Murder in Haste

by Brett Halliday

  They rode the bubbles to the surface. Shayne had one hand around Painter’s mouth. He stroked hard with the other arm, coming up at an angle in the hope of being beneath the dock when they surfaced. But Painter was fighting too hard, and he didn’t quite make it Their heads broke water. He heard a cry from the Cuban’s boat, and at the same instant, a siren.

  He rolled on his side, shifting his grip to Painter’s chin, and pulled hard for the dock. Painter floundered behind him, trying to get his arms around Shayne’s neck. Shayne held him at arm’s length. His wet clothes slowed him down, but he reached the dock before anyone on the Cuban’s boat could get out a gun. Four more swift strokes carried him beneath the cross-walk. There were two sirens now, coming fast. The engine of the Cuban’s boat was idling. Shayne noted the name on the stern as it swung toward him. Someone shouted in Spanish.

  “Gotta get him!” Juan shouted. “Or Luke—”

  “Hell with Luke,” somebody answered. “Those are cops.”

  “Cops, cops. Hold it right here, or by God I knock you out of the boat with this forty-five.”

  Shayne pushed Painter against a piling. He heard the Cuban’s feet on the cross-walk.

  “Hang on,” he whispered.

  Painter reached for him desperately as he swam away, Then snatched at the piling, wrapping both arms and legs around it. Shayne surface-dived silently and breast-stroked toward the Cuban’s boat. He groped ahead of him in the black water. When his fingers touched a piling, he surfaced slowly, easing up to avoid a splash.

  He heard the voice from the boat, low but penetrating, “Juan, they’re coming, they’re coming.”

  The Cuban made a sharp sound above Shayne, five feet toward the shore. Shayne moved quietly past the piling, grazing it lightly with his fingertips. He saw something move on the water—a long pointing shadow. Juan was leaning far down, his gun ready, watching and listening intently. Shayne sank beneath the surface, turned in the Cuban’s direction and planted his feet solidly against the piling. He straightened his knees, kicking backward, and shot upward through the water.

  He had misjudged his distance slightly, but as he flashed into the open he changed direction with a powerful flip of his body. His hand fastened on the Cuban’s arm. He heard a shout from the boat. The Cuban grunted and tried to turn the gun, but he was half over the edge, and his balance was wrong. Shayne twisted, kicking, and dragged the Cuban into the water.

  He took him down, concentrating on the gun. The Cuban stabbed at Shayne’s face with the rigid fingers of his free hand. Shayne’s legs scissored around the Cuban’s waist. Still they went down. Shayne had filled his lungs before he attacked, but the Cuban had been caught by surprise. Another moment, and he was no longer trying to hurt Shayne, but to get away.

  They were down in muddy water, roiled by the settling of Plato’s boat. The Cuban dropped the gun and clawed upward. Instantly Shayne pushed toward the surface. The Cuban hit at him when they broke water. Shayne clipped him behind the ear, but not hard enough to stun him. He continued to struggle. Shayne tried to maneuver him around to get a clear shot at a knockout point, but his arms and legs were heavy and the frantic Cuban was hard to control as a fighting salmon. Shayne pushed him back against the nearest piling and banged his head until he felt the lithe body go limp in his hands.

  Men were running out on the dock. The Cuban’s boat swung out into the bay, its throttle opened up full. Shayne towed the Cuban to where he had left Painter. For a minute he thought the little man had let go, choosing to drown himself in preference to being saved by Michael Shayne.

  “Painter!” he shouted. “Goddam it—”

  But he had made a mistake in the half light. He saw Painter clinging to the next piling.

  “I’m never going to forget this, I warn you!” Painter said. “You deliberately let them sink that boat. You thought you were going to get rid of me, didn’t you?”

  Suddenly Shayne was filled with cold fury. “You got yourself into this all by yourself, and I wish I’d let you get out of it. You found some evidence that would save a man from execution. It must have been pure luck, but you found it. And then you held it up so you’d get more personal publicity out of it. You fell for the oldest dodge in the book, you were so goddam anxious to get something on me—”

  “And I’ll get it yet, don’t worry!”

  “Who really robbed the Beach Trust, Petey? Luke Quinn?”

  Painter howled. “No, you don’t! You think you can grab the spotlight now, after everything I’ve gone through? No, sir. I’m way ahead of you.”

  Shayne suppressed an impulse to drag him into the water. “Have it your own way,” he said wearily.

  “And don’t you forget it!”

  The dock above them reverberated to the sound of footsteps. Tim Rourke’s voice called, “Mike Shayne, are you down there?”

  His head appeared upside down at the edge of the dock. A gun went off, but the escaping boat was beyond pistol-range. Other heads appeared beside Tim’s, and one of the cops played a flashlight into the shadows. Shayne swam toward the light, towing the Cuban. Rourke reached down, Shayne reached up and their hands joined.

  “I called the cops when I found your car,” Rourke said. “That’s not the Panther out there. What the hell happened?”

  Other hands came down and dragged Shayne and the Cuban out of the water.

  “And that’s not Petey!” Rourke exclaimed.

  A voice sounded faintly from beneath the dock. “What do you bastards think you’re doing? Get a rope down here or you’re going to be back walking a beat, a lot of you, and by God, I mean it!”

  Rourke made a face. “Stupid of me, I know. But I was kind of hoping he might be different.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Tim Rourke raced back to his car, returning with a Japanese camera loaded with fast film. He arrived just as one of the cops was reaching down for Painter. But Painter hated to relinquish his grip on the piling, and the cop couldn’t quite touch his chief’s outstretched fingers until Shayne and a second cop held him by the legs. Rourke was ready. As Painter came over the side, sputtering, Rourke made the picture, which appeared on the front page of that day’s News.

  “Get that man!” Painter yelled. “Confiscate his camera!”

  Then his eye fell on Shayne. “I thought you’d be a couple of miles from here by now. Arrest this man. If he gives you any trouble, put the cuffs on him.”

  “Arrest me for what?” Shayne said quietly. “Assaulting an investigator for a Senate Committee?”

  “No,” Painter said “For—for—” he looked around. For—”

  “Petey, don’t you think you better put out a call for that boat? Her name’s Ophelia, and her home port’s Baltimore, in case you were under water at the time and didn’t notice. We’ll be in better shape if we can pick them up before they get to a phone.”

  “I’m capable of giving the orders around here, thank you. Get out a call for the Ophelia,” he said sternly. “From—” He looked at Shayne.

  “Baltimore,” Shayne said. “Heading down the bay.”

  One of the cops ran toward his radio, and Painter looked down at the Cuban, who was conscious but not yet active. “Let me see, which one is this?”

  “His name’s Juan Grimondi,” Shayne told him. “He works for Luke Quinn. He was driving for the guy who tried to shoot Rose Heminway yesterday morning. He killed one of Plato’s thugs, named Gray. On top of that, he’s just committed piracy.”

  Painter’s mouth was open. “He did? Yeah. Okay, book him.”

  He started away, managing a good imitation of his usual cocky strut, in spite of the flapping garter. Rourke said in a low voice to Shayne, “I didn’t believe it at first. The son of a bitch is loaded.”

  As though to prove it, Painter veered toward the edge of the dock. One of the cops grabbed him to keep him from falling in.

  “I feel dizzy all of a sudden,” Painter said, and sneezed so hard he almost jolted himself out of the cop�
�s hands.

  “What you need is a shot, Chief,” the cop said solicitously. “You’re catching cold. I always carry a pint in the car, for emergencies.”

  Shayne and Rourke exchanged a look and hurried after them, leaving the third cop to bring the Cuban. In front of the clubhouse, the cop pulled open the door of the prowl sedan, and produced a pint of blended whiskey. Painter took it in both hands and drank eagerly.

  “None for you,” he said, noticing Shayne. “Not after the way you hogged the liquor on the boat.” He sneezed again. “I’ve got to get into some dry clothes, and then we’re going to raise a little hell in a certain union.”

  “Petey!” Shayne said brusquely, holding the door so it wouldn’t close. “I know it’s asking a lot, but think. As far as they know, you’re at the bottom of the bay. Let’s use it. You’re behind the times. Things have happened since the night before last.”

  “I’ll catch up,” Painter said.

  “How did you get on Quinn’s trail in the first place? You found something in Benjamin Chadwick’s wallet, isn’t that right? Okay, where is it now?”

  “Take off,” Painter told the cop at the wheel. “If you have to run over any private detectives, don’t hesitate.” He swivelled back to Shayne, and made an anguished stab at his breast pocket. “It’s—”

  “You’re damn right it’s gone,” Shayne grated. “The people who picked you up weren’t working for Quinn, but for Plato. Naturally they searched you. Naturally they’d be glad to find something they could use to hold over Quinn. Is your mind finally working? Go ahead and walk in and arrest Quinn, in front of the TV cameras. How long do you think you can hold him?”

  “I can hold him,” Painter said unconvincingly. “I’ve got a very strong case, and I have no intention of giving it away to you.”

  “What’s this strong case consist of? Chadwick can’t talk. Milburn’s dead. You’ve got one thing, and that’s all. Just before the robbery, Quinn was in hock to a loan shark. Just after the robbery he was able to pay off the loan shark and buy enough votes to move up in the union. That could be the cincher if you had anything else, but it’s not enough by itself.”

  Painter sank back in the seat, seeming suddenly much smaller than usual. “I went through all this for nothing. I damn near drowned—”

  “It’s not as bad as that. They’re fighting among themselves, and to take advantage of it we’ve got to work together. This can be a big thing for you, Petey. You can have the TV screen all to yourself. I’ll be satisfied with a small check from the insurance company.”

  “As usual,” Painter said bitterly.

  “As usual, and I think I deserve it. What time are they holding the election?” Shayne asked Rourke, who was standing beside him listening avidly.

  “That’s their first order of business,” Rourke said, “and they’ve got the Honest Ballot Association to make the count. We’d better get moving, Mike,” he added nervously. “The Herald’s going to have a man here any minute.”

  “It’s your story, Tim,” Shayne said. “Painter and I would probably both be dead now if you hadn’t called the cops.”

  He looked at his watch. It was supposed to be waterproof, but it had been through too much violent activity in the last half hour, and was no longer running.

  Rourke said, “Just before seven, Mike.”

  “That gives us time enough, if it doesn’t take Petey more than an hour to tell us what he found in Benjamin Chadwick’s wallet.”

  Painter sighed heavily. “How did you know—”

  Looking down at him, Shayne said, “That’s when you put on a bodyguard. When somebody collapses on your doorstep, you look in his wallet for his name and address. You found that, and you also found something else.”

  “A picture,” Painter said. “A 35 mm negative. I had it developed, and there was Luke Quinn, looking straight at the camera. He had a suitcase in one hand, and he was coming out of a vault.”

  “Great detective work,” Shayne said sarcastically. “I knew it had to be something simple. No, I take that back, Petey,” he added quickly. “Now that we’re working together I’ve got to start being polite.”

  “Maybe I should have turned it over to the FBI and let them make the arrest,” Painter said. “But why let somebody else in on it when I’m the one who—And there’s no reason to look at me like that. Not everybody would have thought of developing that picture. I dug up the loan shark, I found Fred Milburn and I did a good job of worming the truth out of him, if I say it myself. Quinn was coming down to Miami for the convention, so why shouldn’t I make the arrest myself? It was just a matter of a few days, a week at the most Meanwhile, I could make it airtight. Well, I guess we all make mistakes.”

  Rourke and Shayne looked at each other in astonishment. Neither had ever heard the little chief of detectives make any such admission before.

  “That’s all right, Petey,” Rourke said soothingly. “You go home. You’ll feel more like yourself when you’ve had some sleep.”

  “Sleep? This is no time for sleep.”

  He glanced at the driver, who was as surprised as the others at the turn the conversation was taking. Coming out of the car, Painter took Shayne’s arm and drew him to the dock, where they wouldn’t be overheard.

  “What did you have in mind, Shayne? I’m not saying I’ll do it, you understand. But it’s perfectly true I’ve been out of circulation for a day. If you want to make a suggestion, I’ll be glad to consider it.”

  Rourke followed Shayne’s Buick to the redhead’s apartment hotel. He phoned his paper while Shayne showered and shaved. Soon afterward a copy boy arrived to pick up his exposed film. The coffee was ready by the time Shayne was dressed. Shayne took a cup to the phone, where he made several calls. Meanwhile, Rourke was using his razor.

  Shayne called from the phone, “Do you happen to know who writes the insurance for the Beach Trust? Wouldn’t that be Acme?”

  Rourke answered from the bathroom. “They get most of the business in that part of town. Who do you think’s going to be there at this time of the morning?”

  “Nobody. I’m calling the president, what’s-his-name, Goddard. He’ll be glad to skip breakfast.”

  Rourke finished shaving and combed his hair, using Shayne’s equipment. The two men were more presentable when they were ready to leave.

  “Wearing a hat, Mike?” Rourke said. “Isn’t that overdoing it a little?”

  “Who knows? We may be on TV.”

  “Gad. And I don’t have any make-up on.”

  They pushed through the revolving door into the St. Albans lobby at five minutes of nine. From the number of police cars parked outside, Shayne saw that Painter had completed his part of the arrangements. Rose Heminway hurried across the lobby.

  “Michael! I honestly don’t think I can stand much more of this. Is this how you live all the time?

  “Not quite,” Shayne said. “Sometimes I get a little sleep.”

  They walked up one flight to the ballroom. Rourke used his press-pass, and Shayne and Rose went up another half-flight to the gallery. They found seats overlooking a scene of considerable disorder. Harry Plato, on the dais, was hammering vainly with his gavel, but the delegates were in no hurry to settle down. One end of the gallery had been taken over by the TV cameras, which were not yet turned on. Rourke slipped into an empty chair at the press table, below Plato’s microphone.

  “Take your places, brothers,” Plato was shouting. “This convention will come to order.”

  Luke Quinn emerged from one of the side rooms, surrounded by a compact group of ten or twelve men, all but one of whom were smoking cigars. He said something to one of the men, and that man and several of the others laughed.

  “Isn’t that Luke Quinn?” Rose remarked. “He wasn’t this sure of himself when I knew him.”

  Gradually the knots of delegates broke up and drifted to seats at the long tables, which seemed to be arranged by geographical districts. Shayne glanced at his watch, which
was functioning again. He saw Goddard, the insurance company president, come into the gallery and look around until he saw Shayne. The redhead gave him an inquisitive glance. He nodded.

  “Wait here, Rose,” Shayne said. “I’ll want you later, so don’t go anywhere.”

  He returned to the main floor, passing a compact formation of fifteen or twenty uniformed cops, and went along the hall to the entrance nearest the dais. Plato had brought the convention to order and a minister was giving the invocation. Shayne doubted if many of the delegates were actually praying. He was stopped at the door by a burly sergeant-at-arms. He found an envelope in his pocket and borrowed a pencil. Holding the envelope against the wall, he wrote. “Harry, did you know the Panther has been sunk with all hands?—Shayne.”

  He folded the envelope and gave it to the sergeant-at-arms with a five-dollar bill. “Hand this up to Harry.”

  “After he gets done?”

  “Now.”

  The man gave the envelope to someone at the nearest table, who passed it across the aisle. The minister finished the invocation and sat down. Shayne watched his message travel from table to table until it was finally passed up to Plato, who was back at the microphone. He finished a sentence and glanced at what Shayne had written. He went on, but broke into the next sentence and read the note again. He looked across at Shayne, who was planted in the doorway, his hat pushed back on his head, his hands in his pockets. Shayne grinned. After a moment Plato called another official to take the gavel, and came down. The ballroom was reasonably quiet, and the delegates were all watching him. His eyes were stormy.

  As he came up to Shayne, the redhead said pleasantly, “I thought I’d be telling you something you didn’t know.”

  “In private, baby,” Plato said briefly.

  He led the way to a door marked, Midwest. He called over a nearby lounger. “We don’t want to be bothered in here.”

  “Sure, Harry.”

  They entered a private dining room, which was being used as headquarters of the Midwest district. A secretary was drinking coffee from a cardboard container.