She was beginning to get through to him. “You’ve made your point,” he said. “Now get on the phone. This isn’t just anybody. It’s a United States senator. Make the goddamn phone call and then you can yell all you like, if it makes you feel any better.”
She said coldly, “What does the United States Senate have to do with the fact that a dried-up stick like Trina Hitchcock doesn’t consider me a suitable playmate for her father?”
“Do you think I give a damn how many women he sleeps with if he isn’t hurting anybody? But Sam Toby didn’t dump you in his lap as a public service. Everybody keeps telling me there’s a billion dollars involved here, and then they go on to say that a billion dollars is a lot of money. Just don’t act too hurt. Make the phone call and get it over with.”
She picked up the phone again and tried to club him with it. He caught her hand. She was breathing hard. As her breasts rose they almost touched him.
“Is that what Trina told you? That it’s the same as eight years ago? I’m doing something for Sam Toby?”
“Come on,” Shayne said roughly, “what difference does it make?”
“It might make a lot of difference. I want to know what kind of story she sold you.”
“Will you get it through your head that we aren’t just guessing? We know that Toby set up the first meeting with Hitchcock. That’s definite, and it goes on from there.”
“It isn’t all that hard to meet people in Washington. We met at a dinner party. I don’t think Sam was even there.”
“But he arranged for Hitchcock to be there, and to be seated next to you. This comes from Mrs. Redpath. Why would she lie about it? The only thing we don’t know is how much you’re being paid.”
Her face darkened. “I see.”
“If he had to pay you anything. With this other thing to hold over you, he might be able to get you for nothing.”
“Just so I’ll know where I stand, what do you think I’ve been hired to do?”
“To frame the guy, for God’s sake! You’d have a few drinks with supper. Then a few more. Then you’d make the famous remark about how it’s been such a wonderful evening you don’t feel like saying goodnight. Then one of you—Hitchcock himself, if the drinks and all those dreamy looks have taken hold—would bring up the subject of a motel.”
“That’s enough!” she said.
“And then tomorrow morning Toby would turn up in his office with the photographs, and naturally nothing would happen to him at the hearings. The thing that makes it perfect is that you don’t look the type. But I have an idea you’d take a good picture.”
“What type do I look, Mr. Shayne?”
She slid open the top drawer of the desk, felt in it as though looking for a pencil, and brought out a little automatic. It was a .25, a lady’s weapon, but in Maggie Smith’s hand it looked efficient and deadly. Her lips had tightened, and Shayne knew she was perfectly capable of pulling the trigger.
She held her right wrist with her left hand to keep the muzzle from wavering. “Don’t move until I tell you to. We’ve had a rash of holdups around here, and my friends made me buy a gun. Now I have to think for a minute.”
“You won’t shoot me,” Shayne said.
“Not even with a billion dollars at stake?”
“You’re being dumb, Mrs. Smith. I know Toby won’t like to be told that his plan has flopped. But he’ll know you tried. If that gun goes off, you’ll be in a real jam. Too many people know I’m here.”
Her green eyes had filmed over. “If I shoot you, I’ll think of something. I’m quite ingenious. But I’d try to shoot you in the shoulder, where I understand it hurts. I’d prefer to knock you unconscious. I have to talk to Emory before you do. Now I want you to keep those big hands away from your body and turn around slowly. You’re a sizable target, Mr. Shayne.”
Shayne eased carefully off the desk. “I’d like to tell you why I think this stinks before you slug me. Any kind of blackmail is bad, but this kind is really lousy.”
She motioned impatiently.
“Sex is a fine institution,” Shayne said, beginning to turn. “I hate like hell to see it being used this way. What did Hitchcock do to deserve it? He’s just trying to do his job. I can tell from looking at you that you wouldn’t be mixed up in this unless somebody was squeezing you. You don’t need money that much. I’ve just had an idea. Tell Hitchcock the whole thing, and let’s put Sam Toby in the can where he belongs. Then you can stop worrying about that old mistake in the Caribbean.”
“Will you shut up?”
She shifted the gun to her left hand and picked up the heavy ash tray. Her tears had finally formed and spilled over. Shayne lunged backward, clamping the little gun between his hip and his elbow. She tried to wrench it free, and he stepped up the pressure. She brought the ashtray down hard on the back of his neck, a bad place to be hit. He twisted away, getting her wrist in one hand and shaking it with a wringing motion. The automatic went spinning across the room and broke the glass protecting one of the autographed pictures.
She brought the ashtray around again in a jangle of bracelets. She would have broken his jaw if she had connected. He released her abruptly. She hit the corner of the desk and the ashtray crashed to the floor. She came back at him, trying to rake his face with her fingernails.
“Oh, you bastard,” she sobbed.
One of her fingernails grazed his cheek. He forced her arms against her sides. The perfume she wore was strong and disturbing. She tried to bring her knee up between them and he tightened his hold, bringing her in against him.
He held her tightly until she began to subside. He was getting her full charge. There were no two ways about it; this was a hell of a lot of woman. Suddenly her defiance left her. She rested her forehead against his shoulder. Shayne’s tight punishing grip had become an embrace.
“Please, Mike,” she said. “You’re hurting me.”
She heard the click of the latch before he did, and sprang back.
“Maggie?” a man’s voice said. “Are you busy?”
CHAPTER 5
9:17 P.M.
IT WAS HITCHCOCK.
He was shorter than he looked in photographs. He was able to look dignified at times, but his face was constantly relaxing into a more natural expression. Shayne recalled that he was constantly running his fingers through his shock of iron-gray hair. He was famous for the sloppiness of his dress. His suits were rarely pressed, and they were usually sprinkled with ashes from the long cigar that was almost always in his mouth.
Tonight, calling on a lady, he was wearing a new gray suit. His shoes were shined, the knot of his necktie was in place, and his hair was brushed. He had a bouquet of roses.
“Maggie, I know I’m early, but I thought you’d be willing to skip Act Three for once. I’ll wait outside.”
“No, don’t do that,” Maggie said, touching her hair. “Senator Hitchcock, this is Mr.—” she hesitated “—Wayne.”
Shayne’s foot touched the little .25. He stepped aside, as though to give Hitchcock room, and kicked the gun under the desk. He was thinking quickly. They had met only once. The light was dim, and there was a chance that Hitchcock might not recognize him. He wasn’t sure if his face was bleeding and he was careful not to touch it to find out. Maggie had more color than usual, and she was breathing too rapidly. More than that, the atmosphere in the room was still electric with emotion. Hitchcock must be aware that something had been going on.
“How do you do,” Hitchcock said without looking at Shayne. He made a clumsy motion with the flowers. “Shall I leave these here or—”
“Emory, they’re lovely,” Maggie said automatically, taking them. “I tried to call you. I’m terribly, terribly sorry, but I’ll have to take a rain check on tonight. I have a ghastly headache. The worst.”
“My dear, I’m sorry,” Hitchcock said, concerned. He sent a sharp glance at Shayne, looking for some connection between this tall, rugged stranger and Maggie’s headache. “It’s Mike
Shayne!” he exclaimed. “I thought you said Wayne.”
“Glad to see you, Senator,” Shayne said gruffly.
Hitchcock put out his hand. He looked pleased for only a moment. His foot crunched on broken glass and his eyes narrowed. He looked at Maggie, then at the broken picture on the wall.
“What brings you to Washington, Mike?”
“It’s a long story,” Shayne said, improvising. “I’ve been trying to pick up some leads on one of our local hoods who’s on the run. I was told that one of the actresses here used to shack up with him, but it turns out to be somebody else with the same last name.”
This was the best he could do on a moment’s notice, and he knew it didn’t sound convincing. Hitchcock seemed to accept it. He nodded and turned back to Maggie.
“Maggie, dear, reconsider. It’s tension that gives you those headaches, and right here in this building is where the tension starts. Come on, hop in the car. We’ll put down the windows and let the wind blow it away. I thought we could go out to that place we liked in Pine Grove. Champagne’s better than aspirin, and champagne and aspirin in combination are irresistible. If you don’t feel like conversation, I’ll keep quiet and just look at you.”
“You make it sound wonderful, Emory.” She closed her eyes again and pinched the bridge of her nose. “But I can’t tonight. I’m going home and collapse.”
“I confess I’m disappointed,” Hitchcock said. “For selfish reasons. I won’t be home a minute before the phone will start ringing—somebody from The New York Times wanting to know about the hearings tomorrow. The subject of Sam Toby is beginning to bore me stiff. Mike!” he said suddenly. “What are doing right now? Come home with me and I’ll give you a drink.”
“I’d like to, Senator, but I’ve got to hit a couple more places before I call it a night.”
“One drink. I have some good cognac. I’d like to hear more about this hoodlum you’re chasing.”
“All right, sir. Five minutes, and then I’ll have to duck out.”
“Don’t call me sir. I get enough of that on the Hill. Maggie, tomorrow night maybe I can talk you into skipping all three acts. They know their lines by now—let them stew in their own juice. Sleep well, dear.”
He took her by the shoulders and kissed her forehead lightly. Her eyes caught Shayne’s and skidded away.
“Emory,” she said with difficulty, “there’s a chance I may have to go to New York tomorrow morning. I’ll phone you. Good luck with the hearings.”
“No problem there,” he said. “Sam Toby will prove to be a little too fast on his feet as usual and we won’t lay a glove on him. What people don’t realize is that just because everybody knows there’s something fishy about that contract does not necessarily mean we can prove it. I’ve adjusted to that, finally, and it doesn’t surprise me. It still seems to surprise The New York Times. Coming, Mike?”
Shayne followed. The Senator was out in the poorly lit corridor when Maggie whispered, “Mike.”
Shayne stopped. She drove her knuckles viciously into his kidneys from behind. He drew in his breath sharply, and tried to smile as Hitchcock looked around.
“I hope your box office picks up,” Shayne told her. “Sorry I bothered you for nothing.”
“Are you?” she said.
Hitchcock had parked his black Lincoln in a no-parking space near the entrance to the alley. Shayne opened the door for him.
“I rented a car. It’s around here somewhere, and I might be able to find it. I’ll follow you.”
Hitchcock reached into the back seat for the phone. “How much truth was there in that rigamarole you gave me about chasing somebody, Mike?”
Shayne tried a grin. “Not much, and I didn’t think you swallowed it. But I thought I was going to have a couple of minutes to myself to think up something better.”
Hitchcock worked the dial in the base of the handset. He put the phone to his ear and waited.
“Trina?” he snapped. “Don’t go out, please. I’ve changed my plans. I’ll be home in a minute, and I’d like to talk to you.”
He put the phone back without saying goodbye, and said to Shayne, “For the first minute and a half I thought I’d walked in on a clinch. It wasn’t pleasant. Maggie is a very desirable woman, and I’m painfully aware of the difference in our ages. But that was anger I saw in her face, wasn’t it? She’d just thrown an ashtray at you? I’ve been in this rough-and-tumble business long enough to learn how to look after myself. I have a switch I turn off when things get too intense. But that’s something Maggie hasn’t had to learn. She’s an important person to me, Mike, and I don’t want her hurt. Think it over. I’ll wait here till I see your car.”
“All right, sir,” Shayne said wearily.
Hitchcock’s tone sharpened. “Stop calling me sir.”
Shayne found his Ford and drove it back to the entrance of the little alley. He blinked his lights at Hitchcock’s Lincoln, which pulled out and passed him. Hitchcock crouched forward, as though over the wheel of a low-slung racer. He was surprisingly aggressive in traffic, and Shayne had a hard time keeping him in sight. They were somewhere in Georgetown, he knew, but he couldn’t keep track of the turns. In Q Street, the Senator braked to a violent stop alongside a brick wall. Shayne slid the Ford in behind him.
Hitchcock met him on the sidewalk. “Before I start shouting at my daughter I’d better make sure. I hoped she and Maggie would hit it off, but I know it hasn’t worked. Trina has exalted ideas about how senators ought to behave. It’s strange, considering the number of senators she knows. I take it she hired you to see to it that Maggie has a headache from now on when I want to take her to supper?”
“I can’t answer that,” Shayne said. “I admit she threw an ashtray at me, but maybe it had nothing to do with you.”
“I doubt it, somehow,” Hitchcock said. “Another thing I’ve gotten used to is witnesses who stand on the Fifth Amendment and refuse to answer.”
He unlocked a door in the wall and stood aside to let Shayne precede him into a small garden, lighted by an antique gas lamppost that had been converted to electricity. The house was built of weathered brick. It was solid and handsome, and looked old. As Hitchcock opened the front door Trina half-ran into the broad hall to meet them.
She gave Shayne a disgusted look, which told Hitchcock what he wanted to know. Then she bore down on her father.
“Daddy, don’t fly off the handle! You know what the doctor said about not getting excited.”
“I’m holding myself in quite well, wouldn’t you say, Mike?” Hitchcock said. “All I want now are the answers to one or two questions, such as why and what weapons did you use against her and who’s paying Mike’s fee.”
“In a minute,” she said desperately. “Tom Wall’s in the living room.”
“That’s convenient. Did you arrange it?”
“No! He’s being very mysterious, but apparently he’s onto something that will really fix Sam Toby’s wagon. He wants to report to you before he goes any further. Daddy, please don’t be mad. You’ll thank me for it eventually. Somebody has to look out for you.”
“It’s comforting to know I have such a motherly daughter,” Hitchcock said bitterly.
A man burst out of the living room, walking fast and jerkily. He was short and thin, seemingly nothing but bone and sinew. He had sharp black eyes, a jaunty little black mustache, and hollowed cheeks.
“Emory! Something important. Do you mind?”
He looked at Shayne, and Hitchcock said mildly, “Michael Shayne, Senator Tom Wall.”
Wall acknowledged the introduction with a fast nod. “Time’s passing. At least I won’t have to chase you around the supperclubs tonight, that’s one consolation. This has all the earmarks of something terrific, and I need your OK on it. Remember a jerk named Bixler who used to work for the subcommittee?” He shot Shayne another accusing glance. “We’d better keep this in the family till tomorrow. It’s big, Emory.”
“Keep calm, Tom,�
� Hitchcock said. “That’s what people tell me, and it’s good advice. I have a slight family problem, but it can wait. Trina, take Mike into the library and give him a drink. You’ll have a chance to synchronize your stories.”
The two senators went off, with Hitchcock’s hand on the shorter man’s shoulder. Trina took Shayne into a comfortable room smelling of cigars and leather. It was lined with bookshelves from the floor to the ceiling. A few logs smouldered in a fireplace. On a long worktable against one wall Shayne saw an antique wooden press, pots of glue, and other bookbinding equipment. After opening a small cabinet and taking out several bottles, Trina saw Shayne examining the press.
“Here’s where Daddy really works,” she said. “The Senate’s only a hobby. Wasn’t cognac what you were drinking on the fishing boat this morning? Shall I get some ice?”
“Straight’s fine.”
She splashed some cognac into a large snifter and poured herself a half-glass of Cointreau.
“Damn it!” she said with suppressed fury. “I hoped he wouldn’t have to know anything about this. Now I’m in the doghouse for fair, not that I really mind so long as that creature is taken care of. What went wrong?”
Shayne took the glass. “You said he was picking her up after the theatre and I thought I had plenty of time. He walked in on us. I’d just taken a gun away from her, and for a few minutes we were all of us breathing hard.”
“A gun!”
“She wasn’t going to shoot me unless she had to. It was just to make me hold still so she could slug me with an ashtray. She wanted him to hear her version before ours. She broke her date with him for tonight and she told him she’s thinking of going to New York tomorrow. Where do we go from here?”
The Violent World of Michael Shayne Page 4
