Shoot the Works

by Brett Halliday

  The thin man stopped his agitated pacing. “If I wanted to … yes.”

  “I suppose you have an office key?”

  “Naturally. But I didn’t use it last night, if that’s what you’re implying.”

  “One of you three partners took the securities from the safe last night,” Shayne reminded him flatly. “Where were you?”

  Tompkins took an angry step forward. “Are you accusing me?”

  Shayne shook his red head. “Just asking you the same question the police will ask.”

  “And you’ll get the same answer they’ll get,” said Tompkins, acidly. “It’s none of your damned business where I was.”

  “You weren’t in around midnight when I dropped by.”

  “I’m quite often not ‘in around midnight,’ as you can damned well find out if you bother to inquire at the desk. If the time comes that I need an alibi, I’ll produce one. But not to you.”

  Shayne shrugged and asked Martin, “How much of your time can you cover satisfactorily after the office closed yesterday?”

  “See here, Shayne,” he protested, his florid face becoming an angry red. “We called you in to help us find the money.”

  “That’s what I’m doing. As I pointed out before, all three of you had access to the office and the combination to the safe. So I’d like an account of your time from the moment the office was closed.”

  “But it’s perfectly obvious that Jim is the guilty one,” protested Martin. “Why else was he murdered?”

  “Men are murdered for various reasons. For instance, right now the police are fairly well convinced that Mrs. Wallace shot him when she returned unexpectedly and caught him in the act of packing for a trip she knew nothing about. The money doesn’t necessarily enter into it.”

  “That’s absolutely preposterous,” put in Tompkins. “Are you saying it was pure coincidence that the money was stolen and Jim Wallace was shot to death the very same night?”

  “I’m simply pointing out the possibility. It would clarify things if you would both eliminate yourselves as possible suspects in the theft … and the murder of your partner,” he added.

  “I refuse to be cross-questioned by you,” said Tompkins icily. “It was your idea to call him in, Martin. I warned you what to expect. Now you deal with him.” He stalked out of the door and closed it firmly behind him.

  “What’s he got to hide?” asked Shayne.

  “Nothing, I’m sure. You must bear with him, Mr. Shayne. Understand the terrible strain he’s been under. He … ah … admitted to me this morning that he spent the night with a … lady. I’m not positive, but I gather she is married and Tommy is quite disturbed lest her name be drawn into the investigation.”

  “It will be,” said Shayne angrily. “Goddamn it, Martin, a man has been murdered and a million dollars are missing and you and Tompkins act as though you’re playing a game of parchesi.”

  “I don’t mind at all accounting for my time. In fact, I’m delighted to do so. And I’m sure Tompkins will be glad to tell you … in strict confidence, of course, but you will certainly agree it wouldn’t be very honorable to divulge the name of the lady in question.”

  Shayne repressed a snort of disgust and said, “Give me your time-table. Beginning with the moment you left the office yesterday afternoon.”

  A buzzer sounded discreetly as he finished. Martin turned his head and spoke downward toward a small, round grill in the center of the smoking stand beside him, “What is it, Jane?”

  “The Chief of Police is here, Mr. Martin,” a disembodied voice replied. “He insists on seeing you at once, even though I explained you were in conference with Mr. Shayne and could not be disturbed.”

  Shayne got up, saying swiftly, “Take my advice, Martin, and tell Gentry about the money. It’s an important clue in the murder and he can be trusted to keep it quiet if it’s humanly possible.”

  Martin shook his head stubbornly, getting up also and going to the door as a knock sounded. “Definitely not. I want you to be sole possessor of that information, and, if it does become public, I will know where the leak is.”

  He opened the door and was confronted by a choleric Will Gentry who glared past him at the redhead and said, “You do get around, don’t you, Mike?”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Michael Shayne said with disarming mildness, “I’m working on a case, Will. I’m not like you with a job where the taxpayers pay me to sit around on my dead ass all day.”

  “All right,” said Gentry. “So you’re trying to earn a fee. Very laudable. Suppose you go on and work at it some place else.”

  Rutherford Martin was standing aside, holding the door open during this by-play, and there was a bemused expression on his face as he glanced from one to the other.

  “You’re Chief Gentry,” he managed to get out. “You wanted to see me?”

  “Martin?” Gentry took a long black cigar from his breast pocket and sniffed it, as though undecided whether to put it in his mouth or throw it across the room. He eventually put it between his lips, though obviously not pleased with his decision. He said, “Yeah. I’d like a word with you, Martin. And with your partner. Alone, if you don’t mind.”

  Shayne said, “I was just going, Will. There’s just one question I’d like to ask Mr. Martin before I go.”

  “Well, ask it,” said Gentry sourly.

  “It wouldn’t hurt you to listen to the answer, Will, even though you won’t know why it’s important.” He addressed Martin directly, “Did Jim Wallace have a passport?”

  “A passport? I have no idea.”

  “Put it this way,” said Shayne smoothly. “Has he been abroad recently?”

  Martin shook his head slowly. “Not for several years. Not to any country that requires a passport.”

  Shayne said, “Thanks.” He walked forward and Will Gentry stepped inside the room, out of the doorway, to allow him room to pass. Shayne grinned widely as he did so, pausing just a moment to say, in a low, conspiratorial whisper, “Watch your step with these guys, Will. They swing a lot of weight in this man’s town.” He went out blithely and down the hall to the door into the small reception hall. The redheaded girl was still at the information desk, and she glanced aside with a half-smile for him as he emerged.

  He paused beside her and looked down wonderingly at the mass of softly reddish curls atop her head. “I just don’t believe it.”

  “Believe what?” She looked up at him, startled.

  “That your name is really Jane. And I don’t believe your telephone number is Carter 8—2630 either.”

  Her eyes sparkled at him and she demanded impishly, “What’s it to you, Mr. Shayne?”

  He put two forefingers under her chin and tilted her face higher. He shook his head slowly, “You’re just not a Jane, that’s all. And what did you say the number was?”

  She giggled and twisted her chin away from his fingers. “I didn’t say. We haven’t even been introduced.”

  Shayne said, “How stupid of me.” He took two backward steps and said formally, “May I be allowed to present Michael Shayne, Miss … uh.…”

  She giggled again and said, “Higginbotham. Hortense. I’m delighted to meet you, Mr. Shayne.” She held out her hand drooping limply from the wrist, but Shayne glowered at her and made no motion to take it. “I don’t believe it,” he said flatly.

  “What don’t you believe?”

  “Not Hortense! All my life I’ve wondered if a woman named Hortense actually existed. And now you come along.…”

  The telephone buzzed on her desk. She dimpled at him and lifted the receiver to answer it. He shrugged and went over to push the elevator button and she continued talking into the mouthpiece without glancing in his direction again until an elevator stopped and he got in.

  In the lobby, he stopped at the desk and found the clerk on duty was a moon-faced man, who brightened alertly when Shayne stopped in front of him and lit a cigarette. He said, “You’re a detective, aren’t you? Isn’
t it terrible about Mr. Wallace? The Chief of Police just went up to Four, you know. Are you working on the case, Mr. Shayne?”

  Shayne nodded. “I suppose you know all three partners?”

  “Oh, yes. Very well indeed. Mr. Tompkins stays here, you know, when he’s in the city.”

  Shayne said, “I know.” He expelled a stream of thin blue smoke. “What kind of guy is he?”

  “Mr. Tompkins? A gentleman.”

  Shayne said, “That means he tips generously. Quite a ladies’ man?”

  The clerk lifted his shoulders slightly. “We try not to pry into the private affairs of our guests.”

  Shayne said, “Nuts. No hotel guests have any private affairs. Not if they stay more than a few days. Is he out a lot at night?”

  “I do believe Mr. Tompkins has a tendency to keep rather late hours. He is a wealthy bachelor, you know.”

  Shayne said, “I know. They occupy the entire floor, don’t they?”

  The clerk nodded. “On a yearly lease.”

  “Much overtime work in the office?”

  “Very seldom.” The moon-faced man pursed thick lips.

  “Suppose one of the partners did come back at night,” Shayne pursued. “Would the elevator stop and let them off at Four?”

  “Certainly, but they would be required to sign in and out just as in any office building.”

  “Is there an entrance from the stairway?”

  “A fire exit is required by law, but theirs is kept locked, I believe.” The clerk lowered his voice, “Do you suspect anyone in the office, Mr. Shayne?”

  Shayne said, “Not particularly.” He tugged his hat down over his wiry hair and went out into the bright sunlight to his car with a slight frown on his gaunt face. Any one of the partners, and possibly some of the employees of the brokerage firm, could easily have a key to the door from the stairs and wouldn’t have to check in or out with the elevator operator if he wanted to get into the office after hours. Taking an elevator up to the fifth floor in the evening would be quite easy to manage without being noticed in a busy hotel. And then he could walk down to the fourth floor.…

  Shayne turned down to First Street and drove west to the railroad tracks, then got on Flagler and proceeded west to Thirtieth Avenue.

  The only apartment building on the north side of the Thirty-Hundred block was a small, four-story stucco structure built close to the sidewalk.

  Shayne parked in a hole just beyond it and walked back, went up the short walk to a small entryway with worn linoleum on the floor and a row of mailboxes on each side. Some of the mailboxes had names beneath them, but there was no name on 3—A.

  The doorway stood invitingly open beyond the mailboxes, and Shayne followed the strip of worn linoleum to a self-service elevator at the rear.

  The car was waiting and he got in and pressed the button for 3 and it clanked up and shuddered to a stop.

  There was a curiously dank and shuttered smell in the hallway when he stepped out. There were two doors at his right, marked 3—A and 3—B, and there was dead silence on the third floor when the elevator door closed automatically behind him.

  Shayne pressed the button of 3—A and waited. He waited a long time, alternately pressing the button and waiting twenty seconds. During that period he heard no sound whatever to indicate there was another living creature inside the building and the heavy walls cut out any sound of traffic from the busy street outside.

  After pushing the button an even dozen times, Shayne fumbled in his pocket for a well-filled key-ring and stooped to look at the lock on the door. He was caught in that undignified posture when the door opened inward without the slightest warning and he saw a hand at the level of his eyes holding together the edges of a red quilted robe that ended just below the girl’s knees with a foot of lacy blue nightgown showing above bare feet with violet-tinted toenails.

  He straightened slowly, his gaze moving up past full breasts that made the robe bulge and parted it, to the face of the girl whom Bob Pearce had shamefacedly described as beautiful and completely sexy but not a whore.

  She was not exactly beautiful this morning. The long black hair, that Bob had described so alluringly, fell in dank strands on either side of her face, framing a sallow complexion and bloodshot eyes that shrieked aloud the fact that she was suffering with a royal hangover. Without lipstick, her mouth was slack with a full underlip that pouted into a sort of sneer as she leaned negligently against the door-jamb and lifted her gaze to study Shayne’s face with a passive lack of interest. Yet the distinct aura of sex was still there. It was almost a physical emanation over which she had no control.

  She said, “You don’t look like a Peeping Tom, so what the hell are you doing at my keyhole?” Her voice was husky and deep-throated, holding a note of casual curiosity.

  Shayne grinned widely and jingled the keys in his pocket. “I was checking to see if I had a key that would fit.”

  She said, “Come on if you want in that badly. I don’t know you, do I?”

  Shayne said, “No,” and followed her into a sunny square sitting-room with windows open on two sides to provide a pleasant atmospheric contrast to the dank staleness of the hallway.

  It was a shabby, unpretentious room that invited a man to relax and drop cigarette ashes on the floor to join those that had overflowed from full ashtrays. A square gin bottle lay on its side under a chair and there were two sticky glasses on a tray at the end of the sofa. One high-heeled black pump lay in the center of the floor, and another was just outside an open door through which Shayne could see a disordered double bed. There was a crumpled white silk blouse draped over the arm of a chair and a brassiere on the seat beside it.

  His hostess stopped in the center of the room and turned to look searchingly at the redhead. She said, “I don’t know about you, Buster, but mama needs a drink.” She had let go the edges of the robe and they were parted widely in front to show a deep vee between heavy breasts behind the thin blue of her nylon gown.

  She blinked her eyes and grimaced unhappily. “It was quite a ball last night, but there was still a fifth of gin in the kitchen when I passed out. You interested?”

  No question about who he was or what he wanted at this hour of the morning. No trace of worry or embarrassment at letting a strange man walk in unannounced. Just a straightforward acceptance of the fact that he was a male and she was a female and they were alone together and she wanted a drink before the discussion went any further.

  Yet Shayne knew instinctively that Bob Pearce had been right. She wasn’t a whore. She was a woman who took her sex where she found it, thankfully and without question.

  He said, “Sure, I’m interested,” and she waved one hand negligently and said, “Park the frame while I shake something up.”

  She went through a door into a small kitchenette and Shayne heard a refrigerator door open and the water tap turned on. He picked up the tray with the two glasses on it and carried it to the kitchen door. She was standing at the sink trying to worry the foil off the top of a full bottle of gin with her fingernails. She handed it to him and took the tray and asked him, “On the rocks or shall we bleed a couple of Marys?”

  Shayne twisted the cork out and matched her casual tone. “Half and half on the rocks with tomato juice will be just right.” He handed the open bottle to her and turned back into the living room to light a cigarette. He sat down and stretched out his long legs and thought about Jim Wallace and Myra Wallace and the woman who was clanking ice cubes into glasses in the kitchen. It was very easy to envision Wallace going overboard for the bundle of sex who occupied the apartment. Far enough overboard to steal a million dollars and buy a pair of airplane tickets for South America?

  Shayne didn’t know. He hadn’t known Wallace at all well. If the pair had planned to go away together on a plane that morning, she was giving no indication of it now.

  She reentered the room carrying the same tray in front of her with both hands, holding two tall glasses filled to the br
im with ice cubes and tomato juice. The red quilted robe fell away from her body as she walked, showing a trim waistline and lush hips. She paused in front of him and moved the tray suggestively, so he would take the right-hand glass, saying, “That’s half and half. Four to one suits my taste better on a morning like this.”

  Shayne leaned back with his glass and watched her lower her buttocks onto the sofa. She lifted her glass avidly and gulped from it, lowering the level a full third before setting it down. Shayne sipped from his glass and asked her,

  “Did you see Jim Wallace last night?”

  “Who’s Jim Wallace?” She took another deep swallow and leaned her head back against the sofa. “God, I feel lousy.”

  Shayne said, “You know who Jim Wallace is.”

  “Do I?” She sounded wholly disinterested. She turned slightly and brushed the stringy locks of black hair away from her face. The sallow look was going away from her cheeks, and the dark eyes were beginning to sparkle. She said, “I think I’ll live. What’s your name?”

  “Mike. What’s yours?”

  She narrowed her eyes. Not with actual hostility, but with her first show of real displeasure at his presence. “You’re a hell of a guy. Barging in like this when you don’t even know who I am. What’s the racket?”

  Shayne said, “I’m a friend of Jim Wallace’s.”

  “So what?” She took another deep drink from her glass, practically draining it. If it had been a four-to-one combination, Shayne calculated she had put away about eight ounces of gin. He asked again, “Did you see Jim last night?”

  “Look,” she said calmly, “right off when I caught you peeking in my keyhole I liked what I saw. I always did go for redheads and I liked the way you didn’t mess things up with a lot of explanations and questions. I knew right off you were a guy I could feel easy with, if you know what I mean. So let’s leave it like that.” There was a glow in her eyes now, and color in her cheeks. “Let’s have another drink and get in bed together.”

  Shayne said, “I haven’t finished this one yet.”

  She swayed a little as she got to her feet and Shayne said practically, “Better make yours a little weaker this time. I’m funny about liking my women to be conscious when I go to bed with them.”