Shoot the Works

by Brett Halliday

  Kitty Heffner said practically, “I can’t swear to all of that on a stack of Bibles. But I must say I’ve never seen him act other than as a perfect gentleman. And I will say that he had that reputation among everyone who knew him. We all envied Myra because she had such a wonderful marriage. Jim was absolutely devoted to her.”

  Shayne lifted his snifter and emptied it at one gulp. He ran the fingers of his left hand angrily through his rumpled red hair and said belligerently, “This is a hell of a time to be telling me.”

  “But I told you as soon as I realized the mistake I’d made,” wailed Kitty. “I didn’t get up until late. My God, Mr. Shayne, do you realize what time I came traipsing home?”

  Shayne shook his head numbly. “I was asleep when you left.”

  “I know quite well that you were. I heard you snoring clear through the closed door of your bedroom.” She smiled to take the sting from her words, and went on rapidly, “It was after four when I finally got to bed. Don’t blame me too much. I don’t believe you ever mentioned Jim Wallace’s name a single time while I was with you.”

  Shayne shrugged and said dully, “Possibly not. We were talking about more important things most of the time.”

  He aroused himself to summon a reassuring grin. “I realize it wasn’t really your fault. I do remember Mrs. Martin’s immediate assumption that Tompkins was the partner who was dead … and I saw no reason to disillusion her at the moment. So it’s more my fault than yours.”

  He stood up slowly, shaking his head. “But this does put a different complexion on a lot of things. I’ve got some thinking to do.”

  Kitty Heffner arose impulsively and moved close to put one hand on his forearm. “You’re not … angry?”

  He shook his head. “Just confused at the moment.”

  “And it’s all my fault,” mourned Kitty, her fingers tightening on his arm. She lifted her face and asked wistfully, “Would you mind kissing me before you go?”

  Shayne looked down at her unhappy face for a long moment with a tight grin. “Sure you want me to, Kitty?”

  “I’m sure.” She closed her eyes and swayed against him, her lips spreading beneath his.

  Shayne let go of her after a time and said, “Kitty?”

  She opened her eyes and said languidly, “Yes, Mike … darling?”

  He said, “You’re getting wanton again … and I’m getting wanting … and it just won’t do. Not now and not here.”

  She folded her hands placidly in front of her like a little girl and said, “You tell me where and when.”

  He said, “I will. After I’ve solved a slight case of murder.” He turned away abruptly and strode to the closed doors, slammed them open and went out into the hall and toward the front door with heels hitting hard on the parquet floor.

  The little maid appeared from somewhere holding his hat out in front of her. Shayne took it with muttered thanks and she scurried past him to hold the front door open. He escaped into the noonday sunlight, conscious that little more than an hour intervened before his appointment with the two remaining partners of the brokerage firm of Martin, Wallace and Tompkins.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  At Miami’s bustling seaplane terminal where huge winged ships arrived and departed every hour of the day and night from and to every part of the globe, Michael Shayne stopped at the Pan-American ticket counter where an efficient young lady was eager to help him.

  Shayne got the tickets to Rio out of his pocket and spread them out on the counter. He said, “These are for Flight Seventeen that took off this morning. I’d like to know.…”

  She said briskly, “Refund department. Ask for Mr. Collier. You go to your left.…”

  Shayne said, “I’m not worried about a refund at the moment. I wonder if you could tell me who sold these particular tickets … when, and so forth.”

  She frowned slightly, putting the tip of her right forefinger dubiously on the tickets. “Why … that would be a matter of record, of course. If there’s anything wrong.…”

  Shayne said, “Nothing wrong. Who would have the records on the sale?”

  “Why … I think you’d better talk to an Assistant Manager. Try Mr. Hitchcock. Go down that aisle and it’s the third office on your left. I’m sure he’ll be able to help you.” She smiled sweetly but vaguely at Shayne and said briskly to an impatient fat man behind him, “Yes, sir? May I help you?”

  Shayne went down the indicated aisle to the third office on the left. The door was closed and the lettering on opaque glass said only, “PRIVATE.”

  Shayne knocked and then tried the knob. The door opened on a neat ten-by-twelve office with a littered desk squarely in the center of it. A thin-faced man in his shirt-sleeves sat behind the desk facing Shayne, and he was making harried computations on a pad in front of him. He paused and looked up with a frown when Shayne stepped in, and nodded impatiently when the detective asked, “Mr. Hitchcock?”

  “What can I do for you?”

  “The girl at the ticket desk said you might give me some information.” Shayne spread the two tickets out in front of the assistant manager. “About these tickets that weren’t used on Flight Seventeen this morning.”

  Mr. Hitchcock automatically began, “The Refund Department is.…” but Shayne cut him off. “This is a murder investigation, Mr. Hitchcock. The man who had these tickets in his possession was killed last night. I understand that a Mr. and Mrs. James Richards failed to show up to claim their seats on Flight Seventeen this morning. I’d like to talk to the person who sold these tickets if possible.”

  Mr. Hitchcock said, “Murder?” disbelievingly. “And you’re …?”

  “A private detective investigating the case. It’s very important to learn when the tickets were bought, and by whom.”

  “I … see.” Mr. Hitchcock’s tone indicated that he didn’t see at all. He drew the tickets toward him gingerly and studied them. “You say they were issued to Mr. and Mrs. James Richards?”

  “That’s one of the things I hope you can tell me. I know, only, that the two vacancies on Flight Seventeen this morning were the Richards. I assume these were their tickets.”

  Mr. Hitchcock said, “I … see,” again, in a tone of slightly increased bewilderment. He hesitated, then got up with the tickets in his hand, “Wait here a moment, please. I’ll see what I can do, Mr.… ah …?”

  “Shayne,” the detective supplied.

  “Yes. I’ll be just a moment.”

  The assistant manager scurried out a rear door, closing it carefully behind him. Shayne sat down in a chair against the wall and lit a cigarette and waited.

  Mr. Hitchcock returned before he finished his first cigarette. He still carried the tickets and he regarded them distastefully. “There does seem to be some mystery about these. They were purchased at the ticket counter here yesterday afternoon for cash. The purchaser gave his name as Mr. James Richards and his local address as the Biltmore Hotel … which we require as a matter of policy in case notification of delay or postponement of a flight is necessary. When Mr. and Mrs. Richards failed to report an hour before flight time this morning, a routine call was made to the Biltmore. The hotel had no one of that name registered and could give us no information whatever about Mr. or Mrs. Richards. There was nothing further we could do, and the flight took off on schedule with two vacant seats.”

  He reseated himself in his swivel chair and made a tent out of his two hands, peering at Shayne over the top of it. “Most extraordinary. You say Mr. Richards was murdered?”

  “A man named James Wallace was murdered. And he had these two tickets in his possession at the time. He was not at the Biltmore, by the way. What about the ticket-seller?”

  “Oh yes. Mr. Jeffer. He will be along presently. As soon as he is disengaged. Though I seriously doubt he will be much help, Mr. Shayne. It appears to have been a routine purchase, one of hundreds he handled during the course of the day, and, unless there was some reason, I doubt if he will recall any particulars
of the sale.”

  “One thing you can tell me while we wait. On a flight like this to South America, what about passports? Does the buyer have to show his?”

  “Not at the time of purchase, no, Mr. Shayne. He is instructed, however, that a valid passport and a correct visa will be required by Customs before departure else he will not be allowed aboard.”

  Shayne got up and went to the desk to mash out his cigarette in a clean ashtray, tugging at his ear thoughtfully. “Suppose a ticket-holder turned up with a valid passport made out in a name different from the one he had given when he bought the tickets. Would he be allowed to leave?”

  “I really can’t say. It would be most irregular. I don’t know if there’s any precedent for such a situation. If he could prove his actual identity as matching the passport, I see no reason why he would be held up. It would cause some confusion and the manifest would have to be corrected. However, if he presented valid tickets for the flight and a valid passport I should think the legal requirements would be fulfilled.”

  There was a light knock on the rear door, and he swiveled in his chair to call, “Yes? Come.”

  The door opened and a blond, college-type youngster sauntered in. He wore a blue, pin-stripe suit and a bow tie and his manner was very respectful. “You wanted me, Mr. Hitchcock?”

  “Yes, Jeffer. It’s about a pair of tickets you sold yesterday on our Flight Seventeen to Rio this morning.” Mr. Hitchcock held up the two tickets and waved them in the air as though they offended him. “This is a private detective who wants to question you about the purchaser.”

  Jeffer looked at Shayne curiously and said, “I’ll do my best.” He took the tickets and looked down at them helplessly. “What about them?”

  “I’ll jog your memory a bit. I’ve ascertained they were sold the middle of yesterday afternoon for cash by a buyer who gave you the name of James Richards and his address as the Biltmore Hotel. Just the fact they were paid for in cash might jog your memory, Jeffer. You don’t sell too many tickets to South America for cash, certainly.”

  The young man shrugged. “At least half my sales are for cash, I’d say. James Richards?” He repeated the name thoughtfully, closing his eyes as though he savored it, then shaking his crew-cut head. “It doesn’t ring any bell, Mr. Hitchcock. Gosh, the way people are crowding in all day … I suppose I sold fifty tickets to South America yesterday.”

  Shayne sighed and asked, “I suppose there’s no possibility you didn’t explain carefully that a properly visaed passport would be required before he enplaned?”

  “Oh, no. That’s part of our routine. We have a little printed folder giving all the necessary information on flights to various parts of the world.”

  “And you couldn’t say whether the buyer was fat or thin, young or old, male or female?” Shayne pursued.

  “I’m afraid I can’t. If there had been anything to draw my attention to these particular tickets.…” The young man paused helplessly.

  Shayne shrugged and stood up and leaned forward to twitch the tickets from his hand. “I imagine the person who bought them took particular care not to draw attention to himself … or herself.” He hesitated as a further thought struck him. “You wouldn’t have thought it peculiar if a woman had bought the tickets … instead of a man?”

  “Why … no. Women often come in to buy tickets for their husbands and themselves.”

  Shayne nodded in defeat and repocketed the tickets. “Thank you both, and I’m sorry to have taken up your time.”

  Mr. Hitchcock followed him to the door and effusively assured him that was perfectly all right and he was delighted to have been of any assistance whatever in serving any segment of Pan-American’s vast clientèle, and if he could be of any further service.…

  Outside the office, Shayne made his way out of the bustling terminal and to his car in the parking lot with a dissatisfied frown on his face. In one sense, this had been a complete waste of time. All he knew was that someone who had given the name of James Richards and a fake address had bought a pair of tickets to Rio the preceding afternoon for cash … a pair of tickets that had subsequently turned up in the wallet of a murdered man who had apparently been packing a bag for such a trip when he was murdered. Whether Wallace, himself, had bought the tickets and given a false name, or whether someone else had bought them for him, was still shrouded in mystery. Twenty minutes remained before his appointment with Martin and Tompkins when he pulled away from the seaplane base.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Shayne stopped at the Beef House in Miami Avenue for a fast drink and a roast beef sandwich before going on to the Weymore. The bartender saw him enter, and he slid a four-ounce glass and a bottle of cognac onto the bar for him, and as Shayne poured the glass half-full he leaned forward and confided, “Mr. Rourke was asking for you. He’s in a booth.”

  Shayne said, “Thanks, Pat.” He went back along the line of booths carrying his glass, found Timothy Rourke seated alone, fondling an after-luncheon drink, and slid into the seat opposite him, asking a waiter to hurry along a sandwich.

  The cadaverous reporter twitched his thin lips into a tight grin as Shayne sat down. “Last time we ate here we had a divertissement in the shape of a jealous husband. Hope you haven’t got one gunning for you today.”

  Shayne shook his head, thinking about Gene and the switchblade knife that still reposed in his pocket. He said, “Not gunning this time, Tim. But if you see a character come in waving a knife, get under the table fast.” He took a sip of his drink and reached for Tim’s water glass to wash it down, and nodded slowly when the reporter asked, “Anything new on Wallace?”

  “Several things and none of them add up.” Shayne turned the glass round and round between big fingers. “You got anything?”

  Rourke said, “Nothing important. Will’s running around trying to knock holes in Mrs. Wallace’s story. I don’t think he’s succeeded except for that gap he turned up at the Olinar last night.”

  “It wasn’t a real gap,” Shayne reminded him. “Just a lack of positive verification.”

  “I know.” Rourke leaned back and laced bony fingers behind his head. “I saw him in his office about an hour ago. He’s sore about something, Mike. Something to do with you.”

  Shayne nodded and downed the rest of his drink as the waiter placed an open sandwich of rare beef in front of him. He said, “Coffee,” and cut into the red meat. “Lucy told me he was throwing his weight around in my office. I gather it’s some hunch Will got after talking with Martin and Tompkins. He acted sore when he found me there before him this morning, though I don’t know why he should be. Did he pick up a new lead from them?”

  “He didn’t tell me if he did,” grumbled Rourke, and Shayne knew that the secret of the missing million was still safe from the newspapers even if Gentry had got some inkling of it.

  Between bites, he asked, “Is there a Brazilian Consulate in Miami?”

  “I … think so. There’s a lot of air traffic these days.”

  Shayne said, “Check, will you, Tim? Find out if Wallace had a passport visaed there recently. Or if anybody named James Richards applied for a visa recently.”

  Rourke’s deepset eyes brightened alertly. “Was that what Wallace was packing his bag for?”

  Shayne said, “I honestly don’t know, Tim. For God’s sake, keep it out of the paper if you do get a line on such a visa.”

  “Who’s James Richards?”

  “I don’t know that either. I don’t even know whether there is such a guy.” Shayne pushed away his empty plate and took a swallow of coffee, then lit a cigarette. He said slowly, “Things may start coming to a head this afternoon, and when they do there’s going to be one hell of a big black headline for you.”

  “You are holding out something,” charged Rourke. “I know the look on your face and the sound of your voice, Mike. Give.”

  Shayne shook his red head doggedly. “Not yet. There’s a headline in the making, but I’ve got to earn a fee
first. You know you’ll get it before anyone else. Check on the visas, huh?”

  He got up and Tim said, “Will do. And I’ll be at the office waiting.”

  Shayne left money on the table and went out hurriedly. It was a few minutes after two o’clock when he got off on the fourth floor of the Weymore again. The pert redhead at the desk told him briskly, “I’m sorry but Mr. Martin hasn’t returned from lunch yet.”

  “Tompkins in?”

  “Y-yes. But … I’m not sure he’s eager to see you, Mr. Shayne. In fact.…”

  Shayne said, “He’ll see me. Even if it’s only to fire me off the case. Where’s his office?”

  “It’s … really, Mr. Shayne. He gave me definite instructions that he wasn’t in to you.”

  Shayne started toward the door he had entered previously, “Then I’ll have to start knocking on doors.”

  He had his hand on the knob when she said in a low voice, “Straight down to the end, but I didn’t tell you.”

  Shayne said cheerfully, “Of course you didn’t.” He went through the doorway and down the hall to the end where closed doors on the left and right were lettered, “Mr. Wallace” and “Mr. Tompkins.”

  He opened Tompkins’ door and went in. It was a large corner room with heavy wall-to-wall carpeting and a huge desk in the center of it. Tompkins was seated in a swivel chair behind the desk, leaning forward and speaking angrily into an intercom. “Damn it, Alice, I told you.…”

  He broke off at Shayne’s appearance and three deep vertical creases formed in the center of his forehead. He said, “I thought I made it clear this morning, Shayne, that I disapproved of your retention by this firm. If Martin wants to waste time with you, that’s his personal affair.”

  Shayne heeled the door shut and his face became grim. “To hell with what you want or don’t want, Tompkins. I’m working for Mrs. Wallace and haven’t accepted a retainer from you yet. You’ll answer questions from me or from the police.”

  “My God, man! That’s all I’ve been doing all morning. Chief Gentry was here for an hour and I told him everything I knew.”