“I’ll come to that in a minute. I’ve been told you had an argument with Maslow this morning. What about?”
“He wanted my support for governor. I refused it.”
“You could have done that by saying no.”
Kendrick gave another frosty smile. “The man has an offensive way about him at times. As governor, he would be a calamity. A thoroughgoing hypocrite, completely unscrupulous.”
There was a tap at the door, and Grady Turner, the deputy sheriff, put his head in.
“Associated Press, from Tallahassee, Judge. What should I tell them?”
“At this time of night? I’d better take it.”
He picked up the phone on his desk and said cordially, “Yes, Joe, Kendrick speaking. How are you and how’s your fine family?—No, you’re not disturbing me a bit. I’ve been sitting around the office with a few old friends, swapping lies about last hunting season.”
He listened for a moment, and said more soberly, “No, I haven’t heard about any fire.”
While Shayne poured himself more whiskey he heard the scratchy voice from Tallahassee telling Kendrick about the events at his fishing lodge. Kendrick had come forward in his chair, his hand closing on his stick. His eyes touched Shayne’s briefly.
“Was anybody hurt?—Who? Who?—I see, yes. That’s terrible news. Joe, do they know how it started? My God! I can’t believe it. Sheldon Maslow. I can’t deny that we’ve had our differences, but I never had anything for him but the highest respect as a man. How terrible, how tragic.” The other voice asked a question Shayne didn’t hear, and the judge answered, “Grover said something about asking a few people out for a drink, to break the last-minute tension, but as far as I know it was completely unplanned. Whoever happened to be sitting around the George Bar. Joe, this is shattering news. I know you’ll understand if I hang up now. Grover must be trying to reach me. Thank you for calling, and I’ll get back to you if possible before the night’s over. I may have to come down.”
He replaced the phone slowly. His eyes were cold and hard.
“Two people dead. That puts your tape in a different light.”
“Senator Maslow’s the only one I know about.”
“And a repairman from the power company. I’ve been calling the camp regularly and getting a busy signal. I notice now that your eyebrows are singed. You were there.”
“Yeah. The place was a tinderbox. The power was off. They were using candles and a kerosene lamp. There was marijuana around, as well as plenty of booze. It could have been an accident. But you know more about Maslow than I do. Who didn’t like him enough to want him dead? That’s why the cops will be asking why you whacked him with a stick this morning. ‘Will the honorable gentleman from Biscayne County yield?… No? Wham!’”
“Senatorial courtesy stops at the edge of the senate floor,” Kendrick snapped. “Where was he when the fire started?”
“In a locked bedroom upstairs, passed out on the floor. Lib Patrick tells me that just before the fire started she heard a pop. When I get a chance I want her to listen to the sound a handgun makes when it’s equipped with a silencer. That would do it. You could shoot in through a window and put a slug in the kerosene lamp. You’d get a Molotov-cocktail effect.”
“How do you know he was drunk?”
“He seemed to be drunk. I dragged him out in time, so we can take a blood sample and find out for sure.”
“Do you have any other bad news for me, Shayne?”
“No, that’s about all.”
Kendrick made a face and stubbed out his cigar. “I suppose I sounded like a politician on the phone. I meant some of that. Sheldon Maslow was totally uncongenial to me. His ambition was too naked. There are explanations—his family didn’t have money, he had to work like a dog to put himself through law school. I shouldn’t have spoken as I did about his lack of ethical judgment.”
He reached for the whiskey, but checked himself. “Shayne, what are your terms?”
“For suppressing the tape? I may not be able to do that. What effect will this death have on the vote tomorrow?”
The judge considered before shaking his head. “There are too many imponderables.”
“Yeah. I’ve been trying to add them up, and they cancel each other out. What was an anti-corruption man doing at a lobbyist’s party? I hope the cops managed to get the names of everybody there. I have an idea some of the girls have been fingerprinted, at one time or another. What are the possibilities? If he wanted to get in on the flow of cash, that’s bad for us. If he wanted to take pictures so he could blackmail the guests, that’s also bad. It’s even bad if all he wanted to do was expose the methods the opposition was using. That kind of thing is all right for people like me, but he’s not supposed to get down in the mud personally. He had too much to drink and they took away his camera. That’s terrible. It makes him a joke. All you can say for sure is that there’s one less vote against the casinos, Maslow’s own.”
Kendrick slumped sideward in the big chair, and all at once he looked tired and old.
“Let’s do it this way,” Shayne said. “We’ll want a statement from you early enough to make the nine o’clock news. You’re shocked and moved. Sheldon Maslow’s tragic death makes you realize he was right, and you want the senate to vote down this bill as a memorial to everything he stood for. And make sure your people know you mean it, because if the bill goes through, we’ll use the tape to get a veto.”
“That seems—well thought out,” Kendrick said heavily.
“It would be a hell of a climax to your career, whether or not they get you for malfeasance.”
“Glorious,” Kendrick said, and struggled to stand. “My elderly stomach is about to betray me, I find. The stress is at cross-purposes with the corn whiskey.”
Leaning painfully on his stick, he went into a little washroom off his office, and Shayne heard the door of a medicine cabinet open.
The air was crackling with messages. Kendrick was hardly the type to be sick to his stomach at a time like this. Perhaps, Shayne decided, the moment had come for him to get the hell out of Leesville.
He wasn’t quick enough. Glass shattered in the washroom, and the jagged neck of a medicine bottle struck the carpet at Shayne’s feet. He opened the door to the outer office, and Judge Kendrick cried in a shrill voice behind him, “Stop the son of a bitch.”
The cry brought all the fat men to their feet. Turner and the sheriff groped automatically for their weapons. They were all looking past Shayne with expressions of horror.
Shayne turned. The judge was leaning against the edge of his desk, blood streaming down his face. He had drawn the jagged edge of the bottle across his forehead in a long, slanting line.
He said, “I’m going to make sure you regret that, Shayne.”
CHAPTER 11
Things seemed to be happening to Shayne today in pairs. Two attempts had been made to kidnap him. He had been handcuffed twice. Now for the second time within two hours he was surprised in the act of committing a felony. With the broken bottle at his feet, Kendrick bleeding behind him, five half-drunk cronies of Kendrick between him and the helicopter, he scooped up the bottle-neck and stepped back toward the desk.
Grady Turner, the deputy, was the first through the door. His face, usually, medium-well-done, was now closer to rare.
“You cut Judge Kendrick?”
As Turner reached for him, Shayne slashed the air between them with the broken bottle. The deputy followed the movement with his eyes, and turned to the others.
“Look at that.”
Moving deliberately, swinging his eyes back around to Shayne, he drew a .38 revolver.
Shayne said calmly, “Don’t use it, Turner. Kendrick doesn’t want me shot in his office. That would really bring the building down. He’s like everybody else—he just wants me on the sidelines until tomorrow morning.”
“Put the gun away,” the judge said. “Shayne, drop that bottle. Save yourself some grief. Grady, do you u
nderstand me? I don’t want you or anybody else to lay a finger on this man. I want a conviction that’ll stand up in court.”
The deputy lowered the gun slowly and Shayne threw the bottle on the desk. The sheriff brought out a pair of handcuffs, and again Shayne found himself handcuffed, this time to himself. Grady Turner pushed past the sheriff.
“Aren’t we supposed to have any feelings?”
Told not to lay a finger on Shayne, Turner slapped him with the flat of the .38, and the courthouse blew apart.
When the cloud dispersed, Shayne found himself facedown on the bare springs of a metal bunk in a four-bunk cell.
Time went by as he tracked backward, covering the trail of events that had brought him here. He rolled over with difficulty. He was alone. A fly-specked 40-watt bulb burned outside the bars. There was a short corridor, only two cells. That probably meant he was still in the same building, in the detention block, and the door he saw at the end of the corridor connected with the courtroom. He was breathing damp air that seemed to be covered with fur. He heard water dripping. His pockets had been emptied. His watch and belt were missing.
He forced himself up. As he left the springs, the bunk slammed up against the wall with a painful clang. Shayne touched his jaw carefully and found it swollen and covered with dried blood. He smiled to himself grimly. Going to the stained wash basin, he cleaned himself up as well as he could without soap or hot water.
Returning to the bunk, he slept.
He was awakened by the sound of a helicopter. It was coming in. Once more he went back over the night, remembering where he was and the part the News helicopter had played in getting him there.
A door opened. He lifted his head, and his eyes went to his wrist before he remembered that they had taken his watch. The window high up on the end wall of the cell was still dark.
The sheriff appeared, looking ill-at-ease. He smiled ingratiatingly as he unlocked the cell.
“Shayne, you could fall in a privy and come out smelling of violets. You may not even be booked. The judge wants to talk to you.”
“I want to talk to the judge.”
The bunk came up and smashed the wall. Shayne shied. He wasn’t ready for loud noises.
The sheriff was holding the cell-door so the bars were between them. He decided to remind Shayne that he was the one wearing the gun and the badge.
“I don’t like the tone of voice. If you have any complaints about how we run this county—”
“I have a few.”
“If you have any complaints,” the sheriff repeated, “I’ll advise you to keep them to yourself. You’re getting a break here, and you better watch your attitude or you’ll end up with lumps on the other side of your jaw.”
Shayne pulled the cell door out of the sheriff’s hand. “If he wants me out, you’ll let me out, whether or not I call you boss. What time is it?”
The sheriff, his jaw muscles working, blocked his way. Finally, in a voice that seemed to be strained through flannel, he said, “Getting on to four in the morning.”
Shayne calculated quickly. They were half an hour by helicopter from Tallahassee. If Judge Kendrick had left the moment Shayne was slugged, he had had two hours to mop up anything that had been spilled.
“I know it’s hard, but this is all very unusual. In a couple more hours things will be normal again and you can go back to scaring people. Didn’t I hear a chopper?”
“Yes,” the sheriff said, biting off the word.
Shayne’s belongings, including the tape recorder, were restored to him. He returned to Judge Kendrick’s office.
Kendrick, looking really exhausted, was sitting at his desk, a thin strip of adhesive on his forehead. Jackie Wales, on the leather sofa, rose swiftly and came up to Shayne. “What did they do to you, Mike?”
“Nothing much. I barked my face on a .38 police special. Now I think they’re about to apologize.”
“Not quite,” Judge Kendrick said dryly. “You know why it happened this way, and I doubt if you’d get far with a suit for false arrest. I’ve been down to Tallahassee and everything seems to be tied down there. Miss Wales wanted to consult with you, so I gave her a lift back. Do you want a drink?”
“With some black coffee in it. The sheriff will be glad to run out and get us some.”
Kendrick looked at the sheriff. “Three coffees.”
The sheriff wheeled and made off, without trusting himself to speak.
Kendrick continued, “I’ve explained that you risked your life to drag a man out of a fire, and you were under considerable nervous tension. Fortunately the cut was merely superficial. The deputy who hit you has been reprimanded. Perhaps we should call it a tie and drop any further action.”
“The sheriff thinks it’s going to depend on my attitude.”
“A friendly attitude might help, Mike. Sit down.”
Shayne sat on the sofa beside Jackie and accepted a cigarette. “Has Grover been arrested for Maslow’s murder?”
Kendrick’s grip on his stick tightened. “Senator Maslow died in the fire. The fire was clearly accidental. Somebody dropped a burning candle.”
“That’s one theory. What does the medical examiner have to say?”
“It’s more than a theory. It’s now an official fact. Miss Wales, incidentally, was afraid I might have some undue influence in the medical examiner’s office, and she insisted on bringing in an independent physician to corroborate the cause of death. Maslow died of asphyxia, loss of oxygen resulting from smoke inhalation. His blood showed a heavy concentration of alcohol, more than enough to cause him to lose consciousness.”
“It’s true, Mike,” Jackie said. “I kicked up a storm until they let me pick a doctor out of the yellow pages. The only part I still can’t accept is the drinking. He was a real spy-nut—that’s in character. But he was also a nut on the subject of alcohol. He never smoked or drank, ever. The only explanation I can think of is that he wanted to mislead somebody about why he went to the party.”
The sheriff, making no attempt to hide his resentment at being sent on an errand, came in with three cartons of coffee, and Kendrick dismissed him. Shayne laced his coffee with some of the contraband whiskey and sat back, waiting for the judge to make his offer.
Kendrick said abruptly, “Of course you realize by now that Maslow was a blackmailer?”
“We don’t realize anything of the kind!” Jackie said.
“A blackmailer in the exact dictionary-sense of the word. He accepted money and exacted political favors in return for suppressing derogatory information. He didn’t go to Grover’s party out of any compulsion to play the intelligence agent, or to expose the machinations of wicked Miami Beach gamblers. He was taking pictures, and he would have sold them for money and support.”
“Can you prove that?” Shayne said.
“I think so, to the satisfaction of any reasonable man. I have friends among the newspapermen, and if it comes to a crunch they will take guidance from me. But it would be bad for the party, bad for the public’s view of the democratic process. I hope the senator’s blackmailing proclivities will not be publicly aired. We’re going to talk it over here, the three of us, and see if we can reach a determination.”
“If the medical findings stand up you’re in the clear,” Shayne said.
“Not quite. The party was organized by my son, and I can’t hope to come out of this without tarnish unless I can get your cooperation. What do you want, Shayne? I’ll be happy to break Grady Turner to the rank of gas-station attendant.”
“Go on talking about Maslow.”
Kendrick touched his lips to his coffee. “He has known for some years that I had him ticketed. He could move on up the political escalator only if he succeeded in discrediting me or neutralizing my opposition. There is a law in politics—when you know a man is your enemy, find out as much as you can about him. The clerk of Maslow’s Investigations Subcommittee is indebted to me for his appointment. That’s why Maslow hired his own investigat
ors. But the tips, the flow of anonymous information that is the lifeblood of his sort of investigation, still came through official channels, and I was able to keep track of what happened. If the information pointed at someone who could be milked for money, nothing further was heard of it.”
“I don’t know about Mike,” Jackie said, “but you’ll have to document that if you want me to believe you.”
“Here’s an example which will interest Shayne, if it’s true that a man named Frank Gregory was behind that kidnapping attempt yesterday morning. ‘Boots Gregory,’ he is called in the newspapers.”
“Yeah, I’m interested,” Shayne said.
“Gregory operates in Maslow’s district. Maslow has attacked him for years, promising to run him out of St. Petersburg. A tip about Gregory came in from St. Albans, from a prisoner there. Maslow flew out immediately to interview him. Soon afterward, by a coincidence, he stopped attacking Gregory. This looked like the kind of thing I’d been waiting for. I sent Grover to St. Albans, but by that time—another coincidence—the prisoner had been killed, knifed mysteriously in the shower.”
“Judge Kendrick, if that’s a sample of what you regard as evidence,” Jackie said, “it’s awfully thin.”
“I doubt if Shayne thinks so.”
“Now that you know he can’t contradict you,” Shayne said, “tell me again why you hit him with your stick.”
“He had a Xerox copy of a page of figures purporting to prove a payment of forty thousand dollars to my son from Phil Noonan’s Savings and Loan Association.”
“From Noonan?” Shayne said, surprised.
“He told me he intended to publish it unless I backed him for governor. Fortunately I followed my instincts and hit him. The paper was faked. It’s a rather clever forgery, and under different circumstances Maslow might have succeeded with it. I confronted Noonan this afternoon. He showed me the actual ledger entries.”
Jackie said, “They obviously had time to juggle the books and cover it up.”
“It doesn’t matter a hell of a lot,” Shayne said. “Judge Kendrick has agreed to vote against the bill, and to put the word around that he wants it beaten.”
Lady, Be Bad Page 9
