Kill All the Young Girls

by Brett Halliday

  Turkey grabbed Shayne’s leg. Shayne twisted free and jumped. The headlights blinked off. The man on the other side of the MG may have fired again; but if so, Shayne didn’t hear it.

  He sliced into the next row three cars down, passed through, and came back. Both couples he had talked to were out of their cars. The boy who had performed the useful trick with the headlights held out a tire tool. Shayne took it.

  “Who are those guys?” the boy said.

  “Pros.”

  Shayne dodged away and waited, crouching, between cars. Near him, he heard a girl’s muffled moan. The man with the gun came into view. He was tall and thin and must have been cruelly contorted in the back seat of the MG. He was holding the Luger along his leg.

  When he was two strides away, Shayne came out of concealment, close to the ground. The tire tool was already moving. It hit the tall man below the knee and cut him down. He fired at Shayne as he rolled. The shot went low and into somebody’s fender.

  Turkey stayed out of it; but the man Shayne had attacked first appeared beyond the MG, wavering. He, too, had a gun. Shayne threw the tool. It hit the asphalt and skittered away.

  He reached the protection of the next line of cars. Lights were coming on behind him. Two cars starting out of their spaces at the same time collided with a rending of metal. A thought flashed into Shayne’s mind, cutting into the fuzziness that had been hanging there since Turkey hit him with the knuckles. All these cars had keys in the ignition. He looked for one with an empty front seat.

  Sidestepping, he wrenched open a door. The couple in back pulled apart. Shayne was twisting to enter the car when a bullet from one of the guns caught him in the meaty part of his shoulder and spun him around.

  He dropped but was up again at once, trying to lose himself among the parked cars. This part of the lot was untouched by the spreading excitement. He dived beneath a car, wriggled on to the next, and lay still. Quick footsteps passed. People were dying on the screen. He heard the simulated smack of bullets into flesh.

  The car he was lying beneath eased slightly from side to side. Five minutes passed. He pressed his hand hard against his shoulder and followed the proceedings in the car overhead. He thought in the end that both participants had made it.

  The picture was still far from over. Nevertheless, after too brief an interval, the driver of Shayne’s car separated himself from his girl and climbed into the front seat. Shayne rolled free as the motor started.

  The pain was suddenly much worse, and he felt a rush of blood down his arm. He started toward his Buick; but after a few steps, he veered and went down. After a moment, he managed to bring his knees up under him and crawl into the weeds on the far side of the big screen.

  Chapter 9

  The picture ended.

  Headlights came on, and the cars lined up for the slow creep to the exits. Shayne smelled grass and dirt, and the side of his face ached. He raised his head.

  He forced himself to his feet and caught one of the uprights supporting the screen. Blood was running down the back of his hand. Headlights swept over him as the cars came around. When he released the wooden support, the ground tilted and sent him staggering into the moving line of cars. A horn blatted at him.

  “Too many martinis?” somebody called.

  The yellow MG was gone. His Buick sat all by itself in a clearing, and he slanted toward it. He had the trunk rigged so he could open it with a hidden spring. He reached in and brought out a loaded .38, which he stuck in his belt.

  He waited, supporting himself on the fender, until enough other cars had left so he could be sure that the men in the MG hadn’t waited for him to reappear. The pavement had emptied around the black Cadillac from the Pussycat Club. Shayne made it without having to lean on anything or without falling down again. The overhead light flashed as he opened the door.

  Mandy’s face was hidden in a tangle of hair. She was off the seat, one knee up and the other foot caught by the brake pedal. He moved her carefully.

  His face tightened, and the broken skin on his cheek throbbed a warning. Her glasses were caught in her hair. One lens was broken. The eye that had been behind it no longer looked much like an eye. Her skin was the color of death.

  Her purse was wedged beneath her. He forced her legs apart so he could get it. Then something tapped him on the shoulder, and he jumped aside.

  “Show’s over,” a voice said. “Everybody’s going home.”

  It was the slow-moving old man who had sold him his ticket. Seeing the look on Shayne’s face, he backed away, one hand raised.

  “But take your time, take your time. All the time in the world. I’m knocking off for the night, is all. Most people appreciate it, being told.”

  Shayne moved and let the old man look into the lighted front seat. He made a sound as though he had been hit in the stomach.

  “We were mugged,” Shayne said, holding up his bloody hand. “Stay here. I’ll notify the cops.”

  He let the door swing shut and walked away. Back in his own car, he took a flask filled with cognac out of the glove compartment and drank deeply. He opened a bandage and stuffed it into his shirt, holding it in place by leaning forward against the seat belt.

  The exits were no longer blocked by departing cars. He turned west on Seventy-ninth Street, north on the expressway, and then left it at the next exit. At the North Shore Hospital, he swung into the emergency dock. He had been all right while he was driving; but as he left the car, there was a sudden blaze around him; and he went headlong, falling painfully on the gun.

  Then he found himself in the emergency room being worked on by a Cuban resident. Shayne was known here; he had visited them before.

  “Remember the last time, eh?” the Cuban said. “That broke the monotony. But this one—nice and clean. Does that hurt there?”

  “It’s okay.”

  “I’m glad it’s okay for you. For me, it would hurt. I would say to myself, enough. Enough for one day. I would have a few drinks. I would listen to a Mozart concerto and try to forget that a cheap gun can be bought on a street corner for less than a bag of heroin.”

  “How do you know it was a cheap gun?”

  “There are too many guns of all types in this town. Now you’ll have one more small scar on your body. For a few weeks, you’ll feel it each time you lift that arm. But do you know that a few small inches this way or that, into the head or the chest, and you’d be dead, Mr. Shayne?”

  “Hurry it up, doctor. I’ve got a lot to do.”

  “I’m sure.”

  When the bandage was placed, a nurse brought a clean shirt that was only a size too small. She buttoned it for him. They watched him come off the table. The room clouded briefly; the outlines of the doctor’s sardonic face blurred and dissolved; but he found he could stand.

  “Do you want a wheelchair to your car?” the doctor said.

  “I’d better get used to walking by myself.”

  “By the way, Mr. Shayne…”

  He held out Shayne’s .38. Shayne took it.

  “But I still say there are too many of these things floating around.”

  “Hell, I agree with you.”

  Shayne signed a paper, thanked them, and walked out slowly. He rested after reaching his car, bothered by the feeling that there was something important he was neglecting. Remembering, he emptied Mandy Pitt’s purse on the seat beside him. Out of the loose litter, he picked a St. Albans room key. There was no number on the tag, but Shayne had little doubt that it would unlock the room in which Kate Thackera had been killed.

  He locked the key and the Brannon gatefold into the strongbox welded to the floor beneath the seat. He hesitated, his hand on the phone switch. More bits had fallen into place; but before he gave any of this to the police, there were several more important things he needed to know.

  He returned to the expressway and headed south into the city.

  All the windows and vents were open. He drove carefully at first; but by the time he ca
me off the causeway onto Pelican Island, the cognac had taken hold; and he thought he was nearly back to normal. That didn’t mean he felt up to forcing his way in; and when the guard at the entrance to Oscar’s private quarters took a half step forward and gave him a hard look, Shayne stopped with a sigh.

  “You recognize me. I was here with Mandy Pitt.”

  “The party’s closing down. I’m not letting anybody else in.”

  “Make an exception in my case.”

  The guard gave him a disagreeable smile. “I was specially told not to make any exceptions in the case of Mike Shayne. We don’t like your type of troublemaker.”

  Shayne’s acquaintance, the plumbing supply salesman, was watching from a distance. Shayne called him.

  “I’ve been hanging around on the off-chance,” the salesman said. “Are we going back in?”

  “I hope so. Give me a hand here. I only have the use of one arm. They told him not to let us in; and that’s ridiculous, isn’t it? I know for a fact that the parties go on and on.”

  The guard was in his early twenties, with an unruly shock of blonde hair and a complexion problem. Having decided he could handle Shayne, he had resumed chewing gum. He wore a whistle on a cord around his neck, a light blue uniform, and a broad leather belt, into which his thumbs were hooked. Now he moved back a step, and his fingers went to his whistle.

  Shayne caught the cord and yanked, pulling the guard forward into the salesman’s arms, who danced backward with him. The two men held each other to keep from falling. Shayne rapped the guard twice with his pistol: first in the kidneys, and then alongside the face.

  “I didn’t bargain for…” the salesman cried.

  “It’s all right; it goes with his job.”

  He told the salesman what to do, and they walked the semi-conscious man backward and tumbled him into a parked car. There they tore his shirt in strips and tied and gagged him. After that, the salesman decided it was time to say goodnight, really goodnight.

  “My company doesn’t promote people with police records. Say hello to the chicks for me. And now there’s the problem of getting a taxi.”

  He started for the public entrance; and by the time he reached it, he was running.

  Inside, Shayne made his way through the party without being ambushed again and entered the inner rooms, locking doors behind him as he went. He passed one of the girls, who let him get by before calling, “If you’re looking for Oscar…”

  Shayne stopped. “What’s your name?”

  “Sandra,” she said with a smile. “If you’ll tell me what you want, I’ll do my best to try and help you.”

  “Mandy Pitt’s been murdered. We can’t wait till tomorrow to tell Oscar.”

  She took the news calmly. “When he really falls asleep, you couldn’t wake him up with dynamite.

  “Let’s try.”

  She came with him. “Don’t walk so fast. Weren’t you here to see him before?”

  “Yeah. Michael Shayne.”

  “I thought you looked familiar. What did you say happened to Mandy?”

  “She was murdered.”

  She shook her lovely head. “It’s getting so it isn’t safe to go out on the streets any more.”

  They met another uniformed guard at the turn of the corridor. He, too, had been told about Shayne; and his mouth opened. Shayne pulled his pistol in a quick motion and jammed it into the guard’s stomach.

  “I don’t want to shoot him, Sandra.”

  “No, don’t. He’s sort of a boyfriend of mine. Let’s see; where can we put him?”

  She found a bedroom with a key, moved the key to the outside of the lock; and they put the guard inside.

  “I would have said Mandy was the last person. She always gave us the feeling that she knew what she was doing. Did you know she had two years of college?”

  They continued to Oscar’s bedroom. When Sandra touched a switch, all the dramatic spotlights came on at once. Oscar, in pajama bottoms, lay spread-eagle across the huge bed, as though he had been dropped from a height.

  “I think it’s too late,” the girl said.

  “He uses some kind of inhaler. See if you can find it.”

  Shayne gripped the rough thatch of graying hair on Oscar’s chest and pulled him erect by it. His head flopped like a doll’s. Shayne shook him a few times and let him fall back.

  He took a wastebasket to the bathroom and filled it with cold water which he emptied over Oscar’s head. Oscar slept through it all.

  Sandra returned with the inhaler and the hood. Shayne worked the hood over the sleeping man’s head and filled it with vapor. Oscar looked obscurely troubled and began waving one hand, as though conducting an orchestra which only he could hear.

  “Sometimes if you hurt him,” Sandra said.

  Shayne went on working the inhaler. She slid her hand inside the front of Oscar’s pajamas and dug in with her sharpened fingernails.

  Oscar said clearly, “Keko, I told you not to.”

  “Waking you up, sweetheart,” Sandra said. “There’s a man here.”

  Shayne touched her wrist. “Hold it. Oscar, wake up. Keko’s dead. Hurry.”

  Oscar came out all at once, in one bound. He went backward so fast, banging his head against the padded headboard, that the girl’s hand was caught in his pajamas. She extricated it.

  “Playing with you a little, honey, okay?” she said.

  He looked up at the figures above him. “Shayne? How did you get in?”

  “I used a gun. Mandy’s dead.”

  “Is she really dead?” Sandra said. “I can’t take it in. I saw her only a half hour ago.”

  “Bring me a bottle of cognac and a glass, baby,” Shayne told her. “This is thirsty work.”

  “Certainly. Do you want anything, Oscar? Coffee?”

  “No.”

  When she reached the door, he called, “Yes, coffee.” He swung his legs out of bed. “Twice. I was fairly nice about it the first time. But twice in one night…”

  Shayne grasped the mat of chest hair again and stood the shorter man on his feet.

  “I’m doing you a hell of a favor. She didn’t die a natural death. She was beaten up in a drive-in theatre. Think back. She was called out to take a phone call. A couple of minutes later, she went off in one of your Cadillacs in too much of a rush to worry about being followed. She was followed by three guys in an MG. I know one of them. His name is Turkey Gallagher, and he stands out in a crowd; he’ll be easy to find. The Cadillac has the Pussycat trademark on it. That means the cops will be showing up shortly.”

  He released Olson with a push that sent him sprawling. “Are you listening to me?”

  Oscar sucked air and came up on his elbows. “Not willingly.”

  “When I tried to go after her, you made a big thing about getting in my way. Didn’t you even try to hit me with something? You don’t usually do anything that stupid. You knew she was selling you out. She was supposed to be meeting somebody, but the picture was almost over, and your guys were too nervous to wait. It was quick and efficient and over before I could do anything about it. But Gallagher was a bad choice for this job. He was wearing a set of knuckles, and he doesn’t have that little cut-off switch in the brain that tells people when it’s time to stop.”

  “You actually think these men were working for me?”

  “I actually do.”

  Oscar wagged his head helplessly. “I went through a series of moves to slow down for the night. Now I have to claw my way back; and believe me, it’s inch by inch. What’s your theory? What do you think happened?”

  “Mandy Pitt,” Shayne said patiently. “Her nose was smashed, and there’s a gross fracture of the frontal bone over one eye. There are bone fragments showing. The eye is gone. She was brutally beaten and killed. Is any of this getting through?”

  “I hear the words.”

  Sandra came in with a bottle of cognac tucked under one elbow and other things on a tray.

  “It’s instan
t, Oscar; do you mind?”

  “Leave it; leave it!”

  She put down the tray. “Cream. Sugar. Spoon. I don’t think I forgot anything. Oscar, you may not want to think about this now, but about Mandy’s job? I mean, I’d like to be the first to put in for it.” The look on her employer’s face told her that this wasn’t the time. “But if you’ll bear it in mind? I used to be pretty good at typing—seventy words a minute.”

  Oscar forced himself to take a mouthful of coffee. Shayne could see some of his daytime shrewdness and toughness beginning to come back.

  “Are you sure about the brass knuckles?”

  “Gallagher’s in his late forties. He’s out of shape. And it’s hard to do much damage in the front seat of a car. With knuckles, a tap is enough. He put a little too much on it. That’s happened before with this guy, and I’m wondering if you knew it would happen this time.”

  “Too subtle, man… All right, we’ll talk. A good place to talk would be the pool. I want to be sure you aren’t carrying a transmitter. I’ll be sure when I see you naked.”

  He juggled the empty mug for a moment, then threw it across the room. He looked sick, and he almost lost his balance as he came off the bed, but he controlled it and walked out of the room. Shayne picked up the cognac bottle and followed.

  Chapter 10

  Seeing the bandage on Shayne’s shoulder after he undressed, Oscar said, “What’s that?”

  “Gunshot wound. The mark on my face is where Gallagher hit me. That’s how I know he was wearing knuckles.”

  Oscar examined the bandage. “Not that I’m calling you a liar, but I’ve seen transmitters no bigger than the tip of your little finger…”

  Satisfied, he slipped into the kidney-shaped pool. There was a fountain at the opposite end—a stainless-steel girl with water spouting from each enormous breast. Oscar swam two lengths in a floundering crawl. Shayne, at the edge of the pool with his cognac, watched him come back to the shallows, seriously out of breath. He reached for a hairbrush.

  “If you’re that worried about transmitters,” Shayne said, “it must mean you’re going to tell me something. Go ahead. I’ve got other people to see.”