Shoot the Works

by Brett Halliday

  Pearce miserably gulped down the last of his coffee. “You can imagine how I felt. I heard him tell her goodbye and he hoped it was the last time he’d see her, and then he went out. Jim Wallace! Mr. Shayne. Can you see how it hit me? My own father-in-law, whom I’ve always admired and respected. Playing around with a floosie like that! I couldn’t believe it. It just knocked the props from under me. And then a waiter came to take my order, and I told him I’d changed my mind and guessed I wouldn’t have lunch after all … and I got up to go out.”

  Bob Pearce paused and lowered his eyes. “I meant to get out of there. I swear I did. But she was still sitting in the booth with her drink in front of her and she looked up at me and said, ‘Hi, you,’ and it suddenly came to me that maybe I owed it to Jim to find out more about her and what it was all about. I swear that’s what I thought when I sat down. At least, I think it is. I don’t think it was anything else. I didn’t then, anyhow. But now, I don’t know. Maybe I did have some other idea when I sat down across from her in the seat Jim had just left.

  “Anyhow,” he went on bitterly, “I sat down and ordered a drink and tried to pump her about Jim. Pretending I was worried that he might come back and be jealous to find me sitting there with her. And she laughed and said he wouldn’t be back, and that he was an old fuddy-duddy who didn’t interest her anyhow, because she liked younger men and why didn’t we talk about different things? Which to her meant sex, of course. Mr. Shayne,” said Bob Pearce hoarsely, “you must have known women like that. I never had much experience with them and she frightened me, but, I kept thinking, if I could get her to drink enough, she’d tell me the truth about Jim and, if he was in some kind of jam with her, maybe I could help him out. Because the longer I stayed there with her, the more I understood how Jim might be in a jam with her, even if he was past fifty and Helen’s father and one of the swellest guys I ever knew.”

  Bob Pearce hesitated and drew in a deep unhappy breath, and then met Shayne’s gaze squarely. “When I came up here I swore I was going to tell you everything and not make any excuses. We had a lot of drinks and things got fuzzy. I forgot all about Jim and I admit it. She said let’s go to her room and I … went. We took a taxi to her apartment out on Flagler and I was half passed-out and spent the rest of the afternoon. And that’s the last time I saw her and I hope I never see her again, but I had to tell you, no matter how disgusting it is, because, after last night, I got to thinking it might be important.”

  Shayne dropped his cigarette butt into the dregs in his coffee cup and said, “I’m not passing any moral judgments, Bob. What is the woman’s name?”

  “I don’t know. If she told me, I’ve forgotten. I’m not used to drinking much, and, by the time I left Callahan’s, I was pretty tight. She was about twenty-five. With a sort of broad face and high cheekbones. I don’t know how to describe her. Not conventionally beautiful, but alluring as hell. I guess that’s the right word. Alluring. She had long black hair that hung to her shoulders and curled up at the ends, and sensuous dark eyes that promise a man everything in the world he wants from a woman the first time she looks at you.

  “I guess I sound sophomoric as the devil,” he went on shamefacedly. “But Helen is the only girl I ever touched in my life, and I was just bowled over by her. I do know her apartment was Three-A and it’s the only apartment building on the north side of Flagler between Thirtieth and Thirty-First.”

  Shayne leaned back and lit another cigarette. “You never mentioned this to Jim Wallace?”

  Pearce shuddered. “How could I? What could I have said? That I had seduced his mistress? I couldn’t bear to look him in the eye afterward. I’ve felt like cutting my throat ever since.”

  Shayne grinned reassuringly at the younger man. “That, too, will pass,” he prophesied. “You deserve a lot of credit for telling me and I’ll check on her.”

  The telephone rang as he jotted down the information about the girl’s address that Pearce had given him.

  He said, “Hello,” and a worried voice asked, “Is that Michael Shayne?”

  “Speaking.”

  “Rutherford Martin, Mr. Shayne. Could you meet Mr. Tompkins and me in your office at once? It’s extremely important.”

  “Something about Wallace?”

  “Yes. We have some very important and highly confidential information that may shed an entirely new light on his death.”

  Everyone connected with the case, Shayne thought morosely, seemed to have important and confidential information about Jim Wallace. Aloud, he temporized, “I’ll try to make it within an hour.”

  “Please, Mr. Shayne. We expect you here at once. We wish to retain your services.”

  Shayne said coldly, “I’ve already been retained by Mrs. Wallace.”

  “This assignment needn’t conflict at all. In fact, it’s very probable that it will be the greatest assistance to you in solving the case. We’ll pay any retainer you ask.”

  “In that case,” said Shayne, “I’ll be right over.” He hung up and rose, telling Pearce, “Go on home to your wife and mother-in-law, and salve your conscience by taking care of them now while they need you. I’ll be in touch with you.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The lobby of the Weymore Hotel looked a little more modern and inviting in the morning light than it had when Shayne visited it the preceding night. Like many of the older hotels in Miami, the Weymore was largely by-passed during the winter season by the smart and heavy-spending tourist crowd, and had found it profitable to rent many of its larger suites as business offices on a yearly basis. There was a small and inconspicuous Business Directory beside the elevator, and Shayne paused to find the name, “Martin, Wallace & Tompkins, Brokers” listed there. Behind the listing was the notation, “4th Floor.”

  When Shayne stepped off the elevator on the 4th floor, he faced a small reception areaway that had been converted from the regular hotel hall. A pert redhead sat at a desk, facing the elevator doors, and it was evident that the brokerage firm had taken over the entire fourth floor of the hotel for its offices.

  The girl smiled pleasantly at Shayne, though a faint vertical crease in the center of her forehead indicated that he wasn’t exactly the type of visitor who normally frequented the office.

  Shayne dragged off his Panama and grinned. He said, “You’re absolutely right, honey. I haven’t come to build up my portfolio or clip any coupons. Mr. Martin in?”

  She flushed a trifle at his teasing tone and said primly, “Is he expecting you?”

  Shayne nodded, “Michael Shayne.”

  Her eyes widened and she said, “Of course, Mr. Shayne. You’re to go right in.” She turned to indicate a closed, paneled door on her rights. “Straight ahead and the second door on your left.”

  Shayne went through the heavy door which closed silently on air hinges behind him. The second door on the left opened into a large room furnished more like the lounge room of an exclusive club than any business office in which Shayne had ever been. There were a dozen comfortable chairs scattered around the room, with smoking stands by each, and, at the far end, a stock ticker clicked unobtrusively.

  There were two men seated in the room, glaring at each other, and Rutherford Martin was pointing a blunt cigar angrily at his partner when Shayne paused in the doorway.

  “… tell you it has to be this way. If we don’t give the whole story to Michael Shayne.…”

  Martin turned abruptly, with his lower jaw sagging, as he looked at the redhead in the doorway. He forced his heavy body up from the deep chair and made an effort to put a genial smile on his florid face.

  “Mr. Shayne. My partner and I were just discussing the situation that I wanted to consult you about. This is Mr. Tompkins.… Michael Shayne, Tommy.” He made the introduction with a flourish of his half-smoked cigar.

  The junior partner of the brokerage firm unfolded himself stiffly and nodded. “I want you to understand the first thing off the bat, Mr. Shayne, that I am not in accord with Martin
on this subject.” He paused, shrugging his slender, immaculately jacketed shoulders to indicate ill-suppressed venom. “I insist it is far too delicate to entrust to a private detective with your sort of reputation.”

  Tompkins was in his early forties, very tall and very thin, with hatchet-like features and piercing black eyes.

  His over-long glossy black hair was meticulously parted in the center, and he was dressed with a studied air of elegance that grated on Shayne.

  The redhead glanced curiously at Martin and then back to the younger man. His gaunt face hardened, but he kept his voice at a quietly conversational tone as he asked, “What facet of my reputation are you referring to?”

  “You know well enough what I mean.” Tompkins’ reply was curtly arrogant.

  Shayne shrugged and told Rutherford Martin, “To hell with this. I came because you asked me to, but.…” He half-turned to leave the room, but Martin stepped forward quickly to seize his arm.

  “You’ll have to forgive Tommy’s rudeness. He’s terribly upset by this, Shayne. We both are, and we’ve had a difference of opinion as to how it should be handled. It’s a frightful situation.” He got out a handkerchief and mopped beads of perspiration from his forehead. He held Shayne’s arm in an urgent grip and turned him back slowly.

  “Close the door, Tommy,” he ordered. “We’ve got to have Mr. Shayne’s cooperation, and you’re not going to help matters by insulting him.”

  “I didn’t consider it an insult,” said Tompkins stiffly, moving behind the redhead to close the door. “I apologize, if that will help. But you know how close Shayne is to that newspaper friend of his. And if one faint hint of this situation leaks out.…”

  “Exactly why I’ve called Shayne in,” said Martin brusquely. He urged the reluctant detective down into a comfortable chair in front of the one he had been sitting in, and drew another one closer for his partner. “We agree it’s out of the question to confide in the police,” he went on placatingly. “No matter how much we trust their discretion, they have a job to do, and this ties in directly with Jim Wallace’s murder. There’d have to be a complete and full-blown investigation … and that is the one thing we must avoid at all costs. I can’t impress too strongly on you how very confidential this information is, Mr. Shayne. If a word of it leaks out, our firm will be ruined.”

  Shayne shrugged and leaned back to cross one bony knee over the other. He got out a pack of cigarettes and lit one, blew a cloud of smoke toward Tompkins and said flatly, “I don’t have clients who have any reservation about my discretion. Don’t tell me another word unless you’re in complete agreement that I’m to be trusted.”

  Lowered lids veiled the glitter in Tompkins’ black eyes. He gnawed indecisively for a moment on the knuckles of his right hand, and looked steadily at Shayne and said, “I do apologize. Martin is absolutely right. We have to trust you. We can’t just sit on this, and we can’t tell the police at this juncture. But I do implore you to be circumspect.”

  Shayne’s lips twitched in the semblance of a grin. “I’m willing to listen. But I’ve already been retained by Mrs. Wallace to find her husband’s murderer and, if this information helps, I’ll have to use it as I see fit.”

  Martin rubbed his perspiring face again. “We understand that. God knows, we want Jim’s murderer found as much as anyone.” He paused and his voice sank to an awed, almost reverent tone: “A million dollars is missing from our safe this morning, Mr. Shayne. A cool million in cash and negotiable securities. It was in the safe when we closed the office last evening. It has vanished without a trace this morning.”

  “A million bucks? I thought this was a brokerage firm, not a bank.”

  “It’s quite unusual to have such a large sum on hand, of course. Unprecedented, in fact. But we had arranged a merger, which was to be consummated at a meeting of the principals here this morning promptly at nine-thirty … before the banks would be open. Consequently the cash and securities were withdrawn yesterday afternoon and placed in our own vault for safekeeping overnight. We have a fine modern safe that is as burglar-proof as any bank, and the risk seemed negligible.”

  “But it was burglarized last night?”

  “Tompkins and I arrived promptly at nine this morning and opened the safe together. The attaché case was missing.”

  “And Wallace had the combination?”

  Martin nodded miserably. “We three were the only persons in the world who could open the safe. That money must be found, Mr. Shayne. It was being held in trust by us, and one hint to the principals that it is missing will ruin us financially.”

  “I assume you called off the projected meeting,” said Shayne, glancing at his watch.

  Martin shuddered and groaned, “What else could we do? We used Jim’s death as an excuse to postpone the signing of the papers until tomorrow. He had done most of the paperwork on the merger, and the postponement was not questioned.”

  “You suspect that Wallace came back after the office was closed and removed the securities from the safe?”

  “What else can we suspect?” put in Tompkins thinly. He sat stiffly upright in his chair, with long fingers laced together in his lap, and his entire body trembled with emotion that was close to hysteria. “Martin tells me you said last night there was evidence that Jim was packing for a trip when he was killed. Don’t you see how it adds up? It’s impossible and absurd and unbelievable, but there it is. And I would have trusted Jim Wallace with my life,” he ended on a croaking note of utter tragedy.

  “So now you see, Shayne, why it’s more important to us to catch the murderer than any mere matter of moral principle,” put in Martin. “We’ve got to recover those securities.”

  “And you think the murderer has them?” mused Shayne.

  “If they’re not in Wallace’s apartment, where else can they be? We were frantic when we opened the safe and found the case missing, and hurried to Jim’s place. There was a police officer on guard and he let us in grudgingly when we explained we were his partners and needed some important papers, but he refused to let us make a real search of the premises. He told us we’d have to get permission, and we realized we couldn’t do that without telling Chief Gentry the whole truth. Yet it may even be there, tucked away in a closet, with no one realizing the significance of it.”

  “Martin seems to think you can get permission to make a thorough search without telling the police what you’re looking for,” Tompkins interposed. “Frankly, I doubted that you carried that much weight with the authorities, but if a quiet search could be arranged, it would settle that one point at least.”

  Shayne shrugged and said, “If there’s a million dollars cached in the apartment, I assure you Gentry’s men would have found it. On the other hand, there might be some other indications they overlooked because they didn’t know about the missing money.”

  “That’s right,” said Martin eagerly. “Remember, Tommy, I mentioned that. Something like a baggage check or the key to a locker, where Jim might have left the case. If we only knew where he had planned to go … what route he planned to take.…”

  Shayne was uncomfortably aware of the airplane tickets in his pocket as he observed the understandable suffering on the faces of the two remaining partners of the brokerage firm.

  He said briskly, “There’s that possibility, of course, and I can check into it. But you’ve got to realize the most logical assumption is that Wallace was murdered for the million dollars … most likely by someone who knew his plans and knew he had it. So you’d better stop covering up for a dead man,” he went on harshly, “and start telling the truth about Jim Wallace. If he planned to take some woman with him, she’d be the first step.”

  “A woman?” Martin looked properly shocked and shook his head firmly. “Not Jim. I don’t believe he’s looked at another woman since he married Myra.”

  Shayne said, “Nuts. Every man looks at other women. Look,” he went on flatly, “I’ve already had it from two sources that Jim Wallace wasn�
��t the tin God you try to pretend he was. Hell! If you want that money back, start coming clean. Both of you. Do you think for one minute a guy in Wallace’s position just calmly steals a million dollars unless there’s some woman mixed up in his life?”

  Tompkins shrugged and said acidly, “He kept it mighty quiet, if there was. He was the last man I’d suspect.”

  “Of course he kept it quiet,” said Shayne witheringly. “But you two must have been close enough to him to have guessed something.”

  Martin shook his head and said ponderously, “I can’t help thinking you’re off on the wrong foot, Shayne. Now, if it were Tommy here, I’d said cherchez la femme first crack out of the box.”

  “I’m inclined to agree with Shayne,” said Tompkins thoughtfully. “I’m a bachelor and have little reason to conceal my interest in women. But Jim had to put up a front.” He nodded with increasing vehemence. “If Jim went off his rocker and stole that money, you can bet he had some dame on the string. As Shayne says, what other reason in God’s world would he have for doing a thing like that?”

  He sprang up and began pacing excitedly, back and forth, on the deep carpet, pounding one clenched fist lightly into the other palm. “But I haven’t the ghost of an idea who it might be. You knew him lots better than I,” he appealed to his partner.

  But Martin continued to shake his head stubbornly, and Shayne wondered why he made his denials so strong. Kitty had been explicit enough in declaring that Martin was fully aware of Wallace’s amorous proclivities. Could it be that Martin suspected his own wife actually was involved, somehow, in the theft and murder? Reluctantly, the detective decided this was not the best time to confront Martin with Kitty’s information.

  He said to Tompkins, “You have a suite here?”

  “On the sixth floor.”

  “Handy if you want to do any night work,” Shayne suggested sardonically.