The Violent World of Michael Shayne

by Brett Halliday

  “I’ve done everything I can with the facts I have,” Shayne said. “You’re over twenty-one.”

  “I’m glad somebody around here realizes that. You look tired. Go to bed and stop worrying. I can take care of myself.”

  Shayne said goodnight soberly. He intended to go to bed, because he didn’t know what else to do, but he didn’t expect to stop worrying. Could Senator Hitchcock take care of himself? From what Shayne had seen so far, he doubted it very much.

  CHAPTER 7

  10:25 P.M.

  THE SAVAGE GROOVES AROUND MICHAEL SHAYNE’S EYES AND mouth were deeply etched as he came out of Senator Hitchcock’s house on Q Street. If Senator Wall had turned up something that could damage Sam Toby or the Texas crowd in the next day’s hearing, they couldn’t be expected to stand still and wait for it to happen. Their Maggie Smith gambit had failed, for the time being. But no professional—and Sam Toby was clearly that—stays at the top of his league without developing an assortment of pitches. He had missed with his fast ball, and now he’d come in with his curve or his slider. More than ever, Shayne was aware of not knowing the rules of the game he was playing.

  He hesitated before getting into his Ford. And in that half-second a flicker of movement a block away pulled at his eye.

  A man stepped out of a parked car and started in his direction. Shayne’s years of living with danger had given him a kind of built-in warning system, and all the bells were clanging violently. He waited. The sidewalk was deserted except for the approaching stranger. He was built like a light heavyweight. He walked with a swing, on the balls of his feet.

  In front of Senator Hitchcock’s house, Shayne decided, was the wrong place for trouble. He lit a cigarette unhurriedly and slid behind the wheel. Swinging the rearview mirror, he picked up the approaching figure. The man quickened his step, then slowed abruptly as Shayne put the Ford in gear and moved away. A heavy car left the line of parked cars behind him. It looked like a Buick, the largest model in the most expensive series. Picking up the man on the sidewalk, it followed Shayne’s Ford, accelerating.

  Shayne still didn’t hurry. He waited till the other car was close enough so he could see that it carried Texas plates. Then he came down hard on the gas and shot away.

  There was a slight grin on his lips and much of the tension had left his face. So far he had been groping his way blindfolded through an enemy minefield, knowing that the only safe thing to do was nothing at all. This was something he knew how to handle. These men were amateurs. If they had wanted to find out where he went, they should have stayed out of sight. If they had wanted to pick him up, they should have jumped him the minute he came out of the house.

  He inched across each major intersection, making a big point of looking at street signs. The Texans too were in a strange town, and he didn’t want them to lose him before he found out more about them. He swung into one of the city’s numerous traffic circles, holding his speed at 35. A statue of a general on horseback drifted by on his left. Having passed that same statue several times, he knew where he was: in Sheridan Circle. There was a dazzle of headlights in his mirror. He didn’t bother to sort them out; if they lost him at this speed they weren’t worth worrying about. He was looking for the right kind of bar, and found it after turning onto Wisconsin Avenue—a small place called the Bijou, with a doorman and a marquee.

  He parked on a side street. Walking back he staggered slightly, as though the cognac was finally beginning to take over. He stumbled, caught himself quickly and wished the Bijou doorman a pleasant good evening. The doorman gave him a suspicious look in return, but decided that he wasn’t quite drunk enough yet to be refused admittance. Out of the corner of his eye, Shayne saw the Buick coast past. As well as he could judge, there was only one man in the front seat besides the driver.

  Inside, he had a choice between sitting at the bar or going on into a poorly-lighted room to listen to a woman with a ravaged face singing Cole Porter songs, leaning against the curve of a grand piano. She hadn’t attracted much of a crowd. The headwaiter tried to steer Shayne in to a table, where he would be subject to a cover charge. Shayne waved him away. Reaching out, he caught the rim of the bar and pulled himself in against it. He grinned at the bartender.

  “I see a bottle of Martell’s on the back bar. That shows good taste on somebody’s part. In a wine glass, and I’ll have a glass of ice water with it.”

  He swung onto a high stool at the heel of the bar, from which he could watch the new arrivals. There weren’t many. Leaning on both elbows, he rested. They knew where he was. They had to come to him.

  He heard a spattering of applause in the other room, and the singer gave her small audience an ironic bow and walked off, leaving the pianist to continue without her.

  A short way down the bar, two men were arguing drunkenly about Sam Toby. Probably, Shayne thought, this was the main subject all over Washington tonight. One of the men was sure that Toby would beat this rap, as he had beaten all the others over the years. He had half the Senate membership in his pocket, because he knew their weaknesses. And Hugh Manners—there was a man. Why didn’t the goddamn politicians leave him alone? What if he did have to bribe a few people so they’d let him stay in the competition? The other drinker maintained that Toby’s days were numbered. Why would they call him to testify unless they had something on him? Shayne, too, would like to know the answer to that question, among others, but he did not think he would get it here.

  A plump, fair-haired man in a black silk suit came in from the street with a blonde girl. They were bickering quietly, like husband and wife. He went on into the main room and the girl came over to the bar, where she took a stool once removed from Shayne and ordered crème de menthe. She kept looking at her watch impatiently. She lit a cigarette, which she took from a silver case in a small evening bag, and put it out again after a few puffs. When the man didn’t return, Shayne gave her a closer look.

  She was in her early twenties. Most of the things that had happened to her so far had obviously been pleasant. Her features were finely cut, with a shadow of dissatisfaction at the corners of her mouth. Her white dress had a short skirt, very little back, and not much front. She wore a diamond necklace that looked authentic to Shayne. He didn’t know much about diamonds but he was an expert on girls, and he knew that this one couldn’t be picked up in this kind of bar unless she had been told to by someone with money to spend. So he decided to try.

  He swayed in her direction. “People all told me back home that Washington’s a dead town after dark. Dead? It’s putrid.”

  She glanced at him coolly, moved her drink a fraction of an inch farther away and went on looking at her watch. But she stayed where she was, though there were half a dozen empty stools farther down.

  “You didn’t have the privilege of hearing the singer,” Shayne said loosely. “That was an experience. She got up off her deathbed to fill the engagement. Fascinating, if you like ghoulish entertainment. One number there, ‘Night and Day,’ I was giving three to one she wouldn’t make it all the way through. Rallied in the middle. What’s that in your glass?”

  “Crème de menthe,” she said indifferently.

  “Crème de what?” he said, almost falling off his stool. “Never heard of it. What’s it taste like?”

  Without asking her permission he lurched closer, picked the glass out of her hands and tasted it. He recoiled.

  “Say, that’s horrible! That’s the worst drink I ever tasted. I’d rather take cough syrup. Let me buy you something that will stir up your circulation. You’re a good-looking kid except for one thing—you’re too pale.”

  “Thanks,” she said with another look at her watch. “I’ll stick with this.”

  “Baby, don’t you know when your date has run out on you?” Shayne said. “Or hasn’t it ever happened to you before? He’s been gone fifteen minutes. What did he tell you? He was going to the men’s room? Don’t believe it. He left by the back door.”

  She frowned
. “Why would he do that?”

  “I could name you any number of reasons. I’m more or less in the business myself. Maybe there’s somebody in there he didn’t want to see you together. He’s a married man, right?”

  She looked at Shayne fully for the first time. “His wife is in California. Listen, would you be willing to—”

  She stopped, frowning again.

  “To check the men’s room for you?” Shayne said happily. “Baby, I will do that with the greatest of pleasure.”

  He straightened his shoulders. Coming down too hard on his heels, he walked a straight line to the men’s room, where there was a colored attendant but no customers. Checking his appearance in the mirror, Shayne rumpled his hair and loosened the knot of his tie. His eyes were already bloodshot, from a shortage of sleep, not from too much liquor.

  “Nobody there but us chickens,” he reported to the girl after returning to the bar. “Bartender! Make mine a double this time, and for the lady—” He looked at her. “Not that goo, for God’s sake.”

  “What are you having?”

  “Martell’s. The best cognac you can get in a creep joint like this.”

  He waved at the bartender. When the drinks came he attacked his thirstily, spilling part of it. The girl didn’t like this, but Shayne no longer doubted that she was following orders.

  “Honey, we’ve got to get out of here,” he told her earnestly. “I’m beginning to feel like a mummy, and that’s not what good cognac is supposed to do for you. That singer’s going to come back any minute. There has to be one livelier place than this in town.” He tightened his necktie and said, “Michael Shayne, from Miami, Florida, the greatest little city in the world. I can tell just from looking at you—” he looked at her solemnly “—that you don’t ordinarily take drinks from strangers in bars. But this is an emergency! Washington’s reputation is at stake! You don’t want me to die of boredom, do you? How would that look in the papers?”

  He clutched at his chest suddenly and staggered, his face going blank. She clapped her hand to her mouth and her eyes widened. Shayne was being watched closely by the bartender and the headwaiter. He laughed.

  “Relax, everybody. I’m in excellent health. Only clowning. I just mean,” he said to the girl, “it’s your duty, and if you have any stublic pirit at all—”

  He looked doubtful. “What did I say? That didn’t sound right.”

  She gave him a grudging smile, showing excellent teeth. “I think you said if I had any public pirit.”

  “I’m not drunk,” Shayne assured her. “I’m not exactly stone-cold sober either, but I want you to know that I’m hitting on all cylinders. What kind of nice first name do you have?”

  “Cheryl,” she murmured.

  “Cheryl! Did you hear that, bartender? Cheryl happens to be one of my favorite girl’s names. What do you say, Cheryl, are we getting out of here?”

  She studied him, smiling faintly. “I suppose if it’s my duty. I do know a place with a very gaudy nude floor show.”

  “Well, now,” Shayne said. “I’m not one of those people who slobber every time they see a female nude, but I’ve got nothing against them. What are we killing time here for?” He finished his drink. She wasn’t drinking fast enough to suit him so he took her glass out of her hands and finished it for her. The headwaiter was hovering nearby, in case he needed help making the door. Shayne brushed him out of his way and headed for the street in a stiff careful walk. The girl followed.

  Outside in the darkness, he wavered from the curb in to the storefronts and back.

  “This town!” he said in disgust. “With all the taxes we pay they can’t even get the sidewalks to stay level.”

  Cheryl, laughing, hugged his arm. He dragged her toward his Ford, continuing to weave and wobble while he examined both sides of the dark street. He spotted a motionless figure in a doorway across from his car. There would be one other somewhere. Shayne didn’t think this would be considered more than a two-man job.

  He wrapped his arms around the girl and attempted to kiss her. But Cheryl didn’t want to lose status by being kissed on a public sidewalk, and while they were pushing and tugging at each other Shayne lurched against his car and located the second man, crouched on the floor behind the front seat, his face hidden.

  “Baby, you’re gorgeous,” Shayne said with enthusiasm. “You’re the nicest thing that’s happened to me in months.”

  “Mike, behave yourself.”

  “What’s wrong with the way I’m behaving? Are you implying I’m not being respectful?”

  “Of course not.” She gave his waist a squeeze. “You keep in good shape, don’t you?”

  “I try to,” Shayne said modestly. “But I don’t get enough sleep. Too damn much else to do. You know what I like about you? The way you carry yourself. It’s the one essential thing I insist on in a dame. Instead of going someplace hot and stuffy, what we could do, let’s get in the back seat and stretch out.”

  She jerked his hand away from the door handle. “No!”

  “If you don’t want to, OK,” Shayne said, aggrieved, “but I didn’t like the way you said that.”

  “I need a couple of drinks first. You’re way ahead of me. I only just met you! Afterwards, if all goes well—” Reaching up with both hands, she pulled his head down, gave him a quick businesslike kiss and whispered, “But not now, darling.”

  Having disposed of that problem, she said briskly, “Get in this side. I’ll drive.”

  Shayne said dangerously, reeling away, “Are you trying to tell me I’m in no condition to drive? I’m the best driver you’ll ever see, drunk or sober.”

  Reeling back, he opened the front door for her and put her in. On his way to the driver’s side, he misjudged the curb and fell down. He was up again at once, grinning. “They build some tricky sidewalks up here, don’t they?” He slid behind the wheel and toppled over on her. “You and me are going to have a wonderful time.” Seizing her, he kissed her hard. He hadn’t liked the businesslike kiss she had doled out to him, and he made this a real one, keeping his eyes open for any signs of life from the back seat. After a moment he felt her respond. She gasped when he let her go.

  “Mike—Jesus—”

  “What did I tell you?” Shayne said. “I knew you were a swinger.”

  He swayed back to his own side of the seat, snapped on the ignition and started the motor, his head still turned toward her. Her eyes wavered.

  The man behind them didn’t think he had to be careful. Cheryl seized Shayne’s arm and cried, pointing out through the windshield, “Mike, what’s that?”

  He delayed a fraction of a second until his assailant had committed himself to his swing, then thrust the girl away and came up fast, catching the man’s forearm. He jerked it forward and brought it down hard on the steering wheel. He had the wrist in one hand, the elbow in the other, and gave it an extra twist at the moment of impact. He heard the bone break.

  The blackjack fell limply between Shayne and the girl. She screamed, sounding more surprised than frightened. Shayne rammed the automatic transmission into drive and stamped on the gas.

  The second man across the street had left the doorway of the apartment house where he had been waiting. Shayne swung the wheel and headed straight at him, his headlights on full. As Shayne had expected, it was the plump man with the long hair, who had come into the Bijou with Cheryl. The headlights blinded him. He halted, crouching, then darted to one side. Grinning wolfishly, his foot all the way down, Shayne went up on the sidewalk after him. The man whirled. His face had gone dead white. He shouted something, both hands up to ward off the Ford, and leaped into the doorway.

  Shayne hit the brakes. The Ford skidded to a stop with its front bumper sealing the doorway. The man scrabbled frantically at the locked door of the apartment lobby. Shayne threw the transmission into neutral, snatched the blackjack off the floor and was out of the car in one swift fluid motion. He vaulted onto the hood, the blackjack ready. The man’
s body contracted as he looked over his shoulder at the powerfully-built redhead above him.

  Cheryl was trying to move the injured thug so she could reach the wheel. Shayne said with quiet authority, “Better not, Cheryl. You only had one chance. Nothing you can do about it now.”

  The man with the broken arm had begun to feel sorry for himself as the pain reached him. Cheryl went on pulling at him. “Damn you, Morrie, get out of the way.”

  Shayne said more sharply, “Don’t you know when something’s gone sour? Cut it out or we’ll have a few broken skulls.” He motioned to the frightened man in the doorway. “Climb over. Don’t hurry. We have lots of time.”

  The man made an effort to recover his composure. Ordinarily his plump cheeks probably gave him a self-satisfied look. He smoothed his hair, gave it a final pat on each side, and stepped up on the bumper.

  “You seem to be under the impression—”

  Shayne slapped the blackjack smartly against his palm. “I’m not the one who made the mistake.”

  “Curt,” the girl called urgently.

  But the plump man hadn’t recovered from the effects of being pinned against the door by Shayne’s Ford. His head was trembling up and down, as though he consented in advance to anything Shayne wanted of him. He slithered across the hood. Shayne patted him under the arms and on the pockets. This was the executive; he wasn’t carrying a weapon.

  There was movement in the front seat. The man the girl had called Morrie was trying to get his gun out with his left hand. The shoulder holster was one of those with a safety clasp, strapped on at an angle so the gun would resist a pull from anyone but its rightful owner. Shayne reached through the window and slapped him on the temple with the blackjack. He sagged forward against the wheel.