Violence Is Golden

by Brett Halliday

  She opened her eyes when he didn’t respond. Shayne shook his head slowly.

  “Sometime, maybe. Not now. You’re thinking of too many other things. What if your husband walked in? Could you make him understand that the one reason you’re letting this happen is so you can make a better deal with me tomorrow?”

  Her tongue appeared briefly. “That’s why it started. It changed.” Raising her head, she kissed the corner of his mouth. “You’re not as tough as you pretend, Mike. It wouldn’t actually matter much if George—I don’t know how to tell you. My marriage isn’t quite the same institution they talk about in the women’s magazines. If you want to go on, I will. In a physical way, I know it would be lovely. But it’s probably the wrong time?”

  “I think so.”

  She took his face in both hands. “Do you think we’ll end up as friends?”

  “I don’t know enough about you yet.”

  “You’re a mystery to me, too! I should go now, Mike. My poor ladies will be ready to mutiny.”

  He separated himself from her, and she retied her bikini. “Come for a swim with us. We might find something else to talk about besides sex and money.”

  “I’ve got a few things to take care of.”

  “Such as Mary Ocain?”

  He laughed. “Such as Mary Ocain. She’s not much of a conspirator yet, but give her time. She’s new at it. She wants to tell me that somebody’s using our DC-8 to smuggle gold. I’ll act surprised and impressed. If she talks to anybody else, it could get serious very fast.”

  “What could she do?”

  “Notify the wrong people and get the plane impounded. I can stall her, I think. It would help to know how long the stuff is going to be aboard.”

  Naomi began running a comb through her long hair. “I’ll check with somebody and see if it’s all right to tell you. I’m honestly a very small cog in this.”

  “So you don’t know who’s going to take delivery?”

  “I honestly don’t. Leave George to me. I know how to handle him. He gets erratic after a few drinks, and I think I can say, at five minutes to two in the afternoon, that he has had a few drinks.”

  She wasn’t looking directly at him, but there was a special urgency in her tone.

  “Why not leave him to you?” Shayne said after a moment. “We have a deal.”

  “We don’t exactly have a deal.” She kissed him once more. “Not yet. God, I’ve got to hurry. Those women will eat me alive.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Mary Ocain was waiting. Shayne, looking through the front window of Cranshaw’s Ice Cream Parlor, could see the top of her head in one of the back booths. To attract mainland tourists, the store was a self-conscious replica of the kind of small-town ice-cream parlor that hasn’t existed in American small towns for years. Marble-topped tables were surrounded by wire-backed chairs. The air-conditioning unit was assisted by a slow-moving overhead fan.

  Heads turned as Shayne entered. It was dim and cool.

  He joined the schoolteacher, who was working her way through a chocolate sundae, topped with whipped cream and a candied cherry. She looked pointedly at her watch.

  “Fifteen minutes late. I expected you to be more prompt.”

  “I was in the middle of something. Do they have anything here besides ice cream?”

  “Soft drinks. Hot chocolate. I know you’d rather be in the pub down the street, but it’s safer here. Try a sundae. They’re delicious.”

  Shayne ordered plain ice cream and lit a cigarette. Mary gave an odd little bounce.

  “Don’t half the people on our plane remind you of actors in an Alfred Hitchcock movie? Maybe not. You’ve never been on this kind of a tour before, and don’t tell me otherwise because it’s all so obvious. People don’t carry guns on tours. They don’t take along gaudy blondes with great protruding bosoms and too much eyeliner.”

  He looked at her more closely. Very little daylight penetrated this far into the store, but he thought he saw a slightly different glitter in her eye. She was wearing bright makeup. She had changed into a white linen dress that left her freckled shoulders bare.

  “Do you know what I had to drink for lunch?” she demanded. “Absinthe! For the first time in my life. It tasted a bit like medicine, but the second wasn’t quite as bitter as the first. I was about to try a third when I remembered that I wanted to be enunciating clearly when I talked to you. Not knowing you planned to be fifteen minutes late. Honestly—do you think absinthe is all it’s cracked up to be?”

  “How does it go with a chocolate sundae?”

  “Pretty well so far. I’ve been amusing myself trying to imagine how the master would have handled that departure scene this morning.”

  “What master are we talking about?”

  “Hitchcock, of course. I’m a tremendous admirer of his films. I’ve seen The Lady Vanishes fourteen times. Do you know it? Think about it for a minute and you’ll see what I mean. It all happened on a train, remember? Everybody in the hero’s compartment was just a bit strange. The charming little old lady turned out to be a British spy. The nun had on high heels. Don’t look so puzzled. Take that Negro clergyman of ours. He’s no more a clergyman than I am.”

  “Was he wearing high heels?”

  “You aren’t taking me seriously, are you? If there’s one thing I can claim to be an expert on, it’s package tours. It’s easy for somebody like you to sneer, but this kind of tour isn’t such a bad way to do a continent for the first time. You get a fast overview, for a modest amount of money. Later, if there’s a place you especially like, you can go back for a visit in depth, by yourself or with a few friends. Well, I want to assure you, this is no ordinary tour. J. Moss. He actually looks like an interesting man, and believe me, if there’s one thing these tours have in common, it’s a shortage of interesting single men.”

  “He sells vacuum cleaners. No, he changed that. He’s a bank investigator.”

  “He’s a bank investigator, my foot. Naomi Savage isn’t very typical either. She’s too intelligent for the job. I’m not sure about her husband. I tried to talk to him a couple of times, but we didn’t seem to make any sparks. And now we come to a big redheaded swinger who calls himself Mike Shayne.”

  Shayne’s ice cream arrived. He looked at it without enthusiasm.

  “You’re a private detective, apparently,” she went on. “Specializing in murder cases, I believe. You command large fees. Most of the time you work on the extreme outer fringes of the law. Am I right so far?”

  “Even private detectives take vacations. Not as often as school teachers, but—”

  “This isn’t a vacation for me. I happen to be working on curriculum planning and development. And I doubt if it’s a vacation for you. I really doubt it. Your behavior. You yanked the stew’s blouse out of her skirt—a symbolic rape if I ever saw one. Did you feel the frisson of shock run through the plane when you did that? You dropped your pistol. Don’t pretend that wasn’t deliberate. Strange things! The captain downed a double whiskey before we took off. I’m sure the Federal Aviation people wouldn’t approve of that. Reverend Ward’s flight bag wouldn’t open and he used a piece of profanity which I hesitate to repeat aloud. What about your Christa’s charming accent? Swedish, isn’t it?”

  “German.”

  “Perhaps. What role is she supposed to be playing, a floozy? She’s mercenary enough, I’m sure, but actually I’m convinced she’s a lesbian.”

  Shayne laughed. “Mary.”

  “Men can be fooled, you know! To change the subject slightly, don’t you think it was clever of me to pretend to get a cramp in my leg?”

  “Very clever.”

  “Well, it was! Whether you think so or not! Have you figured out yet what they’re smuggling?”

  Shayne held up one hand. “You mean Reverend Ward and the rest are—”

  “Don’t pull that innocent act on me, Mr. Michael Shayne. You’re after the ten percent, aren’t you?”

  “Ten percent of
what?”

  “I’m not ready to start answering questions quite yet.” She peered at him, then opened her bag and took out a flat pint of cognac. “I had an idea you might take that sarcastic attitude, so I came prepared. Notice that it’s cognac. Maybe I know more about you than you think. I want to appeal to your better nature, and I’m told that hard liquor helps.”

  She poured cognac into her empty water glass and pushed it across the table. She sniffed tentatively at the open bottle, said, “Nothing ventured, nothing gained,” and took a long pull of the raw spirit.

  “Goodness!” she said after a strangled cough. “It’s powerful.”

  She poured the water from the second water glass on the floor and partially filled it with cognac. Shayne raised his glass and she clinked hers against it.

  “I’m impressed with myself,” she said with another little bounce. “I tend to order Alexanders and Daiquiris, as a rule. Hurry up and get tight so you’ll stop being so critical.”

  “Do you have any other reason to think Ward isn’t a clergyman?”

  “No-o-o. But just because a zipper on a flight bag was stuck, would a genuine clergyman say—” She leaned across the table and whispered a word. “Would he?”

  “I don’t know many Episcopal clergymen.”

  “Well, I do.” She drained her glass, continuing to swallow till she had it all. “Are my roommate’s eyes going to pop when I come reeling in! Mike—” She put her hand on his, but quickly pulled it away. “Excuse me. One of the side effects of alcohol as far as I’m concerned is that it makes me amorous. I’ll try to control myself.”

  “Mary, sooner or later you’re going to have to get around to what you wanted to tell me.”

  She moistened her lips and folded her hands on the table.

  “I’ve ruled out the possibility that you might actually be on vacation. If you wanted to take a vacation with an overstuffed Playboy Club bunny, you’d move into a Miami Beach hotel or take her down to Key West. Or maybe you have some reason of your own for signing up for the tour. I don’t think so. It would violate the unities. One further question—are you one of the good guys or one of the bad guys? I understand you’ve been known to be ambidextrous. I think you’re a good guy this time. I think you dropped your pistol so the bad guys would be sure to spot you. A bit dangerous? Not really. Nobody can catch you in a dark alley if you stay out of dark alleys.”

  She poured more cognac, the neck of the bottle ringing against the glass. Shayne moved the glass out of her reach. “Let that first one soak for a minute.”

  “I bet that’s the first considerate word you’ve spoken today,” she said, pleased. “Does that mean you’re human? Don’t worry about me, Mike. I’m famous for the amount I can drink without showing it. Famous in a limited circle, I’ll be the first to admit. A limited circle without any men in it. I’m thirty-seven, a terrible age for a woman. I’ve reached the top step of the salary schedule in the Milwaukee school system, and who cares? I’m pretty damn unappetizing, you don’t need to tell me.”

  “That’s a long way from what you started out to tell me.”

  “I notice you aren’t contradicting me, though. And it’s not really such a long way. I have some information that could be worth something. That ought to give you an incentive to sweet-talk me, but it doesn’t seem to work that way. I see a small streak of lipstick at the corner of your mouth. It doesn’t seem to be the shade I’ve seen your girl wearing. It looks more like Naomi’s. Probably you felt you had to kiss her and so on and so forth, standard procedure for people in your business—”

  When she reached for her drink, he let her take it. She set it back without drinking.

  “Self-pity, the curse of the spinster.” She was speaking quietly. “Here’s what happened, Mike. I came down to Miami a day early to go to the racetrack and get some sun. I left my suitcases at the airport. Alfred Hitchcock doesn’t use coincidences too often, but they do happen in real life, as everybody knows. There was a big baggage wagon at one of the checkout counters. The name on one of the tags jumped out at me. Mary Ocain! Do I need to remind you that that’s my name? It was a new bag, definitely not one of mine. It’s an uncommon name, but I do run into Ocains now and then, and I didn’t exactly clutch my forehead with amazement. I didn’t think of it again until I was introduced to that rather nondescript math teacher from East St. Louis. Sally Jennison, she was sitting behind me on the plane. And all at once I remembered another suitcase on that baggage wagon, tagged Jennison. You see what they’re doing? They have a whole set of bags with labels made out in the names of people on the tour. And I bet if we looked in those bags we’d all get a nice surprise. It’s a pretty good system, I’d say, not knowing anything about it.”

  “That’s not much to go on, Mary.”

  “Wait. My brain has been clicking away merrily ever since. I was in the lounge at the Miami airport when they were loading the luggage, and I made a point of looking out of the window. You know the luggage space in the bottom of the plane. There are three compartments with separate doors. They load the bags into metal containers, like pods, and bring them out of the terminal on a forklift. Later, when they unload, all they have to do is slide the pods out of the hatches and move them inside. It saves a lot of handling. They loaded three containers. Mike, I must have telegraphed what I was thinking. I turned around and saw George Savage watching me. It was a very dirty look he was giving me, I assure you.”

  “Did he say anything?”

  “You mean I’m imagining all this? Well, anything’s possible! But when we unloaded this morning, they only took out two containers, not three. So I decided to make myself obnoxious, and I asked George for my other bag. What other bag, he said with a stupid expression. The new one, I said, and, Mike, he blushed! How often do you see that nowadays? He got all red in the face and he said he’d see if he could trace it, et cetera et cetera. To me that’s conclusive. The phony luggage is in that third hatch. And in case you’re still skeptical,” she went on as Shayne started to speak, “Naomi offered me a bribe to keep quiet.”

  “Tell me about that. When?”

  “In the lobby of the hotel this morning. I knew I’d get you interested sooner or later. I’m a pretty good photographer, in my own unbiased opinion. She saw some of my transparencies. She wants me to stay here in St. Albans to take pictures for a brochure the travel agency is getting out. If I stay here, I won’t be on the plane asking questions about luggage, will I? Actually, I’d love to do it, but I have certain commitments. This year’s whole in-service training depends on my getting back with the right kind of pictures, and there we’re talking about my bread and butter. She said why didn’t I skip Venezuela and rejoin the tour in Brazil? But—”

  “Where in Brazil?” Shayne said quickly.

  “Brasilia.” She put her hand to her mouth. “Brasilia! I’m not connecting too well. That means they’re going to leave the hot suitcases in Caracas. It does!” she insisted excitedly. “I’ll bet any amount of money. Then when I get back on the plane in Brasilia, it won’t matter what I think because the third hatch will be empty!”

  Shayne felt a twinge of disappointment. He had begun to like Naomi. But he ought to know by now that the way a young woman looked in an imperfectly fastened bikini had no bearing at all on whether or not she was taking part in an illegal operation.

  Mary said, “Are you having another drink? I think I will, too. I feel a lot more relaxed now that I know we’re working together.”

  “Did I say anything about working together?”

  “No, but you will. I’ve still got some ammunition. I was looking at the news on television last night. It’s a little blurred in my mind because I didn’t know you were going to be massaging my calf the next morning—”

  She giggled. Shayne asked her to continue.

  “Didn’t you have some kind of an argument with a Japanese?” she said. “Well, maybe this doesn’t mean a thing, but I was in a gift shop looking for postcards, and I s
aw somebody from the plane talking rather furtively with a Japanese man.”

  She held out her glass. “More, please.” He poured. “Furtive,” she said. “You’re going to pounce on that word, and I’ll forestall you. I really can’t tell you what gave me the impression it was a furtive conversation—the angle of their shoulders, perhaps. Alfred Hitchcock would know what I mean. The Japanese was the big, handsome wrestler type, reeking of virility. One thing I noticed particularly, being a photographer of sorts myself, was his funny camera. I’ve never seen one shaped exactly like it”

  “Who was he talking to?”

  “Well, Mike—” She gave him a coy look. “What’s the good old Latin expression? Quid pro quo. You butter my parsnips and I’ll butter your parsnips, and I hope you don’t think I’m trying to be lewd.”

  “This isn’t table tennis we’re playing, Mary,” Shayne said. “These people play for blood. If that’s the same camera I saw yesterday, it isn’t a camera. It shoots bullets. All this is very romantic, and a big change from your ordinary routine, but are you prepared to be killed?”

  She gulped. After a moment she said faintly, “I’m sure it won’t come to that.”

  “Two people have been killed already,” he told her. “Is there anything else?”

  “No,” she said in a small voice.

  “OK.” He made an angry gesture. “Then will you please tell me what the hell’s the point in behaving like a Goddamn sixteen-year-old? You’re a grown woman. Didn’t anybody ever tell you there’s something to be said for minding your own business?”

  She said with dignity, “Mike, you have no right to talk to me in that—”

  “The hell I don’t. If you want to play catch with a hand grenade, that’s up to you. Just don’t do it while I’m two feet away.”

  “I’m sorry that’s how it seems to you. I’ve been brought up to believe in personal responsibility. When I see somebody being beaten, I don’t believe in crossing the street and pretending it was a figment of my imagination. Smuggling’s a crime!”