yes? Who is this speaking?” and then the change of expression that came over his face was ludicrous. He squared his shoulders and stiffened his body and his features tightened and he said, “Yes, Chief. Donovan here.”

  He listened some thirty seconds, turning his head slowly to look at Shayne while he hastily set down the highball glass he still held in his right hand. He had a stricken look as he said smartly, his voice practically making a snappy salute: “Yes, sir, Chief. I certainly do understand. You can definitely count on me, Chief. And I’ll report it to you immediately if he does show up.”

  He listened a second and shorter period, and said, “Yes, sir. You’ve made it very clear.”

  He hung up the telephone and reached down to pick up his drink. His broad face was mottled and his voice sounded hollow
, as he took a long swallow, and then turned slowly to face the redheaded detective.

  “That was Chief Gentry on the phone,” he announced unnecessarily.

  Shayne said, “I gathered it was.”

  “He said that if you showed up here and tried to get in the apartment that I was to kick you in the teeth, Mr. Shayne. I swear those were his very words. And I always thought you and the chief was like that.” His voice became accusatory as he held up his right hand with the first two fingers tightly crossed.

  Shayne grinned and said lightly, “Will Gentry and I have our differences sometimes. Did he say why he didn’t want me in here?”

  “No, sir, he didn’t. And I didn’t know what to say when he jumped in like that, Mr. Shayne. I don’t know what he would’ve done if I’d told him you were here right now and I’d already let you go through the joint. I’ll be in one hell of a mess if he ever finds out.”

  Shayne said warmly, “He won’t find out from me, Ed. I’ll beat it and you forget I was here. There’s no real harm done.”

  “That’s real swell of you, Mr. Shayne,” said Donovan eagerly. “I sure won’t forget it. Like you say, there’s no real harm done and what’s the use of both of us getting in Dutch, if we don’t have to?”

  Shayne said, “I’ll get away from here before anyone sees me. Watch the scotch and don’t let it creep up on you.”

  He hurried out the door and down in the elevator. He got in his car and pulled away from the curb, drove several blocks before he parked again and took the folded sheet of paper from his pocket.

  It was a heavy, square sheet of plain, white notepaper, with no address or date at the top. The message was written in green ink in flowing feminine handwriting:

  Darling:

  I can’t stand this silence. Don’t get the idea you can walk out on me without even a word of explanation. I’ll expect you tonight at the regular time … or else.