A Taste for Violence

by Brett Halliday

  Shayne stepped forward and put his toe on the glowing cigarette. “Pardon me,” he said. “This looks like a pretty good rug.”

  Elsa Roche ignored his act and his words. She continued to look up at him. Her gray-green eyes showed nothing of the emotion which had caused her to double her fist and let the cigarette fall from the holder unnoticed. She asked, “Did Charles mention any one he was particularly afraid of?”

  “Letters from clients are privileged communications, Mrs. Roche. The fewer people in Centerville who know what your husband said, the better chance I’ll have to find his murderer.”

  “This is all quite beside the point,” Seth Gerald said impatiently. He moved to stand closer to Shayne. Jimmy Roche came over to join them, and they made a semi-circle in front of Elsa’s chair. “Charles’ murderer is behind bars right now,” Gerald went on, “and we don’t want any…”

  “Get Mr. Shayne a drink, Seth darling,” she interrupted. She spoke lazily, but an electrical current seemed to flow into the room.

  “Cognac,” Jimmy suggested, “that’s what Shayne drinks.” He turned aside and called, “Emma! Bring a bottle of Hennessey and a glass. Straight?”

  Shayne said, “Thanks. With ice water on the side, if you have it.”

  Jimmy said, “Sure,” and walked toward a door in the rear of the room, opened it, and went out to give further orders.

  Shayne went over to a chair and sat down. Seth Gerald moved slowly around the room for a moment, then seated himself across from Shayne. Elsa Roche sat up straight, then leaned forward to clasp her hands around a crossed knee and commanded:

  “Come sit beside me, Seth darling, and stop being so tragic. I don’t think the case is any too strong against Brand, and if Mr. Shayne has, or can get enough evidence to help hang him, why shouldn’t we have it?”

  “He hasn’t said he has any. What can he have?” asked Gerald crossly. “He just arrived in Centerville.”

  Jimmy Roche returned to the room and went over to lean against the radio cabinet. “Those threatening letters,” he interposed, “if Charles sent them to Shayne and if they’re signed by Brand… that ought to be enough to hang him.” He spoke excitedly, but his eyes were clouded and dull.

  Elsa flashed a scornful glance at her brother-in-law, then said to Gerald, “I told you to come over and sit beside me, darling.”

  He picked up his highball glass from the end table beside his chair and drew an occasional chair close to her. He asked Shayne, “Did Charles send you those letters?”

  Shayne said, “What Charles sent or said to me is private.”

  The Negro maid came in with a tray holding a bottle of cognac, an empty glass, and another clinking with ice water. She looked inquiringly at her mistress, then placed the tray on the table at Shayne’s right.

  Shayne said, “Thanks, Emma,” and she said, “Yessuh,” and went away. He poured three inches in the bottom of the empty glass and said, “This will help to wash the taste of some execrable Portuguese brandy out of my mouth… Centerville’s finest, I understand.” He drank half the contents and settled back with a sigh of pleasure.

  “Charles never showed those letters to anybody,” Jimmy said, breaking the silence of a full minute.

  Gerald frowned at Jimmy Roche and his smooth voice roughened a trifle when he asked, “Did Charles send you those letters, Shayne?”

  Shayne studied the glowing end of a freshly lit cigarette and said, “I understand they’ve been turned over to the police.”

  “Only one of them,” Elsa said throatily. “The only one Charles showed me. He was very secretive about the others.” She picked up her cocktail glass and took a long drink.

  “Was it signed by Brand?” Shayne asked casually.

  “It was not signed at all,” she said shortly, slid down in the chair and toed the footstool over to rest her feet.

  “I’ve told Mr. Shayne that even though his services aren’t needed here,” Gerald said silkily, “I feel sure you would want him to keep the check Charles sent him as a retainer… to cover the expense of his trip up here, if nothing else. I’m sure you agree.”

  “Of course,” she said listlessly. “If he hasn’t any further evidence against Brand he may as well go back to Miami.”

  Shayne tossed off the rest of his drink, set the glass down on the tray, asked, “And if I could prove George Brand is being railroaded for a crime committed by someone else? What then?” He cast a quick glance at the three faces, leaned his head back, and watched a cloud of smoke roll toward the ceiling.

  The silence in the room was thicker than the clouds of smoke Shayne puffed toward the gold and rose ceiling. A dead silence. Shayne saw them looking at each other; Gerald’s black eyes disturbed; Elsa’s fringed with her long lashes, green and inscrutable; Jimmy’s naked and dull.

  The faint laboring of a car beginning the steep climb below sounded through the quiet, growing louder as it came nearer. Gerald and Elsa bent tensely forward. Jimmy uncrossed his ankles and stood up straight. The car stopped in front of the house, and there were firm, confident footsteps on the concrete steps. The doorbell rang.

  Shayne heard Emma’s flat shuffling feet carrying her weighty body through the hall, and turned to get a glimpse of her as she passed the archway leading into the living room. The front door opened.

  Shayne poured himself another drink of cognac, drank half of it, chased it with ice water, and waited.

  6

  THE man who came in was short and bulky, bull-necked and swarthy. His feet were small, and he took short steps, but there was aggression in his whole manner and an air of triumphant excitement which he tried decorously to hide by the solemnity of his light brown eyes and a drooping black mustache.

  “Mrs. Roche,” he said gravely, and crossed the room with both hands outstretched. “I can’t express my sorrow of your bereavement. Believe me, my dear. Your husband’s death is a great loss to the state of Kentucky and the mining industry. You must try to forget your personal grief and think of their loss. He was a forward-thinking man… the type of new blood we needed. The entire South is mourning his loss tonight.”

  Elsa lifted her right hand languidly and said, “Thank you, Mr. Persona,” and he took it gently between his stubby short fingers and fat palm, turning aside to say to Seth Gerald:

  “And I want to congratulate you on behalf of AMOK. It’s a wonderful triumph. A smashing victory. I confess I’ve been worried. We’ve watched developments with deep concern, and some of us feared… but that’s beside the point now. The strike is broken. All’s well that ends well, eh?” He was chafing Elsa’s hand between his palms. She drew it away and looked angrily at its redness.

  “I’m afraid I don’t quite understand,” said Gerald stiffly.

  “Don’t you know?” His tone was incredulous. He drew his stocky body to its full height of five feet six. “Good God, man, haven’t you heard? The strike is broken. The men have just announced they’re going back to work tomorrow. The news was all over town as I drove through.”

  Shayne stretched his legs out comfortably and sipped cognac between long drags on his cigarette. His eyes were very bright, his features relaxed, his wide mouth upquirked at the corners.

  Mr. Persona turned gracefully on his small feet to address Elsa Roche. He was apparently too absorbed in his own triumph to notice Seth Gerald’s silent consternation. He said, “You will forgive me, Mrs. Roche. What I’m saying can’t possibly lessen your personal grief, but in the years to come it may be a consolation to realize your husband did not die in vain. The repercussions of this fiasco will be felt throughout the country… the whole world. People who have been cold will be warm.

  “Besides,” he continued, “think of the lasting effect upon our national economy. There will be international reverberations, I assure you. The miners have been taught a drastic lesson. In the future they’ll think twice before following the arrogant and stupid leadership of a man like George Brand. I consider the victory largely due to
your excellent handling of the situation,” he continued, turning on the ball of one foot to face Seth Gerald. “Your appeal to the miners in the local paper was a masterly stroke. It caught them off balance.”

  Persona turned again on the ball of his foot. He saw Michael Shayne, and for the first time seemed to realize the presence of a stranger in the room.

  Gerald said, “What I did seemed the obvious thing to do.” He saw, then, that Persona had turned and was looking at Shayne. He said, “This is Michael Shayne… Mr. Persona, Mr. Shayne.”

  Shayne didn’t get up. He nodded and said, “How do you do, Mr. Persona.”

  “Shayne is a private detective,” said Seth Gerald.

  Mr. Persona went over to Shayne and extended his hand. Shayne took it and felt a rock-crusher grip on his knobby fingers.

  “Mr. Shayne is a private detective who just drove up from Florida,” Gerald continued smoothly. “Perhaps you’ve heard, Shayne, that Mr. Persona runs AMOK.”

  “So?” Shayne’s bushy red brows rose a trifle. He studied the swarthy man curiously, and added, “Often?”

  Both Gerald and Persona looked puzzled. Then, Seth Gerald chuckled. He said, “I think I see what you mean. A sort of joke. A-M-O-K.” He spaced the four letters carefully. “Associated Mine Operators of Kentucky. Mr. Persona is the chairman of the Board, with headquarters in Lexington.”

  “It seems to me that right now murder runs AMOK,” said Shayne gravely.

  Persona glanced inquiringly from Shayne to Gerald. Jimmy Roche strolled up to join them.

  “Jokes,” said Persona, “are definitely out of place and in bad taste in so serious a situation.” He had apparently missed the play on the word. “Bringing in strikebreakers won’t be necessary now, for at least a year. You mark my words.”

  “Mr. Shayne is not here to bring in strikebreakers,” Gerald interposed hastily. “He came to Centerville in response to a personal letter from Charles who had a premonition of being murdered. Unfortunately Mr. Shayne arrived too late to prevent it.”

  “Or fortunately?” Shayne looked at the three men in rapid succession, then turned his eyes upon Elsa Roche. Her lids were closed, and she appeared to be in a stupor.

  “What do you mean by such a statement?” Persona’s swarthy face was darkly red.

  “It seems that Roche’s death was a lucky thing for AMOK. If this local labor disturbance was as important to the entire industry as you say, it might have been disastrous had Charles Roche lived to take over the management of the Roche Mining Industries.”

  “And just what do you mean by that?” Persona’s voice was ugly and challenging.

  “Perhaps I don’t fully understand the situation,” Shayne admitted, “but I gather that Charles Roche was soon to take over active management of the property previously held in trust for him under the terms of his father’s will. Is that correct, Gerald?”

  “Perfectly correct,” Gerald said stiffly. “On his thirtieth birthday. Tomorrow, in fact. The terms of his father’s will are common knowledge.”

  “And Charles was something of a liberal?” Shayne was deliberately goading them all now. “Not quite so averse to seeking a compromise settlement of the strike as the present management. In fact, it looks as though he was anticipating taking over control and was anxious to have a conference with George Brand beforehand to arrange terms of a settlement.” He spread out both his big hands and looked up at Persona.

  “That would have been a crushing blow to your organization, wouldn’t it? You say the entire south was watching the result of this strike,” Shayne went on placidly. “Wouldn’t you have had a rash of strikes immediately if the Roche miners had been successful?”

  “That’s true in a sense,” said Gerald impatiently. “But it isn’t true that Charles was arranging a settlement. That’s a barefaced lie on Brand’s part to build up his defense by proving lack of motive. Charles was as determined as I that we should never give in to the miners’ demands. Isn’t that true, Elsa?”

  They all turned toward her. Elsa Roche opened her eyes wide and stared at them. “What? Oh, I guess so,” she answered listlessly. “Charles didn’t discuss business with me much, but I’m sure he was killed by that man, because he positively told him there’d be no change in policy after he took charge.”

  “How can you be so positive, Mrs. Roche?” Shayne asked mildly.

  “I heard… he told me,” she said evasively. “Come on over here and sit beside me, Seth.” She sank back and closed her eyes again.

  “It’s perfectly obvious,” Persona snorted. “What other motive could Brand have had?”

  “The fact remains,” Shayne said coldly, “that his death, in effect, brought the strike to an end.”

  “It was already breaking up,” Gerald said shortly. “The men were trickling back to work.” He turned away, walked over to Elsa’s chair and looked down at her for a moment. She did not open her eyes.

  Shayne lit a cigarette and observed the two through a cloud of smoke. He said, sharply, “May I take it, Mrs. Roche, that you are satisfied to let things stand as they are?”

  She said listlessly, “I don’t know what you mean.” Her eyes remained closed.

  Shayne stood up and stalked to her chair. “If George Brand is innocent,” he said brutally, “are you willing to let him be railroaded for your husband’s murder as an effective means of preventing future strikes in the Kentucky coal mines?”

  “That’s an absurd question,” Seth Gerald broke in before she could answer. “There isn’t any question of Brand’s innocence, and if there is, he will receive a fair trial. Certainly Mrs. Roche wants her husband’s murderer brought to justice, but I’m quite sure she doesn’t think Centerville needs any outside help in dealing with a local problem.”

  “I’d like to hear the lady say it herself,” Shayne insisted grimly.

  Elsa Roche sat up and exclaimed wildly, “I don’t know! It’s all mixed up. I… oh God… I don’t know, I tell you!” She covered her face with her hands and began to sob hysterically.

  Jimmy Roche had gone back to the cabinet radio and was leaning upon it. He rushed to Elsa and dropped on his knees beside her chair. “Take it easy,” he muttered. “I’ll throw that brute out. He has no right to come here and say such things to upset you.” He put his arm around her.

  Shayne grinned slowly, went back to his chair and poured a slug of cognac in his glass.

  “I think you’ve caused quite enough trouble, Shayne,” Gerald said, crossing to stand a few feet in front of the detective. “If Jimmy needs any help to throw you out, he won’t have to look far. Eh, Persona?”

  “I’ll say not,” the heavy man bristled indignantly. “We have ways of dealing with troublemakers like you.”

  Elsa’s uncontrollable sobs were loud in the room. Shayne took a sip of cognac from the glass and remained solidly in the chair. “That sounds like a warning,” he mused.

  “Take it any way you want.” Persona was standing over him, his big hands clenching and unclenching angrily. “If you want to stay healthy I advise you to get out of Centerville. Fast.”

  “And I second that advice,” said Seth Gerald coldly.

  Jimmy Roche had pulled Elsa to her feet. She was clinging to him, her face snuggled against his neck, still weeping loudly. He picked her up and carried her from the room.

  Shayne got up, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. A muscle twitched in his deeply trenched right cheek. “I’m not very good at taking advice,” he told the two men slowly. “I’ve found out what I wanted to know when I came here tonight. Remember?” He addressed Seth Gerald directly.

  “I told you,” he went on casually, “I was trying to decide whether to keep the five grand retainer from Roche, or return it. I explained that my decision would depend upon a number of things.”

  “And I told you to keep it,” said Gerald bitterly. “Call it a windfall and let it go at that.” His black eyes were turned toward the door through which Jimmy Roche had carried Elsa.
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  “I’ll keep it,” said Shayne decisively. “And I’ll earn it.”

  Persona’s eyes appeared light in his swarthy face. He stood by, shifting them from Shayne to Gerald. He broke in smoothly, “As a special investigator to help build up the case against Brand, why not employ Shayne? AMOK is vitally interested in seeing that Brand doesn’t escape the law. In fact, I hurried here tonight to offer all our resources to see that justice is done.” He rubbed his sweaty palms together, and white teeth showed beneath his black mustache.

  Turning to Shayne, he said, “I’ll be happy to retain you on behalf of AMOK. Would a further five thousand dollar fee interest you? Contingent, of course, on the conviction of Brand.”

  “Suppose George Brand isn’t guilty.” Shayne crushed out a cigarette in the ashtray and didn’t look at. Persona.

  The swarthy man shrugged. “In that case, AMOK would scarcely be interested in retaining you, Mr. Shayne. You can see that our primary interest is in the conviction of Brand.” He dug a long black cigar from his inside coat pocket, lit it, and moved solidly to and fro on his small feet, puffing, turning every three steps, then stopping once more before Shayne.

  “Let’s be realistic about this thing. I believe I recognize in you a man who knows a business proposition when he sees one.”

  Shayne didn’t look up. His cigarette was out, but he kept squashing the burnt end against the bottom of the ashtray. After a time he muttered, “Are you willing to put that offer in writing?” His right hand clasped the cognac glass, but he didn’t lift it. He saw Persona’s short thick body stiffen.

  “Isn’t my word good enough for you?” the swarthy man said indignantly.

  “No. Let us be realistic, Mr. Persona. I do know a business proposition when I hear one.”

  Persona’s white teeth showed again. “Very well. I’m perfectly willing to put the proposition in writing.” He whipped around, taking a fountain pen from his pocket, and sat down at an elaborately-carved desk across the room. Seth Gerald followed him, opened a drawer, and drew out a sheet of plain note paper. Gerald looked over his shoulder as he wrote: