A Taste for Violence

by Brett Halliday

She said, “He’s asleep. He was on duty until three o’clock this morning.”

  “Wake him up,” Shayne said with such authority that she nodded listlessly, invited him into a small living room, and went back to the bedroom.

  Patrolman Andrews came in after a few minutes wearing his pants and an undershirt and yawning widely. He gave a start of surprise when he saw Shayne. “So it’s you,” he said stupidly. “Minna didn’t tell me…”

  “It’s me,” Shayne agreed curtly and ungrammatically. “Things have been happening since last night, Andrews. Do you like your job?”

  “My job?” Andrews frowned heavily. “Sure. It’s all right.”

  “I’m Centerville’s new chief of police. Right now I haven’t anything to prove it except this.” He drew out his automatic and balanced it on his knee. “You can call the mayor to verify it if you wish. I just left his house.”

  “I don’t get it. What about Chief Elwood?”

  “I’ll be needing a desk sergeant to take Gantry’s place. I’m not promising anything, but a man who plays ball with me from the first won’t be in a bad spot for a promotion.”

  “What about the chief?” he asked again. His voice was jerky and high-pitched.

  “We’re coming to him right now. Can you find Gantry’s body and bring it in?”

  “Gantry’s body? Christ… I don’t know…”

  “Don’t give me any of that,” Shayne said harshly. “I saw Elwood shoot Gantry last night, and so did you. You disposed of the body. Now I want you to bring it in.”

  “I can’t do that without them findin’ out what happened las’ night.”

  “I’ve thought of an out for you so the story’ll look good in court… and you’ll be a hero. You couldn’t be prosecuted for carrying out the chief’s orders. Here’s the idea: We tell about the murder just as it happened. We both saw it and we tell a straight story. You took Gantry’s body out to the car as ordered, but you rebelled at ditching the corpse to cover up Elwood’s crime. So you kept Gantry in the car all night. Your conscience bothered you so much you decided to risk the consequences by bringing it in and telling the truth. Got that?”

  “But what about Chief Elwood?” Andrews reiterated. He was shaking with a palsy of fear. “You saw what he did to Gantry las’ night. He’s a mean son-of-a-bitch and a devil on wheels when he gets goin’, and…”

  “In the first place, Elwood isn’t chief any more. I’m going out to bring him in. He’ll be locked up, charged with Gantry’s murder, by the time you make your grandstand play. Is it a deal?”

  “I dunno,” muttered Andrews. “Don’t seem like it’s possible.” He ran rough fingers through his hair and stared at Shayne. “Reckon I’d better check with the mayor first.”

  “Call him right now.” Shayne stood up. “And don’t call anybody else, Andrews,” he added warningly. “If I walk into Elwood’s gun at his house I’ll kill him and then be back to settle with you.” He slid the automatic into his pocket and hurried out to his car, drove swiftly to Chief Elwood’s house and parked.

  A tall, gaunt-faced woman came to the door. She wore a long white apron over her house dress, and when he asked to see Chief Elwood she shook her head decidedly and said, “Chief’s jest a-settin’ to ’is breakfast. I wouldn’ no-way bother ’im till he’s done eatin’.”

  “Neither would I,” agreed Shayne pleasantly. “I’ll wait in his office down the hall, and you can tell him not to short his breakfast on my account.”

  “He wouldn’ do that nohow,” she assured him, stepping back reluctantly to let him enter.

  He followed her down the hall and went into the study where he and Elwood had talked the preceding night. The woman kept on to the kitchen.

  Shayne went over to the desk and found the silenced revolver lying where Elwood had placed it. He carefully folded a newspaper into a cornucopia around the death weapon, tightening the small end over the silencer, and laid it on a chair near the door where he could pick it up upon leaving.

  The smell of fresh coffee and fried bacon was strong in the house, making Shayne’s stomach muscles gnaw with hunger. He found the whiskey bottle on the desk, took a long drink from it to kill the butterflies in his stomach and prepare him for what was coming.

  He felt extraordinarily good after the second drink. A bit lightheaded from loss of sleep and too much mental exertion, but alert and strong, sure of himself, now that he had things pretty well under control, and eager to get on with the job.

  He heard Elwood coming down the hall toward the study. He knew there was a good chance that there had been a leak and the chief might be prepared for what was coming. He set the whiskey bottle down and turned casually, his hand going to his hip and resting on the corrugated butt of the heavy gun in his pocket. He thumbed the safety off and waited.

  Henry Elwood was in his shirt sleeves. A small badge that read “Chief” was pinned to his blue suspenders. His face wore a stubble of gray beard and an uncertain smile when he saw Shayne. Both his hands were in sight and empty.

  He said, “Early, ain’t you?”

  “A little, maybe,” Shayne admitted. He relaxed and took his hand off his gun.

  “I been thinkin’ over your proposition,” Elwood said forthrightly, “and I don’t like it. I’m satisfied with things just like they are, and I reckon I’ll make out like always ’thout any help.”

  Shayne said, “It’s too bad you feel that way.” He stepped close and fingered the badge.

  “Solid gold,” Elwood assured him. “I ordered it from a place in New York m’self. City paid the bill, of course.”

  “Of course,” Shayne echoed. He deftly loosened the clasp and pulled it off before the chief could protest, stepped back and held it against his chest admiringly. “It’s mighty pretty. Must make a man feel like something special when he wears it.”

  “It does at that,” chuckled the ex-chief of the Centerville police force.

  Shayne pinned it on his own shirt and took his gun from his hip pocket. With his left hand he drew out a pair of handcuffs. With one swift movement he snapped one of the rings on Elwood’s right wrist.

  Elwood’s protruding eyes looked at Shayne’s gaunt face and glinting eyes. “What in hell you think you’re doin’?” he bellowed.

  Shayne slugged him between the eyes with the barrel of his .45. Elwood staggered back against the wall, stunned and half-blinded by the blood streaming into his eyes.

  Shayne jerked him forward and secured the other cuff, shoved him out into the hall, picking up the paper-wrapped revolver on the way. He got Elwood in the car before he recovered enough to realize what was happening. Before he started the motor, the ex-chief began to mutter oaths. Shayne hit him hard with his left fist, hurling him against the car door, then drove directly to police headquarters.

  Two patrolmen were going up to the side entrance to report for duty. Shayne hadn’t seen either of them before. They stared at him in uncomprehending astonishment when he stepped from the car and ordered briskly, “Bring this prisoner inside.”

  The chief’s gold badge was glittering on Shayne’s chest and he held his automatic in his hand. The patrolmen stopped in their tracks, their astonished eyes staring from Shayne to the portly, hand-cuffed man in the car, his body slumped against the door, his face scarcely recognizable with blood and tears streaming over eyes and jowls.

  “But… isn’t that… the chief?” One of the men stammered.

  Shayne raised his gun and ordered, “Bring this prisoner in,” again.

  The men reacted to the badge and the gun and the tone of authority in Shayne’s command. They went to the car and laboriously supported the heavy, stunned man from the front seat. Shayne went up the steps ahead of them and on into the room where he found the officer named Gar still sitting at the desk from which he had relieved Gantry the night before.

  Shayne said, “Book this man for murder. He’s out and I’m in. The faster you birds get that through your heads the better we’ll all get along
.”

  Gar’s bleary eyes were popping. “Looka here… you can’t do nothin’ like this. The chief…”

  A car had stopped outside and a tall, distinguished appearing man got out. He came up the steps spryly and entered the room.

  “Looka here, Mayor,” Gar said, “can you tell me what’s goin’ on around here?”

  The mayor looked over at Elwood. He was slumped in a straight chair, his head lolling on his shoulder. Turning to the gaping members of the police force who had gathered for day duty, he quietly explained the new order of things in Centerville, appealed to them for co-operation.

  When he finished his brief speech he held out his hand to Shayne and said, “Good luck to you. If there is any insubordination, just call on me.”

  When the mayor went out Shayne waved his hand negligently and said, “Lock him up,” to the two men guarding Elwood. “Then get some hot water and plenty of lye and a scrub brush and put him to work scrubbing that stinking hole up there. Kick him in the rump every time he slows up, and keep him at it until the job’s finished.”

  Shayne said to Gar, “Bring the records on every prisoner to my office at once. No one is to go out on assignment until I talk to them,” he added, looking at the day officers who immediately snapped to attention.

  He turned and strode into the large office previously occupied by Elwood, picked up the telephone and called Lucy Hamilton at the Moderne Hotel to tell her it was time his secretary got on the job.

  19

  SHAYNE worked straight through the day, forgetting the lunch hour. Twice during the morning he sent out for containers of black coffee, and surprised Lucy Hamilton by drinking cupfuls without the addition of cognac. At two o’clock he had sandwiches and more coffee sent in while he dug into past records of the men under him. He suspended some, shifted the assignments of others, calling them in one by one to size them up and get an idea of their personalities and inquire into their particular duties.

  He then attacked with enthusiasm the charges on file against the thirty-five prisoners and ordered eighteen of them released immediately. Each of the released prisoners had been brought into his office where he explained privately why they were being released and the sort of new deal he was inaugurating in Centerville. Of the remaining seventeen prisoners, he ordered that twelve should be brought to trial at once and faced by their accusers and either sentenced or released.

  Only five of the entire number were charged with crimes serious enough to require grand jury action. After a long conference with the city attorney, it was agreed that a special jury should be called within one week to consider those cases.

  By four o’clock he had completed most of the preliminaries necessary to a complete reorganization of the department, and he settled back to dictate a memorandum to each officer remaining on active duty.

  Lucy Hamilton sat across from him with her stenographer’s pad, glancing up at his face each time he hesitated. Overnight, he had become a new sort of man. There was a ruthless, driving efficiency about him which she had never known the easy-going detective to manifest before. He was displaying an amazing talent for grasping details and organizing them, for making rapid and definite decisions that sounded right. He appeared happier than she had ever seen him.

  As for herself, Lucy was still befuddled. After recovering from her anxiety upon receiving his telephone message to hurry to the police station, she was immediately confounded to find him directing the affairs of the department. She hadn’t asked questions, for there hadn’t been time. She knew Henry Elwood was locked in his own jail charged with murder, but she didn’t know any of the circumstances. She didn’t know what had been done about George Brand or any of the other persons involved in the Roche murder. All she knew was that Shayne was in the driver’s seat and was getting as much accomplished as possible while he remained there. She had a queer feeling that none of this was real and that she would wake up after a time and find herself back in Miami, but in the meantime Shayne kept on dictating his blunt memorandums and she continued to take shorthand notes.

  There was a discreet knock on the door. Shayne stopped dictating to call, “Yeh?”

  A patrolman stuck his head in and said, “There’s a man here who insists on seeing you, Chief. Says it’s important.”

  “Send him in,” said Shayne.

  A quietly dressed man with hard features entered. His pinstriped blue suit was well cut, his shoes highly polished, his manner that of a self-assured and aggressive person. He wore a stiff straw hat with a red and white band. He removed it when he saw Lucy.

  He said to Shayne, “Your stupid man outside says I’ll have to get permission from you to see my client.”

  “Who is your client?”

  The stranger pulled up a straight chair and sat down. “George Brand. You can’t deny an attorney access to his client.” He took a card from his breast pocket and flipped it in front of Shayne.

  Shayne read aloud, “Myron J. Stanger, Washington, D. C. Chief Counsel representing NUWJ. What do the initials stand for?”

  “National Union for Workers’ Justice. I imagine you’ve heard of us.”

  Shayne leaned back, studying the card. He asked, “Are you from Washington?”

  “Our headquarters are there. I travel a great deal, but I happened to be in the office yesterday morning when we read of this outrageous affair in the morning paper. I came at once.”

  “Do you know your client personally?”

  “It happens that I do know George Brand. Most favorably, I assure you. I’ve represented him on other occasions when his zeal got him into difficulties with the law.”

  Shayne said affably, “I’m glad Brand has a competent attorney. Lucy, will you get that bottle out of the top drawer of the file? Did you drive down, Mr. Stanger?”

  The attorney showed mild surprise at this display of cordiality. It was evident that he had come to Centerville with a far different concept of the reception he would receive from the authorities. He thawed visibly and produced a pipe and tobacco pouch. “Yes, I drove. Left Washington before noon and went straight through to Lexington last night.”

  Lucy brought the bottle of whiskey and set it on the desk, went to the water cooler and brought two drinking cups. Shayne stripped the foil from the top of the bottle and twisted the cork.

  “You must have gotten a late start this morning,” he suggested as he poured liquor into the two cups.

  “I had business in Lexington that held me up until ten-thirty.” Stanger accepted a cup and lifted it gravely. He still appeared a little puzzled and slightly on the defensive, but he wasn’t to be outdone in politeness.

  Shayne said, “Bottoms up,” and they both drank.

  “That’s good whiskey,” said Stanger. He set the cup down and tamped tobacco in his pipe.

  “Are you staying in town?” Shayne asked.

  “For a few days. As long as it takes to get this absurd charge against Brand quashed. I’m staying at the Central Hotel.”

  “I doubt that you’ll have to be here long. I’ve been getting together what evidence I could, and right now I don’t mind admitting to you frankly that I hardly feel there’s enough evidence to justify our holding Brand.”

  Stanger brightened perceptibly, lit his pipe, and relaxed. “I had a feeling,” he said cautiously, “that it was a put-up job to railroad Brand from the beginning. From what I know of the situation here in Centerville I had the impression…” He paused, looking hard into Shayne’s twinkling gray eyes.

  “We’re not as bad as a lot of people think. Let’s have another snort and then I’ll send you up to talk with Brand.”

  Stanger pulled on his pipe, exuded a cloud of smoke, smiled and said, “Another one never does any harm.”

  Shayne poured the drinks and shoved the bottle toward Lucy. “Put it away, please.” He got up and went to the water cooler saying, “Think I’ll have a chaser with this one.” He emptied the whiskey in the drain, took a drink of water, and went back to his
chair.

  Stanger had downed his drink and was smacking his lips. He said, “Thanks. I’ll go up and see Brand now.”

  Shayne went to the door and opened it. “Andrews!” he roared at the newly installed desk sergeant.

  Andrews came trotting. Shayne stepped back and pointed at Stanger’s back and said. “This drunken bum has an idea he wants to talk with George Brand. Book him for drunkenness and lock him up so they can talk as long as they like.”

  Stanger sprang up and faced them, an unpleasant smile on his face. “I wondered what the catch was. I can prove I’m not drunk, you know, and…”

  “Smell his breath, Andrews,” Shayne ordered, “and get him out of here.”

  The labor attorney shrugged phlegmatically as though this was all in a day’s work to him, and followed Andrews out.

  Lucy was standing at one of the windows looking out when Shayne closed the door and turned toward her. Her back was stiff and her hands clenched into tight fists. Two spots of color flamed in her cheeks when she whirled around and said:

  “I wondered what was happening. I wondered and wondered how you got yourself appointed chief of police.” She spat the words out as though they tasted bad. “Now it’s all clear. You’re in it with them to frame George Brand for a murder he didn’t commit. I hate you, Mike Shayne. I loathe you.” Tears were rolling down her cheeks.

  Shayne went over and caught her elbows in his palms. “Save it for later,” he said gently. “Right now, I need you.”

  “Why do you do things like that, Michael?” She leaned against him. “Why do you pretend to be something else and make me l-love you and then… suddenly… ruin everything?”

  “In this case,” he told her, “Stanger gets a good long talk with his client without any interference. Wipe away your tears and come on. We’ve got things to do while they’re conferring.” He kissed both her cheeks and pushed her toward the door, grabbed his hat and followed her.

  20

  WHEN they were seated in Shayne’s car, he delayed starting the motor while he explained briefly how he had bluffed Seth Gerald into forcing his appointment as chief of police.