Lady, Be Bad

by Brett Halliday

  Several people were trying to break in. Shayne told the state attorney that he wanted to question the medical examiner, and a cop was sent out to the lobby to bring him in. The doctor who entered, a tall, thin, nearly chinless man, was clearly unraveling fast.

  He appealed to the state attorney. “You have to issue a statement. The media people won’t leave me alone. One of them came right out and in so many words accused me of taking a bribe to falsify—”

  Shayne interrupted. “After reflection, you don’t want to change your findings on the cause of Maslow’s death?”

  “I certainly do not. Asphyxia. Enough alcohol in the bloodstream to induce unconsciousness. Absolutely beyond question. Confirmed by Doctor Schwartz. I’ve occupied this office for thirteen years. There’s never been the slightest hint of any irregularity—”

  “I believe you,” Shayne said. “Were there any burns on the body when you examined it?”

  “None. The cause of death was as I’ve stated it. Smoke inhalation.”

  “I disagree with you there, Doctor. He was smothered while he was unconscious.”

  The doctor sat down and loosened his neck inside his collar. “Smothered. Unconscious. Are you serious?”

  “It’s a theory. I’m going to ask you again about burns. Wasn’t there in fact a small burned spot on the thigh, circular, about the diameter of a cigarette?”

  The doctor sniffed at the question before deciding to answer. “He dropped a burning cigarette in his lap while he was drunk. It had nothing to do with his death.”

  “He not only didn’t drink, he didn’t smoke. Was the burn at a spot which a trained nurse might pick for an injection?”

  Gregory’s lawyer sat forward. “See here, Shayne—”

  “Have you been retained as counsel for Miss Braithwaite?”

  “I can take care of myself!” she cried. “What do you think I’m going to do, admit I gave him a shot of some fancy poison?”

  “You gave him an injection of alcohol, Anne,” Shayne said. “Vodka would do it. You confiscated his camera, but he’d taken the precaution of bringing two, and luckily for us he’d already switched. We have a picture of you enjoying reverse intercourse with a Republican senator—enjoying is probably the wrong word. Your handbag is open. There’s a hypodermic syringe in it.”

  She was beginning to look older, and as Shayne had predicted, she was already less good-looking.

  He continued, “Maslow wasn’t the type to get drunk at a time like that. He was too greedy and ambitious. There was only one way you could get alcohol inside him, and that was with a needle. Boots was outside in the woods, in case you needed him. You were high on pot. You knew Maslow was there somewhere, because you’d made sure he knew about the party by telling a private detective named Teddy Sparrow. The blackmail possibilities were too good, and Maslow wasn’t able to resist. You found him in a closet. The electricity was off. At some point in the conversation you clubbed him, pulled down his pants and injected him with enough pure alcohol so the medical examiner would be sure to get a drunk reading, enough to keep Maslow snoring until it was time for the next step, the pillow over the face and the fire. You poured whiskey on him and put him back in the closet. Of course you knew a dead senator would get a good going over from the M.E., so you burned a hole through his pants with a cigarette and destroyed the needle mark.”

  The medical examiner said uncertainly, “If we had the body—”

  “It’s wild!” Anne said with a high laugh. “You don’t have the body, do you?”

  “That’s what made me think of Boots,” Shayne said. “It’s as close as anybody can come to a sure thing. If Maslow had picked up on Sam and Lib, they would have had reason to kill him. But Sam isn’t the kind of gambler who rigs the wheel or buys out all the jockeys in a race. He’s satisfied to go with the percentage.”

  “Thanks,” Sam said dryly.

  “Boots contributed one thing—he shot out the kerosene lamp and started the fire. I think Anne did everything else.” He looked at the doctor. “How would a pillow suffocation fit your diagnosis?”

  “It would have the same effect on the lungs, precisely. Mr. Shayne, would you mind coming out to the lobby and explaining to the TV people—”

  “In a minute.”

  “Mike, one thing,” Rourke put in. “Who burned the funeral home? Boots was busy closing the hotel deal, if I’m figuring the timing right—”

  “Luccio did that,” Shayne said, grinning at the squat gambler. “Things looked terrible for him at that point. He tried intimidating Judge Kendrick and somebody shot at him from the judge’s office. If the body got an early cremation, people would be suspicious about Kendrick’s hurried trip down to Tallahassee in the middle of the night to talk to the doctors.”

  “You can’t pin that on me, Shayne,” Luccio said.

  “That’s somebody else’s job. But I want to talk to you later, Al, so don’t disappear. Now we come to our other murder. Maslow kept a separate office for his undercover business. Boots needed that arrest-sheet. It took time to collect the necessary safe-blowing equipment and to force Sam to sell him the Regency. He’d just blown the safe when Grover Kendrick walked in. Grover, too, had a paper he needed, the proof of that initial payoff from Noonan. All at once there were too many people in that gynecologist’s office, and Boots was the one with the gun.”

  Gregory’s slump had become more pronounced. His head was close to the table, his face tipped so he wouldn’t have to look at anybody. Shayne’s tone sharpened.

  “That old vice arrest in St. Albans was bad enough—but hell, seventeen-year-old kids are entitled to one mistake. There must be people in St. Pete who look up to Gregory. Young fellows coming along who need a model, somebody they can respect. That Maslow thing was a little too fruity, Boots. Your fans won’t understand it. Anne did most of it—a girl. You were outside, in reserve. A little chicken? A bit on the cautious side? Yeah, I’m afraid so.”

  The lawyer stirred. “Mr. Gregory, I suggest we—”

  “You heard people laughing a minute ago, Boots,” Shayne said. “But wait till the news gets around about how Lib and Sam stuck you with the Regency. That’s too good a story to keep corked. It’s funny. How many times did she let you get in bed with her, about three? How you fell for it! That’s a quarter of a million dollars a screw. You actually thought you were going to move in on Sam Rapp. It couldn’t have worked, Boots. Sam is a man.”

  Gregory raised his head slowly. “I killed him.”

  “Did you, Boots? I doubt it. It isn’t in character.”

  “I shot him. I let him pull out his gun first, and then I spattered his brains on the wall.”

  Shayne shook his head. “You’re a born patsy. A born mark. You’re the big joke of the year.”

  “The son of a bitch was crowding me. I threw the gun away, or I would have killed you too when you walked up the road.”

  “Boots, you’re crazy!” Anne said. “Crazy, crazy! Who cares how they laugh at you if you’re in the clear?”

  She finished with a small laugh herself, and it brought Boots to his feet yelling, “I shot the bastard! Do you hear me? What’s so funny about that?”

  He went for the girl. Shayne let the regular police handle it.

  After Gregory had been removed, still shouting, Shayne said to the state attorney, “He had his own lawyer with him. God knows he had enough warnings. Do you think you can use it?”

  “I sure as hell intend to try. Is that all, Mike?”

  “I still have a few odds and ends, but not for public consumption.”

  The press was called in, and the state attorney repeated Shayne’s story. Rourke phoned his paper. Shayne listened, supplying the facts he still needed. After hanging up, Rourke gave his friend a searching look.

  “It’s all very tidy, Mike, but a couple of parts of that I don’t buy.”

  “It’s the best I could do. Take your drink to a table, Tim. I want to talk to Jackie.”

  “
For one thing,” Rourke said, “with this much illegal money floating around, how come you didn’t get your hands on any of it? That never happened to you before, to my knowledge. Are you sick?”

  “I’m getting a fee.”

  “If you’re talking about the fifty bucks the paper owes you—”

  “I’m getting fifteen thousand,” Shayne said impatiently. “Sam and Lib put it up so a trooper could arrest me for bribing Grover. I’ve got a receipt for that, and I intend to collect it.”

  Rourke gave a relieved laugh. “That’s one thing explained.”

  He joined the other reporters listening to the state attorney. Jackie was sitting alone with a dead cup of coffee. Shayne beckoned to her.

  She slid onto the next stool. “I suppose you’re sore.”

  “I’m a little sore.”

  “I didn’t know about Luccio, Mike. I really didn’t. He came to see me when he heard Maslow was dead. He told me to get you out of town so he could try his own methods. He said you’d never believe I was so dumb I didn’t know where the money was really coming from. I thought we were running on contributions. And he was right, wasn’t he? You don’t believe it.”

  “So you told the highway cops they could find me talking to Sam at the Skyline Motel.”

  “Yes. And I intercepted Al and warned him to stay away from Sam, that that was a trap. Mike, I didn’t want you to find out about Luccio!”

  “Everybody’s been trying to sidetrack me. Gregory hijacked me. Sam and Lib had me arrested. Kendrick put me in a cell for a few hours.”

  “I know,” she said. “I was stupid and wrong. I suppose this means I won’t be seeing much of you from now on.”

  “That’s one of the things it means. How much is Luccio paying you?”

  “Nothing. Mike, I didn’t know about him!”

  Shayne thought for a moment, then looked around. Luccio was waiting to be noticed. He came over anxiously.

  “Mike, listen, if there’s any further beef can’t we square it one-on-one, without bringing in the authorities?”

  “How much were you paying Maslow?”

  “As you said, Mike, I paid him with that arrest-sheet on Gregory. I mean, I’m not in the blackmail business, it’s dynamite, I don’t like to fool with it.”

  Shayne clinked the bag of roulette counters. “How much is this worth?”

  “Ten thousand, Mike, but that was definitely to be paid in the future.”

  Shayne tossed the bag to Jackie. “Redeem them for her. And don’t slam the cashier’s window when you see her coming.”

  He reached carefully into a bulky manila envelope and pulled out the handset of a public phone, wrapped in paper towels. One of the towels was loose, and the glossy surface of the phone showed a thumbprint.

  “You remember the phone you used when you called the judge. If you’ll think back, you’ll recall that when you left the booth you weren’t thinking about fingerprints. You threatened a public official, damaged some property and shot a deputy sheriff. It’s not much, but it might be enough to lose you the St. Albans concession. I’ll keep the phone in a safe place until Jackie tells me you’ve paid up.”

  Luccio gulped. “I suppose that’s fair, Mike. It’s just been a lot of turmoil about nothing, hasn’t it?”

  When Shayne didn’t answer, Luccio moved away.

  “Thanks, I guess,” Jackie said. “I would have preferred—well. We’ll run into each other. Miami’s not that big a town.”

  She picked up the bag of St. Albans counters, returned to her table for her purse and cigarettes, and walked out Lib Patrick, seeing Shayne alone, came down to join him.

  “You did wait till Sam deposited the check, so I suppose I’m grateful.”

  “Of course you’re grateful,” he said. “And after Sam sets up the irrevocable trust-fund, so he can’t change his mind, you might be willing to show me how grateful you are.”

  She laughed. “And would that be so terrible? If you’re serious, we don’t even have to wait for the papers to be signed. But I don’t think you’re serious.”

  “That’s right, I’m joking.”

  He had switched to straight cognac. He refilled his glass.

  “I see you’re in a sour mood,” she said. “Tim just reminded me about that fifteen thousand. It’s yours. We couldn’t claim it without admitting we were trying to frame you.”

  “I earned it.”

  “Baby,” she said, laughing, “what are you being so grim about? All we did was swindle Boots Gregory out of seven-hundred-and-fifty-thousand dollars. That’s not such a horrible crime.”

  “And how many people were killed? I make it four so far, and it’s not over yet.”

  She touched his hand lightly. “They deserved it, dear.”

  The press conference was breaking up. Rourke wandered back, passing Lib as she left.

  “What was she doing, offering sex? And what were you doing, turning her down?”

  “I have to punish her some way.”

  Rourke saw the phone sticking out of the manila envelope. “I tried to make a phone call in the lobby, and one of the phones was cut loose. Is that—”

  “Not so loud,” Shayne said. “The phone up in Leesville didn’t produce any usable prints.” He picked up his drink. “Don’t go anywhere, Tim. I’ve got one more thing to do, and then let’s do some drinking.”

  Judge Kendrick was still sitting alone, clutching his stick with both hands. Shayne sat down across from him.

  “Isn’t it time the senate convened?”

  “They can convene without me. Mike, will those—people be convicted of Maslow’s murder?”

  “Not a chance. The body would have helped, but probably not too much. I meant it when I said it was a sure thing.”

  “But they definitely did it?”

  “Definitely. You don’t still think Grover had anything to do with it?”

  “No,” the judge said heavily, almost with regret. “Gregory’s going to repudiate that confession, you know. He’ll say you bludgeoned him into it, which you did, incidentally.”

  “We may be able to get him on it if we can find the gun. Did you know about Maslow’s unofficial office?”

  “It was one of those open secrets everybody knew.”

  Shayne made an impatient movement. “Don’t make me drag it out of you. You know you have to talk about it. I can’t read people’s minds, and neither can you. Sheldon Maslow was a bastard, but do you want them to get away with killing him? I don’t think so. He was a fellow member of the club.”

  “You’re not bad at reading people’s minds.” He waited a moment. “I saw Grover leaving the hotel, and I had an idea where he was going. Somehow he’d got hold of some plastic explosive, and he’d just blown the safe when I came in. He’d been drinking heavily. Mike—you said I set great store by honesty, and that’s true. But there have been compromises. Such is politics. Grover learned from me. I don’t accuse him. He merely went further. I voted for what he called special-interest legislation because I believed that when you add the special interests together, you get a system which, on the whole, works better than any other. Grover believed in free enterprise for himself as well. You turned up one bribe, the one from Noonan. There were others. There would have been more. He’d been watching Maslow, to see how he worked. Grover had bad luck with women, he was a poor judge of common stocks, in many ways he was a coward. He had taken Maslow’s papers out of the safe. He told me—joyfully—that I was going to serve another term, after all. Maslow had wanted power, but I already had it. One term, Grover thought, would make him rich.”

  “What kind of a gun did you have?”

  “He had the gun, a junk .38, a cheap revolver. I wiped it off carefully. It can’t be traced to me. I hadn’t been drinking since midnight. I took it away from him.”

  “And it went off accidentally.”

  “It went off. I don’t maintain it was accidental.”

  “I didn’t think the scene was right for Boots.
He would have tried to deal. How do you want to handle it?”

  “I’ll take care of it myself, Mike, if that’s all right with you. I buried the gun in a vacant lot—I’ll show you where. I think I’ll let you see if you can convict Gregory. For the first time in my life I feel inclined to take the law in my own hands—now there’s a pretentious remark. I haven’t been that much of a pillar of rectitude. I don’t really care about my life. I have no family now, and I’m sick to death, Mike, sick to death of courthouse politics in my home county. I’ll arrange a hunting accident.”

  Shayne nodded and produced the tiny pencil-like recorder which he had taken from Lib Patrick.

  “I’ll accept that, but don’t change your mind about killing yourself, Judge, because I’ve got it on tape. I’ll give you a month.”

  The judge met his eyes. “Pick your own date. Just give me twenty-four hours notice. I honestly don’t care anymore.”