The Private Practice of Michael Shayne

by Brett Halliday

  Shayne submitted mildly while the cops demonstrated their lack of histrionic ability and the reporter got a pose which satisfied his sense of dramatic values. Photographer and reporter then fled to the press car, to find it stuck in the deep sand when the motor roared. Wheels spun and sand flew until two burly policemen and the two newsmen lifted it easily onto the pavement.

  Shayne laughed.

  Painter whirled around to order him into the back seat of the squad car, handcuffed to one of the cops, and they waited until the body was loaded into the ambulance. While they waited, Shayne said quietly:

  “I suppose you know you’re making a damned ass out of yourself, Painter.”

  Painter, in the front seat of the squad car, deigned to turn his head. He snapped back, “I’ll worry about that. You’ve had plenty of warning not to pull any rough stuff on my side of the bay.”

  “What brought you to the scene Johnny-on-the-spot?”

  “An anonymous phone call. Said a man was being murdered.”

  “And by God you can’t see it was a frame?” Shayne asked incredulously. “Hell, Painter, while you’re satisfying a personal grudge against me, the murderer is getting away.”

  “I’ll hold you until a better suspect pops up,” Painter told him complacently. “You’ll have a chance to prove your story about the telephone call, of course.”

  The ambulance was backing out, and the driver put the police car in reverse, rocked it to get traction in the deep sand.

  Shayne didn’t say anything more. He was quiet all the way to police headquarters where they took him out and created a mild sensation among a couple of lounging reporters in the outer office by leading him through, handcuffed, to Painter’s private office in the rear.

  Both reporters knew Shayne, and they trotted back in loose-jawed amazement, but Painter turned them away at the door of his office, ordered the cuffs removed from Shayne, and went in with him alone, closing the door.

  “Why didn’t you let the boys come in?” Shayne grinned at his captor.

  Painter stiffened and didn’t answer. He sat officiously erect in a swivel chair behind his desk.

  Shayne dropped into a chair opposite the tidy, polished oak desk and said cheerfully, “You’re laying yourself wide open, Painter. I’m warning you.”

  “I’m not at all convinced of that.”

  Painter looked pleased. He brushed his mustache with the tip of his forefinger.

  “Your reputation for pulling fast ones isn’t going to help you any.”

  “If I was going to kill a man,” said Shayne with deep disgust, “I wouldn’t stand there and wait for you flat-feet to come and pick me up.”

  Peter Painter lit a cigarette. His black eyes were cold and unblinking. He said, “Maybe you want to play ball with me, then. Tell me who killed Grange, and I’ll see what I can do.”

  Shayne grinned, lolled back in his chair.

  “I’ve told you all I know.”

  Painter shook his head.

  “I’ve had you dumb up on me before, Shayne. I won’t stand for any goddamn nonsense!”

  His small fist pounded the desk top and a gust of passion shook his voice.

  “I know your record. You’re out after the cash and to hell with the regular law enforcement agencies. You don’t care how many murders are committed if you see a way to cash in on them.”

  “Like—the Brighton case?” Shayne asked softly.

  “Yes, damn it! I’m thinking of the Brighton case—for one. I stood the gaff of newspaper persecution while you pulled strings and angled for a payoff. This isn’t going to be played that way.”

  Shayne went pale with anger. A pulse throbbed in his neck. Big fists clenched involuntarily.

  “You little bastard!” he spat out. “You cheap little bastard!” The words dripped out sibilantly from set teeth. “After I handed you that case on a silver platter.” He stood up, eyes suddenly gone mad, big hands bunched into clublike fists.

  Peter Painter pushed his chair back two inches. The muzzle of a blued .38 special appeared over the edge of his desk. It was pointed unwaveringly at Shayne’s belly.

  “Just take one step,” he said hopefully. “You’ve been in my hair long enough, Shayne. I’d rather gut-shoot you than any man I’ve ever met.”

  Shayne stood balanced on the balls of his feet, leaning slightly forward from the waist. His eyes cleared and he laughed, a short morose laugh.

  “You hold all the aces this time,” he admitted. He sank back into his chair and crossed his legs. “Why don’t you break out the rubber hose?”

  Painter shook his head. His lips were drawn back from sharp white teeth.

  “I’ve got enough to keep you locked up until you rot—or the case is solved.”

  “Which would mean the same thing. I’d be stinking like hell in your jail before you solved it,” Shayne pointed out sardonically.

  “All right.”

  Painter slid his .38 back in an open drawer. He sighed and pressed a button on his desk.

  Neither of them said anything until the door opened and a cop stuck his head in.

  “Bring the newspaper boys in,” Painter ordered.

  There was another silence until the reporters trooped in. Five of them now. They all knew Shayne and nodded to him casually. He nodded back, unsmiling.

  “Sit down, boys.”

  Peter Painter leaned back in his swivel chair and addressed them gravely.

  “I called you in as unbiased witnesses to the fact that Michael Shayne refuses to give any information whatsoever concerning his presence at the scene of murder. We all know he’s tricky, and that he has wriggled out of tight places before. I’m perfectly willing to check any portion of a story he gives, but he persists in his absurd statement that someone who said his name was Harry Grange called him in the middle of the night and lured him over to the scene of murder just in time to get caught red-handed. I’ll leave you to handle that in your stories as you see fit. You’re all at perfect liberty to ask the prisoner any questions you wish.”

  “Is that right, Mike?” Timothy Rourke asked. “It puts you pretty much on the spot.”

  Rourke was a seasoned veteran of the Miami News, lean as a hound, shoulders bent slightly forward, and with eyes that invited confidence.

  “That’s right,” Shayne told him. He hesitated, then added in a tone that was somewhat apologetic to his old friend, “I’ve got an idea who called me for the frame. But it’s just an idea, Tim. You know how hard it is to identify a telephone voice. Especially if it is being disguised. And—suppose I am right? Hell, the guy will just deny it. Then where’ll I be?”

  “That’s just a stall,” Painter crackled. “If he’s got any clue to the caller—if there was a caller—let him tell us. I want you boys to witness that I’m giving him every chance to come clean and clear himself.”

  “Yeh, it can’t hurt to tell what you’re thinking, Mike,” Rourke urged. “I’ll see that it’s damn sure given a thorough investigation,” he ended with a belligerent glance toward Peter Painter.

  “But—if it’s who I think it was,” Shayne explained hesitantly, avoiding Rourke’s stalking eyes, “I’ll only be worse in Dutch when he denies it. I’d be better off to pretend I don’t recognize the voice than to tell what I think and be called a liar.”

  The telephone on Painter’s desk b-r-r’d discreetly. He unpronged the receiver and said, “Yes… Painter speaking.”

  He listened a moment and his black eyes glistened.

  “Yes,” he purred. “I understand, Mr. Marco. Yes, indeed, I think it’s extremely important. No, I don’t think it will he necessary for you to come down tonight. Drop in tomorrow morning and sign an affidavit. Thank you, Mr. Marco.”

  Triumph snapped in his eyes. He made an expansive gesture toward the reporters.

  “I’m going to lay all my cards on the table, boys. That was John Marco. City councilman here on the beach. He just heard a newscast on his radio saying that Shayne had been tak
en into custody for the murder of Harry Grange. He thought I might be interested to know that Shayne had a run-in with Grange in Marco’s private office tonight. It seems that Mr. Shayne threatened to break Grange’s neck if he didn’t stay away from a certain girl in whom Shayne has taken an—er—paternal interest. Phyllis Brighton by name. There were witnesses to the threat.”

  Painter held his manicured hand out and closed the fingers slowly.

  “There’s your motive, boys.”

  An electric silence followed. The five newspaper men stared at Shayne.

  Shayne’s wide mouth twitched into an ironic smile.

  “And I say that makes a swell motive for a frame-up. Hell, I’m not going to deny I threatened to break Grange’s neck.” He opened his big hands and closed them in front of their eyes. “I might have done it, too—if somebody else hadn’t beaten me to the pleasure.”

  “Mike’s right,” Tim Rourke declared. “His run-in with Grange earlier in the evening gives meaning to his story about the frame over the phone. For God’s sake, tell us who you think it was, Mike. I’ll run it down into its rathole if you’ll give me an inkle.”

  Shayne shook his head slowly, carefully avoiding Rourke’s eyes.

  “I might be wrong,” he protested. He turned to Painter with a frown creasing his forehead. “You can see how tough it is. Take you and the anonymous tip that you say sent you racing out to the beach almost before Grange’s heart had stopped beating—and just in time to conveniently catch me. You didn’t recognize that voice either.” A sardonic smile spread his wide mouth.

  “No,” Peter Painter admitted stiffly. “But it was likely someone I didn’t know.”

  “So you say,” Shayne snapped. “What proof have you? Who overheard the conversation and can swear there even was such a call?”

  Shayne’s hands rested on the chair arms, his body tensed forward from the waist, his eyes inscrutable between lowered lids.

  “By God! I don’t need any proof. I’m not charged with murder.” Painter’s face was red with wrath. “If you’ve got anything to say before I lock you up—start talking.” Shayne spread out his bony hands, palms upward, and settled back in the chair.

  “There you are. He doesn’t need proof. I do. What chance have I got against that sort of a set-up?”

  Timothy Rourke was studying Shayne’s face closely. A muscle wriggled in his lean jaw. In an oddly choked voice he said, “Spring it, Mike,” and bent a compelling gaze on the detective.

  Shayne looked up at him with a gleam in his eyes. Slowly he looked around at the others.

  “All right. I admit I didn’t recognize the voice at first. That was because I didn’t have any idea. Then, when I realized it was a fixed-up job, I began checking over the people who might want to pull a rotten, dirty stunt like that, and I started wondering.”

  He paused, got up with his hands thrust deep in his pockets.

  “It’s been coming clearer and clearer while I sat there. I’m pretty sure now—sure enough to take oath on it. Do you know why, Tim?” He whirled suddenly and faced Rourke with a wide grin. “I’ll bet you can’t guess. It’s because I’ve been listening to that same voice—recognizing it more certainly all the time.”

  Silence hung over the room. Pencils waited above notebooks. Peter Painter stared at Shayne in silence.

  Shayne lit a cigarette, then turned about to point a long, bony finger at the chief of the Miami Beach detectives.

  “Peter Painter is the man who called me to the scene of murder. He’ll deny it, but what the hell can you expect? You’ve all heard him threaten to get me a dozen times. He saw his chance to hang one on me—and that’s what he did.”

  The reporters stared, breathed again, and pencils flew over white paper.

  Rourke, alone, kept his pencil and pad in his pocket. After a long look at Shayne, he turned his face away, no longer able to control his delighted laughter.

  Chapter Five: INVITATION TO GO FOR A RIDE

  FOR A MOMENT, Peter Painter was too stricken to move. Then he sprang to his feet like a jack-in-the-box.

  “Me?” he exclaimed in a smothered tone. “Why… you… you…” His throat moved convulsively.

  “Yes, you,” Shayne said wolfishly. “You’ve forced my hand—so take it.”

  “You’re crazy,” Painter sputtered. “You—you’ve lost your mind.”

  Behind Shayne, Timothy Rourke laughed aloud. “Crazy like a fox,” he exulted. “Oh, my sweet grandmother! This is one for the book.”

  Shayne disregarded his friend’s whooping merriment. He kept his face set in solemn lines.

  “I’m sorry, Painter.” He sounded very convincing. “That’s the hand I’m playing. You would have witnesses.”

  “But I—” Painter sank back into his chair. “You’ll never make it stick, Shayne. God knows, I didn’t phone you.”

  “That’s what you say.” Shayne shrugged and sat down. “You’ve shot off your mouth too often about hanging something on me to hope anyone will believe you didn’t grab off this chance to do it.”

  Slowly, the bewildered expression cleared from the chief’s face.

  “I get it,” he snarled. “You know goddamn well it wasn’t me. You’re bluffing—hoping I’ll back down.”

  “I don’t give a damn whether you back down or not,” Shayne clipped out. He leaned back easily and crossed his legs. “Without a shred of real evidence against me, you were all set to try me in the newspapers. All right, I’ll play that way. These boys are just itching to get out of here and make some headlines.”

  “And how!” Rourke burst out. “Is that the way it’s going to lie, Painter?”

  “Lie!” he roared. “That’s the word, all right. Now wait.”

  The tip of Painter’s finger trembled as he caressed his mustache.

  Rourke stood with a hand on Shayne’s shoulder, pressing down. Shayne’s hands were on the chair arms, pressing up.

  “No use going off half-cocked,” Painter went on. “You boys certainly don’t believe Shayne’s absurd accusation.”

  “We’re not writing our opinions,” Rourke told him sharply. “We’re reporting facts.”

  “That,” said Shayne, settling back again, “is all you’ve got to worry about, Painter. The mere facts. Just because I tried to save you embarrassment by not naming you as my anonymous telephone caller at once—”

  “You know damn well it wasn’t me—”

  “I’m taking an oath that it was. If you want anyone to believe you’re clean—dig up the man who called and prove he wasn’t you.”

  “And in the meantime Shayne will be languishing in your bastile working up a swell case for false arrest,” Rourke reminded Painter.

  Painter’s dark face was livid with wrath. In a choked voice he warned, “I’m going to get you, Shayne. If it’s the last thing I do on this earth, I’m going to hang one around your long neck that you won’t wriggle out from under.” Shayne’s bland gaze was fixed on the toes of his number twelve shoes stretched out in front of him.

  “In the meantime I’ll be chasing down murderers and turning them over to you so you can stay on the public payroll.”

  The reporters were becoming bleary-eyed from switching astounded gazes from Shayne to Painter.

  “How about it?” one of them demanded irritably. “Does the suspicion of murder charge stick against Mike?” Painter ground his white teeth. His black mustache trembled upward when he snarled, “Not officially. If I release him, you won’t need to print—”

  “What’s just occurred here,” Shayne put in swiftly for Painter. “Nope.” He shook his head and shot a warning glance at the newsmen. “Play the whole thing down, boys. Just say that I explained my presence at the murder scene to Mr. Painter’s complete satisfaction by identifying the voice that called me over the telephone.”

  “Wait,” Painter protested. “That won’t do. You haven’t identified the voice. If you print that and it later gets out that you accuse me—” There was a tremor
of panic in his voice.

  “It might smoke someone out,” Shayne explained patiently, “if you didn’t do the telephoning. If the culprit reads the story, then he’ll figure he’s got to get rid of me in a hurry. That ought to bring him out into the open, and maybe I’ll get knocked off in the process—which should be a happy prospect for you, Painter.”

  Peter Painter shook his head dubiously.

  “I still don’t like—”

  “To hell with what you like. You’ve stuck your neck out.”

  Shayne stood up abruptly and turned to the row of reporters.

  “I’ve never given you a wrong steer, boys. I’ve got a hunch this is something big, though I haven’t a goddamned idea what it’s all about. If you play this down tonight, you’ll be cutting yourselves in for a whale of a story later. Crack down, and I’ll leave you all in the lurch on the blow-off.”

  He turned back to Painter and demanded, “Where’s my car?”

  “I had one of the men bring it in,” Painter told him stiffly.

  He pressed the buzzer on his desk and when a cop stuck his head in, said tersely, “Take Mr. Shayne out and give him the keys to his car. We’re not holding him.”

  Disappointment spread over the cop’s heavy face. He snorted, then clumped down the hall ahead of Shayne. At the desk, Shayne recovered his keys and went on to his car which was parked outside.

  The moon was overhead, dipping to the west, and the breeze of earlier night had died away. A smug grin replaced the scowl Shayne had worn on that last trip across the causeway.

  As he drove with his left hand on the wheel, he fumbled in his pocket and pulled out the lacy handkerchief which he had picked from the dead man’s hand. He shook it out under the dashlight and saw there were no initials on it. Lifting it close to his nose, he drew in a deep breath and his nostrils caught an elusive, delicate fragrance. He thrust it back in his pocket and pursed his lips in a tuneless whistle.

  He was in the middle of something—and didn’t know what it was.

  He wondered, irrationally, whether the white-haired man in Marco’s office had escorted Marsha Marco straight home from the casino—and whether she had stayed at home.