Murder in Haste

by Brett Halliday

  “I had to,” he said reasonably. “She walked in on us, on Chadwick and me, when we were going over a layout of the bank. I don’t know what she made of it, but if she ever started thinking about it, I’d be dead.”

  “I thought it was a map of the town,” Rose said, appalled. “For the Red Cross campaign. It never entered my head—”

  “Just a minute,” Shayne said gently. “Milburn’s stabbing, Luke. How did you arrange that?”

  Quinn bared his teeth. “In front of all these people?”

  Rourke suggested, “Let’s turn off the radio, Mike. I want some of this exclusive.”

  Shayne clicked off the sending switch. “Now do you feel better, Luke?”

  Quinn went on sneering. “You’re the big brain here. You know all about it anyway.”

  “I can guess,” Shayne said. “When Painter asked to see Milburn, they called him out of the mess-hall. A few hours later the warden put several of the prisoners’ leaders on discipline. Everybody knows how simple it is to bludgeon a two-time loser into turning stool pigeon. I think we’ll find some members of your local in jail. That doesn’t mean any of them did the actual stabbing. Starting a good strong rumor would be enough.”

  “Now you’re worrying me, Shayne,” Quinn said.

  “Do you ever do any skin-diving, Luke? That’s something else we’ll want to look into, to tidy everything up. It doesn’t matter too much. You can’t be executed more than once, and what you’re going to be executed for is the murder of George Heminway … Where are you going, Rose?”

  She turned. “Mike, hadn’t I better call Norma Harris? It seems cruel to keep her in suspense.”

  “Her big interest is the money,” Shayne said. “I’m coming to that.”

  “The money?”

  “Sure. I wouldn’t want you to keep it, when you’re the one who sent your husband to the bank that night.”

  Painter sat up straighten “Now look here, Mike. Just because you had a few lucky breaks doesn’t entitle you to—”

  “Right or wrong, Rose?” Shayne said.

  “Wrong,” she said coldly. “As wrong as you could possibly be.”

  Shayne smiled. “And how could we prove it, anyway? After three years, we probably can’t even prove that your father was helping himself to the bank’s assets even before you suggested the robbery to him. I really don’t think he’d go into partnership with a character like Quinn unless he already had a shortage he couldn’t cover.”

  “Sixty G’s,” Quinn said. “Or so he told me. Of course he wasn’t George Washington, as far as telling the truth was concerned.”

  “That’s the most—the most despicable—” Rose said.

  “Well, Luke’s a despicable character,” Shayne said tolerantly. “I’ve been thinking about this, and I think I know about what happened. Your husband found out what his crooked father-in-law was up to. What’s more natural than for a husband to confide in his understanding wife? But he made a mistake there, because you’re the type of understanding wife that thinks things through. If George turned your old man in for embezzlement, he’d either go to jail or the bank would fire him and make him sell everything he owned to pay them back. Without a father-in-law at the head of the bank, George would stay at his adding machine for the rest of his career, and life as a clerk’s wife, with a father to support, was not for you.

  “I’d better not try to guess which of you actually thought up the robbery, you or your old man, and that’s another thing that doesn’t matter. But of course you knew about it. Luke wouldn’t put thugs on you unless he was damn sure you knew everything there was to know about that night. When George came to you with his problem, you told him you couldn’t believe it, you had to have proof, and that meant he had to go back to the bank and work late, on his own time, with nobody else around. He got the proof all right, but from the wrong end of a gun.”

  She started to speak and he said cheerfully, “This is all guesswork. I admit it.”

  “When Norma came to me I did everything she wanted,” she said. “I tried to push Mr. Painter—”

  “No, you didn’t,” Shayne said. “You went to him to find out what he knew, if anything. Your father went to him for the same reason, and I think he may have wondered if you’d sold him out.”

  “But I—I hired you, Mike. Doesn’t that prove—”

  “You suddenly realized you needed protection. Luke Quinn, who was coming to town this week, was friends with some very rough men.”

  “Mike,” she said quietly, “your tone’s so—I don’t know—so vindictive. I thought you—you and I—”

  Shayne looked at her in surprise. “Just because you offered to sleep with me, you thought I’d let you keep the money? That’s not the way I operate.”

  Rourke put in, “He’s already got a girl.”

  Rose looked from Shayne to Painter. The chief-of-detectives looked away, flicking his thumbnail across his mustache. She seemed to harden as she saw that Shayne’s reasoning had left her without allies.

  “Just exactly what do you intend to do about it?”

  “There’s not much we can do,” Shayne said. “You didn’t fire the gun that killed your husband, Quinn did, and there’s no way we can prove conspiracy. We can’t even prove perjury on your identification of Harris—you had the sense to qualify that. But we can take the money away from you. Goddard,” he said, addressing the insurance company president, “do you want to speak on that point?”

  “I checked the banks for safe deposit accounts, as you asked me to,” Goddard said. “There’s one in Mrs. Heminway’s name and one in her father’s. It wouldn’t have mattered if you’d let her leave a minute ago, Mike, because I put a temporary stop-order on those boxes until we can get court permission to see what’s inside them. The Bay Harbor property ought to bring a nice price.”

  “It’s not my father’s!” Rose cried. “It’s mine!”

  “But he bought it for you, probably? It may take some litigation, but if Shayne’s charges hold up, and having worked with Shayne before, I have a feeling they will, I think the courts will decide that it was bought with money that properly belongs to us. That would go for any other real property, bought since your husband’s death. A car, say, jewelry, fur coats.”

  Rose looked confused. “I’ll be left with nothing? Nothing at all?”

  Painter said quickly, “You admit it?”

  She rallied. “I don’t admit a thing! You’re going to have a fight on your hands! And as for you, Michael Shayne, I wish I’d paid more attention to the stories I’ve heard about you. You don’t want to settle for my little fee. You’re after higher stakes.”

  Shayne said soberly, “No, I’m charging you my usual rates, and I expect to get paid. I promised I’d give Sam Harris twenty-five percent of the recovery fee, but I’ve decided he deserves it all. He’s spent three years in jail on a bad rap, and I doubt if the state of Florida will do anything but say they’re sorry.” He added to Rourke, “But don’t tell Lucy about this, Tim.”

  “Norma Harris!” Rose exclaimed. “I might have known. That over-sexed, over-developed bitch. You’re birds of a feather!”

  Shayne grinned. “I’m giving it to Sam, not Norma. It may be just the thing to keep their marriage together.”

  “This isn’t in character, Mike,” Rourke observed. “Lucy wouldn’t believe it even if I told her.”

  The door opened and a union official looked in. “Harry—”

  He looked around, and Plato said impatiently, “Well? Hurry it up, because I’ve got to get out there and take the chair, if I’m going to hold the membership in line.”

  “They just announced the results, Harry. You ran third. The rank-and-file—”

  “What?” Plato demanded.

  “Well, they won, Harry, all down the line.”

  “We only put them on the ballot so there’d be a contest!” Plato cried. “What do those jerks know about running a union?” He turned angrily on Shayne. “And how about me? H
ow about me? This is all your fault, you bastard. I’ve never been able to put aside a penny. I hope you’re satisfied! I’ll have to go back to driving a truck!”

  Turn the page to continue reading from the Mike Shayne Mysteries

  1

  Lucy Hamilton was on the telephone when Michael Shayne returned to his office after lunch. She sat at her desk beyond the low railing with the receiver held to her ear, a little frown of resignation ruffling her forehead as she listened.

  She turned her head as Shayne entered, lifted her left shoulder a trifle and said into the mouthpiece: “I’ve explained it will be impossible for me to promise that Mr. Shayne will come to see you unless you give me some idea of your business. He is a very busy man, and.…”

  She paused, wrinkling her nice nose at the instrument and then at Shayne, who grinned widely as he tossed his hat on a wall-hook and lounged closer to lower one hip onto the railing near her.

  “I understand all that,” Lucy said, firmly. “And if you wish to see Mr. Shayne in his office, I will be glad to arrange an appointment. But I’m afraid that.…”

  She was interrupted again by a voice Shayne could hear crackling over the wire, and, when it stopped, she said flatly, “Yes. I did get your name correctly the first time, Mr. Peralta. But I’ll still have to insist.…”

  “Hold it, Lucy!” It was her employer who interrupted her this time. The rangy redhead was sitting erect with a gleam of interest in his gray eyes. “Would that be Julio Peralta?”

  “One moment, please,” Lucy said into the mouthpiece. She covered it with her hand and nodded to Shayne’s question. “He seems to think you should jump through hoops when he speaks. I’ve told him …”

  “It’s okay, angel. Tell him I’ve just come in, and switch him inside.”

  Shayne rose and took three long strides to the open door into his private office. He crossed to the flat desk in the center and scooped up the phone, said, “Hello? Shayne speaking.”

  “Mr. Shayne.” Peralta’s voice was precise and demanding, tinged with relief. “I’ve been explaining to your secretary that I must see you at once. Please come to my place immediately.”

  Shayne said, “I’m tied up for a time, Mr. Peralta. In a couple of hours?” He glanced at his wrist watch. “Say four-thirty.”

  “If you can’t possibly make it sooner. This is an extremely important matter that won’t brook delay.”

  Shayne said, “Four-thirty it is. You’re on the Beach, aren’t you?”

  “I am.” His caller gave him an address on Alton Road. “I’ll expect you here no later than four-thirty, Shayne.”

  “I’ll be there,” Shayne promised. “With bells on,” he ended sotto voce as he replaced the receiver. He straightened and stood for a moment, tugging at his left ear-lobe and looking across the empty office with ragged, red brows arched a trifle.

  The questioning expression faded to a slow grin as Lucy’s voice came indignantly from the outer office:

  “After all the times you’ve told me, Michael Shayne, that a client must state his business before you’ll see him! I was just building you up as an important guy, darn it, when you spoil it all by saying, meekly, ‘Yes, Mr. Peralta. Whatever you say, Mr. Peralta.’ Who the devil is Mr. Julio Peralta anyhow?”

  Shayne’s grin widened as he went back to the open door and leaned against it. “You should read the papers, Lucy. Particularly the crime news.”

  “I do read the papers,” she defended herself. “I don’t remember anything.…”

  “About three weeks ago,” Shayne cut in. “There was a jewel robbery on the Beach.”

  “Oh.” Lucy Hamilton put her doubled fist against her mouth and looked contrite. “Something about a fabulous emerald bracelet—and the story was garnished with strip-tease pictures of a distraught female. You would remember that case.”

  “Just a couple of intimate snapshots of Mrs. Julio Peralta in her boudoir that morning after, pointing out exactly where she had tossed the bauble the preceding night.”

  “But this was Mr. Peralta on the phone,” Lucy reminded him acidly. “He won’t be greeting you in a filmy negligee.”

  “Probably not,” Shayne muttered. “But the bracelet was insured for a hundred and ten grand, angel. And there hasn’t been a single lead turned up in three weeks.”

  “So you’re going to find it for him?”

  Shayne shrugged. “If I just collect a retainer on a job like that, it won’t be chicken-feed.”

  He turned away from the door, adding over his shoulder, “Get Miami Beach Headquarters on the line for me. Detective Division.”

  When his desk phone rang a few minutes later, he picked it up and Lucy told him formally, “Detective Furness is on the wire, Mr. Shayne.”

  He said, “Hello, Ed. How’re things?”

  “As usual. How’s with you, Shamus?”

  “I need a little information from you boys. Can you tell me who is handling the Julio Peralta robbery?”

  “Just a minute, Mike.” Ed Furness sounded suddenly wary. “Hang on, will you?”

  Shayne hung on. It was at least a full minute before a voice rasped over the wire, “That you, Shayne? What’s your interest in the Peralta case?”

  Shayne winced at the voice of the chief of detectives in his ear. With assumed heartiness, he protested, “Furness needn’t have bothered you about this, Painter. I simply wanted to know.…”

  “It was his duty to bother me,” Peter Painter informed him. “I’m handling the Peralta case personally. What is it you want to know?”

  “Just the low-down,” growled Shayne, knowing he wasn’t going to get it now. “What leads you’ve got thus far. What the chances are for.…”

  “And what is your interest, Shayne?”

  “I thought I might take it on,” said Shayne, easily, “since you’re apparently not doing so well handling it personally.”

  There were a few seconds of silence. Shayne grinned, imagining he could hear Painter grinding his teeth together in rage. When the chief’s voice did come over the wire again, it was a vicious snarl:

  “You keep your goddamned big nose out of the Peralta job, Shamus.”

  “Why?” asked Shayne, innocently. “Don’t you think you could use a little help after three weeks’ horsing around with it?”

  “You try to horn in on that case, Shayne, and, so help me God, it’s the last one you’ll ever louse up. If I hear the slightest rumor of a pay-off on that case, you’ll lose your license and end up in a cell.” There was a decisive click as the detective chief hung up.

  Shayne replaced his phone thoughtfully and got up to stroll to one of the windows overlooking Flagler Street. This could only mean that Painter felt he was on the verge of solving the case by an arrest. His savage insistence that Shayne stay clear of it hadn’t been feigned. Yet, in the past the Beach chief had not been averse to turning his head the other way while discreet arrangements were being made with an insurance company to recover stolen articles for a fraction of their insured value. Not that Shayne had any particular reason to think such an arrangement might be possible in this case. That had been Painter’s idea entirely.

  Shayne shrugged and turned away from the window, glancing at his watch. He went to the outer hall and took down his hat, told Lucy Hamilton, “Close up whenever you like, angel. I don’t think I’ll be back this afternoon.” He pulled the hat low on his bristly, red hair and went out with a wave of his big hand.

  Timothy Rourke was lolled back in an aged swivel-chair with his feet cocked up on a battered desk when Shayne entered the Miami News City Room a short time later. The reporter’s eyes were placidly closed and his partially open mouth emitted a rhythmic snoring sound despite the loud clatter of teletypes and the rattle of typewriters filling the room.

  Shayne crossed to Rourke’s corner with a grin, nodding greetings to other reporters who hailed him; pulled up a straight chair in front of the attenuated, sleeping figure and sat down. He lit a cigarette and said qui
etly, “Tell me about the Peralta thing, Tim.”

  Rourke’s cadaverous features twitched. His mouth closed, then opened again into a wide yawn. One eyelid lifted cautiously, but he made no other movement.

  “Go’way,” he muttered. “Information desk’s outside.”

  Shayne settled himself more comfortably as Rourke closed his eyes again and opened his mouth in a pretense of continuing to snore. The detective said nothing, but reached in a sagging side-pocket of his Palm Beach jacket to lift out a full pint of bourbon. He broke the seal and uncorked the bottle and leaned forward to gravely hold the open bottle under Rourke’s nose. The thin nose twitched and bloodless lips opened greedily. Shayne tilted the bottle and let a couple of ounces dribble into the open mouth.

  He took the bottle away and said, cheerfully: “First course. What’s on the Peralta case, Tim?”

  Rourke closed his lips and worked them in and out, opened both eyes this time and said warily, “Nothing new. You got an angle?”

  Shayne shook his head. “A phone call from Peralta to see him this afternoon. You heard anything at all on it?”

  Rourke sighed and dropped his heels off his desk. He sat up and reached for the pint bottle, lifting it deftly from Shayne’s lax grasp. He tilted it to his mouth, let it gurgle for a time, and set it on the desk in front of him. “Not a thing on it since the snatch, Mike.” His deep-set eyes glittered brightly in their hollows. “You got ideas?”

  “Trying to pick some up before I see him,” explained Shayne. “Was it your story?”

  “Only a follow-up. Human interest stuff. There was plenty of that with Laura Peralta cooperating on the cheesecake angle. How that dame loves to show her legs. Guess she’s damn tired of hiding ’em behind Julio’s millions.”

  Shayne took a drag on his cigarette and frowned. “Former show-girl, isn’t she?”

  “Right out of Minsky’s.” Rourke took another sip from the bottle and firmly corked it. “You see those first shots she gave the boys that morning?”

  Shayne nodded. “X marks the spot.”