The Violent World of Michael Shayne ms-50

by Brett Halliday

  “Where’s the Buick?”

  Curt glanced along the street. “Let’s talk about this,” he said in a strained voice.

  “Why should I talk to you when I can talk to your boss?”

  “I can make you a good offer. Violence won’t get us anywhere.”

  “What made you change your mind?” Shayne signaled to the girl. “Get out, Cheryl. And don’t try to run. I think I could catch you, but I’d have to blackjack your friend here first.”

  “He’s no friend of mine,” she said coldly. She opened the door and came around the car. “I’ll say somebody made a mistake. That was a pretty good drunk act. The only thing wrong was that kiss.”

  “I didn’t have my mind on it, Cheryl,” Shayne said, opening the Ford’s front door.

  “Well, sometime when you’re able to give it your undivided attention-”

  Shayne worked the unconscious gunman into position so he could pull his fangs. The gun was a short-barreled.38. Shayne dropped it into his side pocket.

  “I wish I could trust somebody to get the Buick,” he said, “but for some reason I don’t think I can. You two are going to have to carry him. Be careful of his arm. You don’t want to compound that fracture.”

  Curt looked in at the limp figure. “He must weigh about one-ninety. I don’t think we can.”

  “Try,” Shayne suggested.

  Curt pulled the injured man to the edge of the seat. He returned to consciousness suddenly with a long moan.

  “Does it hurt?” Curt said without sympathy. “It wouldn’t have happened if you’d been quicker with the sap, would it? We’re going for a short walk, Shayne tells us. Cooperate.”

  Morrie protested, making a cradle of his left arm to support his broken right. Curt wrestled him out of the door and then Shayne moved the Ford back to the street and parked parallel to the curb. Curt and the girl walked Morrie toward the Buick, all three huddled together with the gunman whimpering between them. Reaching the bigger car, Curt opened the back door and Morrie fell in on the floor.

  “Don’t pass out yet,” the redhead said. “I want to see what else you’ve got in your pockets.”

  Morrie rolled on one hip, and Shayne took a thick wallet from his buttoned back pocket. There was nothing of interest in the other pockets except a half-dozen loose rounds for the.38. Shayne took those, while Morrie groaned and pleaded for a doctor.

  “Nobody ever died of a broken arm,” Shayne said. “You’re next, Curt.”

  “Seriously,” Curt said. “He wasn’t supposed to chill you, just tap you so you’d sit quiet and listen.”

  “But he got carried away,” Shayne said.

  “The man’s a moron, but he’s the best I could do on short notice. I want to persuade you to go back to Miami, Shayne. Tell me how much they’re paying you and I’ll double it.”

  A car went by without slackening speed.

  “You don’t want cops,” Shayne said, “and neither do I, so let’s see how fast we can mop this up. Dump everything out on the hood.”

  “Shayne-”

  “Will you shut up? I’m tired.”

  He stuck the blackjack in his belt and began looking through their wallets. Curt, he found, was carrying over two thousand dollars in large bills. His last name was Rebman, and his address in the identification window was a hotel in Houston, Texas. In case of an accident, such as the one he was now having, notification was to be made to the Manners Aerosystems Co. Morrie, on the other hand, wanted his mother notified; she too lived in Houston.

  “You’ll need it in cash,” Curt said, refusing to believe that he couldn’t reach Shayne if he named a large enough figure. “Take what I’ve got there as a down payment. Another two or three thousand would be no problem at all. And all you have to do to earn it is get on a plane.”

  “Where would you get that much cash at this time of night?”

  “I said it wouldn’t be a problem.”

  Shayne smiled and took Cheryl’s bag out of her hands.

  “Oh, no, you don’t!” she said, snatching for it.

  “Goddamn it! Will you people get it through your head that you’re in trouble? I can take you in and charge you with assault. I know you don’t worry about gun registrations in Texas, but does Morrie have a permit in Washington? This would break in the morning papers, just before the hearings. Use your head.”

  He emptied the girl’s bag, and in addition to the usual feminine equipment, he found a folded letter addressed to Miss Cheryl Remick, at a Northwest address, and postmarked Houston. Inside there was a single sheet of paper, on which was typed, “Royalton Arms,” followed by a 16th Street NW address and that day’s date.

  “Reading other people’s mail,” she said.

  “I’ve heard that Manners likes good-looking girls your age,” Shayne said. “Is that where he is now, at the Royalton Arms?”

  “You can always go there and find out,” she said.

  “No, Cheryl,” Curt said. “Shayne’s right, this has gone sour. What do you want to talk to him about, Shayne? I might just tell you where you can find him.”

  A car with a long aerial approached slowly. Shayne swept up the wallets and the handbag and dropped them into his already bulging pockets. He closed the Buick’s back door before the cruising police car reached them, and pulled his coat together to hide the blackjack.

  “You don’t want to call it a night,” he said to the girl. “Let’s call up some people. It’s my birthday, isn’t it? I want to celebrate.”

  The police car went out of gear as it came abreast. The uniformed cop beside the driver looked them over impassively. Curt smiled at him.

  “Evening, officer,” he said in a thick Texas accent. “Warm tonight.”

  “Take it easy,” the cop said, chiefly to Shayne.

  The redhead grinned. “Little birthday celebration.”

  The cops went back into gear and proceeded to Wisconsin Avenue, where they joined the southbound traffic.

  “He’s a hard man to get in to see,” Rebman went on, “but I think I can talk him into it. I agree with you, if you’re going to be talking money, you might as well talk about it with the man who has it. He expects me to handle things like this without bothering him, but never mind. Let’s get going.”

  “I don’t want to be outnumbered when I get there,” Shayne said.

  He slapped Curt lightly with the blackjack. The Texan made a sick sound and sat down in the street.

  “What did you do that for?” the girl cried.

  “Because he talks too much,” Shayne said. “Are you wearing stockings?” He flicked up her white skirt. “Let’s have them.” She didn’t move until he said it again. She reached under her skirt to unsnap her garters. Hopping on one foot and then the other, she skinned off the stockings. Shayne used one of them to tie Curt’s hands.

  “What are you-” Curt said, dazed.

  With the other stocking Shayne improvised a gag. Opening the rear door, he tipped Curt in with Morrie.

  “Now I’m going to need your slip, if you’re wearing one.”

  “I’m not,” Cheryl said.

  “That’s too bad. Take off your dress.”

  “This dress cost one hundred and ninety-eight dollars plus sales tax,” she said grimly, “and if you think you’re going to tear it up, you’ll have a fight on your hands.”

  “I might enjoy it,” Shayne said, “but I don’t have the time. Make up your mind in a hurry. It can be one of two ways.”

  He flicked the blackjack hard against the Buick’s front fender. The thin steel crumpled.

  “You wouldn’t hit me with that,” she said.

  “Take a good look.”

  She looked into his eyes. “Damn it, Mike,” she said after a second. “Why did we have to meet like this? I’d better warn you-I’m not wearing much underneath.”

  Leaning down, she pulled at the hem of her skirt, trying to tear it. “I’ll do that,” Shayne said. Cheryl touched his shoulder to keep her balance while
he ripped her skirt all the way from the bottom hem to the waist. He tore out a long panel, tore that into strips and bound Curt’s ankles. After that he bound and gagged Morrie and turned to the girl.

  “I don’t suppose you’ll make an exception,” she said.

  “Why should I?”

  She stood quietly while he tore off more pieces of her skirt and tied her wrists and ankles. “I’m sorry about that dumb trick in the bar,” she said. “I told Hugh I didn’t want to do it, but he said I had to. Am I going to see you again?”

  “I hope not.”

  He placed the gag and fastened it, then put her into the back seat with the others.

  “My advice,” he said, addressing everyone who was still conscious, “is to keep your heads down and try not to move. If anybody calls the cops, you’ll get your picture in the paper. Manners won’t like that. I’ll tell him where he can find you. Just be patient.”

  He cranked up the windows and went back to his Ford. As he drove past the Buick he tapped his horn.

  CHAPTER 8

  1:10 A.M.

  The Royalton Arms, a shabby brick apartment house in an out-of-the-way neighborhood, seemed an unlikely place to find Hugh Manners. Probably, Shayne decided, the industrialist didn’t want the public to know that he was sufficiently worried by the Hitchcock investigation to come to Washington to take personal charge of the counteroffensive.

  Shayne reviewed quickly the few things he knew about Manners. Before World War II, Manners’ fighter planes had been the fastest in the world. He tested them himself. He had grown up during the glamorous early days of aviation, and he had an obsession with speed. He had walked away from a dozen serious crashes. He ran his company the way he flew his planes-as enormous as it had become in recent years, it was still a one-man business, the last in the industry. His business methods were unorthodox and sometimes brilliant. One year he might make one hundred million dollars, and the next year be in serious danger of losing his shirt. He never gave interviews, believing that his private life was nobody’s business. Nevertheless, he had often been in the headlines with spectacular paternity and alimony suits.

  There were twelve apartments in the building. Manners’ name didn’t appear beside the doorbells in the cramped, poorly lit lobby. Curt Rebman was listed as the tenant of a third-floor apartment. Shayne pressed that bell and waited.

  There was no answering buzz. Before long he heard footsteps and the door opened. A large man stepped out all the way, closing the door behind him. He was easily six feet six, with the chest-spread of a steer and the relaxed expression of many powerful men. He had been hit in the face various times over the years, by various things that were harder than fists. His eyes were quick and intelligent.

  “Michael Shayne to see Mr. Manners,” Shayne said.

  The big man looked puzzled. “You rang 3-B. Nobody there by that name.”

  “Curt sent me,” Shayne said. “You can give Manners this.”

  Inside the last piece of Cheryl’s skirt, the redhead had tied all the trophies he had taken from her little party: the two wallets, her evening bag, the blackjack, the.38, the loose rounds of ammunition. It made an odd-looking bundle. The big man’s eyebrows disappeared in the scar tissue on his forehead. But as he felt the hard outlines of the gun through the cloth, the eyebrows came down in a frown.

  “I hope you’re not trying to be funny.”

  “Doesn’t Manners have a sense of humor?”

  “He hasn’t cracked a smile in years. Wait here.”

  He unlocked the door and went in, and was back again in almost exactly the length of time it would have taken him to go up and down two flights of stairs.

  “You get in,” he said more pleasantly. “Now don’t take this wrong, but I’ve got to frisk you. That’s the condition.”

  “I’m carrying a fountain pen,” Shayne said, “and it’s only fair to tell you that it’s loaded.”

  “Will you stop trying to be smart, for your own good?” He extended both his hands toward Shayne’s chest. “OK?”

  Shayne spread his arms and let the big man go over him rapidly. He was asked to pull up his pants to show that he wasn’t carrying a knife or a small gun strapped to his calf. He did so, after which the door was finally opened for him. The big man stayed a half-step behind him going up the stairs.

  “What was all that stuff wrapped in? Was that the dress the kid had on?”

  “Part of it,” Shayne said.

  “That’s what I thought. Boy, oh boy. This is something I want to see.”

  On the third floor he let Shayne into a short foyer leading to a small living room. There was no rug on the floor and not much furniture. What there was looked as though it had been bought from a secondhand dealer by somebody who wasn’t concerned about anything but the price. Manners, in his shirt-sleeves and wearing a green eyeshade, was sitting in a swivel chair behind an unpainted kitchen table. There was a neat stack of manila folders in front of him, a phone, an overflowing ashtray, and Shayne’s little heap of souvenirs. He must be in his middle fifties, Shayne thought, but he looked younger. He was lean and hard, with a heavily ruled face and piercing black eyes.

  “Give him a drink if he wants one, Stevens,” he said to the big man. “I’ll let you know when I need you.”

  All they had was whiskey. It wasn’t good whiskey. Shayne asked for soda, but they didn’t have soda. He didn’t bother to ask for ice, knowing they wouldn’t have that either. After handing Shayne the warm drink, Stevens went into a bedroom, closing the door. There was one other bedroom; that door was also closed. A jazz record revolved on an open phonograph, the sound turned down to a faint mutter. The TV picture was on, with no sound coming from the set. On the small flickering screen, a tongue-tied Western badman was silently holding up a stagecoach.

  Shayne sampled the drink. He had drunk worse whiskey, but not lately.

  Manners spilled the money out of Curt’s wallet. “You could have helped yourself, Shayne. There’s a couple of thousand here. Wasn’t it enough for you?”

  “That’s not how I make my living,” Shayne said.

  “All right, what’s the proposition?”

  Shayne put the watered whiskey on the floor so he wouldn’t forget what he was doing and drink any more. He was on a battered sofa facing the TV set. The bandit, completing the holdup, swung onto his horse and galloped quietly away.

  “First,” Shayne said, “I want you to tell me how you knew where I was going to be so you could pick me up, or try to. Second, I want you to give me Maggie Smith.”

  Manners’ eyes, fixed on Shayne’s face, didn’t shift. “Sam Toby told me it would be a good idea to get you out of town. I don’t know why. He said we could catch you as you left Senator Hitchcock’s. That’s your first point. Now who is Maggie Smith?”

  “You don’t know?”

  “That’s correct. I don’t know.”

  “She runs a theatre here, and works for Toby on the side. You know how people like Toby are when they’re being investigated. They feel a lot more comfortable if they can get a picture of the chairman of the committee in bed with somebody he’s not married to. Maggie had that just about organized when I showed up. I’ve got a temporary postponement, but Hitchcock refuses to listen to anything I tell him about the woman. I want it canceled from your end.”

  Manners’ face had tightened. “I have nothing to do with any of that.”

  “Maybe not. But you’re paying the bills, and if anything goes wrong, it’s your neck.”

  After hesitating briefly, Manners said, “All right, you can consider it canceled.”

  “Call him while I’m here,” Shayne said. “And just so you won’t call him again the minute I leave, I want a letter of apology from you to Hitchcock. To the effect that you knew nothing about this thing Toby has been setting up, and you’re deeply shocked. You’d rather give up your contract than be a party to anything so slimy. I won’t deliver it unless I have to.”

  “Toby won’t l
ike that,” Manners said through thin lips. “He won’t like what he reads in the papers tomorrow morning any better.”

  The detective took out the keys to the big Buick and tossed them to Manners, who caught them neatly with one hand. “The three of them are tied up in the back seat. If you don’t want to know where the car is parked, I’ll be glad to tell the cops.”

  “Maybe I’ll let you keep them. They didn’t do such a bang-up job on you.”

  Shayne explained patiently, “Morrie has a broken arm, an empty shoulder holster and no license to carry a gun in the District of Columbia. It wouldn’t surprise me if his fingerprints are on file. Rebman and the car can both be traced to you. I didn’t have any rope or adhesive tape, so I used Cheryl’s stockings and tore up her skirt. You probably know how much else she was wearing-it wasn’t much. The papers are going to eat this up. It’s mysterious, and there’s sex in it.”

  Shayne and Manners had been equally unsmiling so far, but suddenly, at the thought of how the livelier newspapers would cover this story, the redhead gave a hoot of laughter.

  “Very funny,” Manners commented.

  He thought for a minute, then pulled the phone toward him and dialed a number. On the TV screen, an announcer was holding up a pack of cigarettes, moving his lips in praise of his sponsor’s product. The redhead broke out his own cigarettes and offered one to Manners.

  “I don’t smoke,” Manners said brusquely, and snapped into the phone, “Toby? I don’t want to talk on your line. Call me back as soon as you can get to another phone.” He hung up. “Rebman had instructions to hire you if necessary. He decided you were too drunk to be approached on that basis. He was ready to go as high as fifteen. I’ll raise it to twenty.”

  “Twenty thousand or twenty million?”

  Manners looked pained. “Needless to say, not twenty million.”