Shoot the Works

by Brett Halliday

  Shayne pulled a heavy chair close to the desk and sat down without an invitation. “Including the news about the missing securities?”

  “No,” said Tompkins shortly, “though I was sorely tempted to, and am not at all convinced that it wasn’t a mistake not to. Indeed, I had the strong impression that he is beginning to suspect the truth. He wormed the information out of Martin that we had called you in, and he cross-questioned us severely as to our reason for doing so.”

  Shayne said lightly, “That’s because he can’t get it through his thick head that people are often willing to pay me a fee to do the same work Will is supposed to do. I hope you told him that.”

  “We did, in effect,” said Tompkins sulkily, “but he refused to accept that explanation. Damn it, man!” the broker exploded violently, “Do you realize the sort of volcano we’re sitting on? Every minute that passes, that million dollars may be farther from here … farther from possible recovery. I think we’re fools to entrust the job to you without asking the police for help. Why, Chief Gentry told us you work entirely alone … that you don’t have a single, accredited investigator on your staff. I’d assumed, naturally, that you had certain resources for this type of investigation. What sort of job can one man do in a case like this?”

  Shayne leaned back comfortably and said, “You and Gentry must have given me a good going over. During the course of it, how much did you spill to him about your reason for calling me in?”

  “Nothing definite. I told you that. But he did force out of us the admission that we had supplied you with certain information that we felt it best to withhold from him. And he stalked out like an angry bear, after warning us that we were liable as accessories after the fact if that information was relevant to murder. And it is relevant, damn it!” He struck the desk in front of him resoundingly with his fist. “I don’t like it at all.”

  Shayne said, “You did want me to make a search of the Wallace apartment.”

  “That was when I mistakenly believed you carried enough weight with the police to get permission when we couldn’t. But I heard him telephone his guard at the apartment myself and deliver positive instructions that you were not to be given entry under any circumstances.”

  Shayne said, “So he called from here? After you had tipped him off, I suppose, what I planned to do.”

  “We did tell him you had assured us you would encounter no difficulty in making such a search.”

  Shayne shrugged and said bleakly, “To hell with all this. Who is James Richards?”

  “I don’t know. Should I?”

  “Take your time before answering that,” Shayne urged him. “Think the name over for a bit. Does it strike any chord at all?”

  “I don’t think so. Richards?” Tompkins hesitated and then shook his head firmly. “I know several men named Richards. None intimately, and none with James for a given name.”

  “Are you prepared to tell me where and how you spent last night?”

  “Certainly not,” snapped Tompkins. “I told Gentry as I told you previously, that if the time comes when I must produce an alibi I’m prepared to do so. Until such time, I consider my private affairs strictly my own.”

  Shayne said, “You’re making it tough on yourself. Let’s go back to yesterday afternoon. Presumably you weren’t dishonorably bedded down with a female during that period. Were all you three partners here in the office all the afternoon?”

  Tompkins’ hatchet face had flushed an angry red at Shayne’s reference to a woman. He said stiffly, “I don’t see what yesterday afternoon has to do with it. We know the money was in the safe when we left the office at five o’clock.”

  “I’m still interested in how the three of you spent the afternoon.”

  “I’m not sure about the others. I had a long business luncheon and returned to the office in the middle of the afternoon. After that I had conferences with two clients, cleaned up some dictating and called it a day. Is that satisfactory, Mr. Shayne?”

  Shayne said coldly, “It will be if you will give me the name of the person you had lunch with.”

  Tompkins drew in a deep breath and held it for a long time. He expelled it and said, “My secretary can provide you with that information … thus attesting to my veracity.”

  Shayne nodded and said, “That always helps. How about the others?”

  “Hadn’t you better ask them, Mr. Shayne?”

  “It’ll be difficult to ask Wallace.”

  “Yes. His secretary will be more helpful than I. But I believe yesterday was one of Jim’s golfing afternoons.”

  Shayne raised ragged red eyebrows. “Golf? On a business day?”

  “Really, Mr. Shayne. I can assure you that more business transactions are consummated every afternoon on golf courses than inside an office like this.”

  Shayne said, “It’s nice work if you can get it. Do you know about Martin?”

  “We are not in the habit of keeping tabs on each other,” said Tompkins stiffly. “Really, you know, I find this interrogation quite distasteful.”

  Shayne said, “All right. Try this one on for size. Who is Lola?”

  He was leaning back comfortably as he spoke, but watching Tompkins’ face keenly from beneath lowered lids.

  He had an immediate impression that the name did, in fact, mean a great deal to the junior partner. Tompkins was too well-disciplined to make any outward display of emotion, but an inner turmoil was evidenced by an almost imperceptible tightening of facial muscles, a faint intake of breath that was almost instantly checked, a stronger sense of tension between the two men.

  “What was that name again?”

  “Lola.” The man was fencing and Shayne knew he was fencing.

  “Lola what?”

  At this point, Shayne didn’t want to admit he hadn’t the faintest idea what Lola’s last name was. He said stolidly, “Just Lola should be enough … if she’s who I think she is. Is she?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know, Mr. Shayne. Who do you think she is?”

  “I’m asking you. Who is Lola?”

  Tompkins said, “The name means absolutely nothing to me,” and Shayne knew he was lying.

  “How does she come into this?”

  Shayne said casually, “I’m not positive, but it begins to look as though Wallace was carrying on an affair with her.”

  Tompkins’ “Preposterous!” came out hard and fast and unexpectedly. He narrowed his eyes at the detective and shook his sleek, black head firmly. “Not old Jim. Really, Mr. Shayne?”

  The detective reached in his pocket for the note he had found in Wallace’s apartment. He hunched his chair forward to spread it out on the desk in front of Tompkins. “I’m guessing, of course. But what do you make of this?”

  Tompkins put his forefinger fastidiously on the sheet of notepaper and turned it so he could read the words written in green ink. His brow was furrowed and his gaze stayed on the note long enough for him to have read it several times before he demanded, “Where did this note come from?”

  Shayne said, “I found it in Jim Wallace’s apartment. Very carefully hidden away in one of his bureau drawers. Don’t you agree that it indicates Wallace may not have been the complete paragon that all of you try to make me believe he was?”

  “There’s no salutation. You don’t know that this was written to Jim.”

  Shayne agreed easily, “That’s true. I suppose there might be several other explanations of his having it hidden away so carefully … but, frankly, I can’t think of a good one. Can you?”

  “Not offhand,” admitted Tompkins. “Still.…” He pushed the note back toward the redhead as though he were offended by the sight of it. “I’m afraid I don’t understand this at all. You claim to have found this note secreted in Jim’s apartment. When? Under what circumstances? I’ve told you I distinctly heard Chief Gentry issue orders that you were not to be allowed access to the apartment.”

  Shayne grinned and pocketed the note. “I have my methods, Tompkins �
� even though I don’t employ a large staff of investigators, as you think I should.”

  A buzzer sounded and Tompkins flipped a switch and the redhead’s voice said through the intercom, “Mr. Martin is in his office now, Mr. Tompkins. I didn’t tell him Mr. Shayne was here.”

  Shayne got up. He said, “I’ll have a talk with him. Where is his office?”

  Tompkins half-rose from the swivel chair. He said thinly, “I want you to understand I have not changed my opinion in the slightest degree. Turn to your right at the end of the hall. It’s the first door. And you can tell Martin that, if he wishes to retain you, it is his personal responsibility. I shan’t be a party to paying you one thin dime.”

  Shayne said, “I’ll tell him.”

  He went out and closed the door firmly behind him. He hesitated outside, looking down the hall. There was no one to observe him, and he turned and reached above the door to grip the lower portion of the open transom and pulled himself up so he could look inside. There were two telephones on Tompkins’ desk. He lifted the one on the left side as Shayne watched, and dialed a number. From his vantage point, the detective could see the face of the dial, and he memorized the number that the broker dialed.

  He heard laughter and a girl’s voice down the hall at his right, and he dropped back quietly onto the carpet just in time to turn and walk composedly toward the front as two girls rounded the corner and started toward him, talking animatedly about a date one of them had had the preceding night.

  They were absorbed in each other and scarcely glanced at the redhead as he passed them on his way to Rutherford Martin’s office.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Martin’s office, at the end of another corridor leading to the right, was practically a replica of his junior partner’s. There was the same large corner room with wall-to-wall carpeting, a similar large desk in the center with telephones on the broker’s right and left.

  Rutherford Martin was perspiring and obviously nervous when Shayne walked in unannounced and without knocking. He gave a little jump in his chair behind the big desk and said, “Shayne! Alice didn’t tell me.…”

  Shayne grinned and sat down. “I’ve been having a conference with Tompkins while I waited for you.”

  “I … see.” Martin gnawed at his lower lip unhappily. “Tommy has a strong feeling that I mismanaged this affair by calling you in.”

  Shayne said, “He made that quite clear to me. How much did he give away to Will Gentry this morning?”

  “Nothing definite. However … he did arouse the chief’s suspicion by certain circumlocutions while we were being questioned which resulted in an unpleasant atmosphere.”

  “And in Gentry’s calling the Wallace apartment to order his man not to admit me,” said Shayne evenly, “after Tompkins was fool enough to tell him I was on my way there to search the joint.”

  Martin said placatingly, “I’m sorry about that. Of course, it was most indiscreet of Tommy. But he resented my calling you in, and seemed bent on proving that you would be ineffectual.”

  “What’s the matter with him?” demanded Shayne. “I could get the idea he doesn’t want the money found.”

  “Oh, no!” The mere suggestion shocked Martin. “I’m sure it isn’t that. He’s terribly upset by the whole thing, of course. Jim’s death and the loss of the money. He simply believes the police would be more likely to locate the money than you.”

  Shayne said, “Maybe.” He got out a cigarette and made quite a production of lighting it, taking care not to look at Martin as he asked casually, “You and he get along all right, by and large?”

  “Tommy and I? Certainly. He’s a very keen businessman. I have the utmost respect for his integrity and business judgment.”

  “Even while he’s smooching with your wife?”

  “Mr. Shayne!” Martin half rose from his desk and his voice trembled. “What sort of backstairs gossip have you been listening to?”

  “Some very interesting stuff,” said Shayne lightly. “Are you going to tell me that your approval of Tompkins extends to his tom-catting proclivities?”

  “I don’t intend to tell you anything if you continue this line of questioning.” Martin lowered his heavy body back into his chair, his lips compressed primly.

  Shayne said, “Not being a married man myself, I can’t judge how jealous a man of your age would normally be of your wife’s extra-marital interests. But to hell with that,” he went on evenly. “Were you here in the office all yesterday afternoon?”

  The swift change of subject threw the broker off balance, and he stammered, “Yesterday afternoon? I’m afraid I don’t see the connection.”

  “I’m trying to get a time-table for all of you yesterday. Tompkins claims he was here after a long luncheon … and that Wallace was playing golf. Do you concur?”

  “I do believe it was one of Jim’s golfing days. I don’t recall seeing Tommy during the afternoon, but that’s not at all unusual. We each have our own clients and appointments, of course. Is it important?”

  “It might be. What about yourself?”

  “I was quite busy with paperwork and had lunch sent up,” declared Martin. “Later, I had a three o’clock appointment on the Beach, and returned about four-thirty in time to clear my desk for the day.”

  “Was your appointment with James Richards?”

  Martin shook his head, frowning slightly. “No. With a Mr. Poindexter. Who is James Richards?”

  “Don’t you know?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t, Mr. Shayne. See here,” he went on impatiently, “is any of this putting us any closer to recovering our million dollars?”

  Shayne sighed and said, “I can’t promise a damned thing. I had hoped you or Tompkins could throw some light on the identity of James Richards.” He paused a long moment before asking, “Who is Lola, Martin?”

  Again, he was careful to be studying the other one intently when he spoke the name.

  And again, he was conscious of an immediate and definite response, although Martin’s was as determinedly veiled as Tompkins’ had been. Like the young man, he repeated, “Lola?” and Shayne had the same impression that he was fencing as he received from Tompkins’ identical response.

  Shayne nodded soberly and repeated, “Lola.”

  Martin said, “I don’t believe I know anyone named Lola.”

  “Ever heard Wallace or Tompkins mention her name?”

  “I don’t … believe so. Not that I recall. Why do you ask?”

  “Here’s why.” Shayne produced the note written in green ink again, and leaned half out of his chair to toss it on the desk in front of Martin. “Read that and see if it jogs your memory.”

  Martin read the note, taking less than a third of the time in the process than Tompkins had consumed. He pushed it back with a frown.

  “To whom was this written?”

  Shayne said, “To Jim Wallace presumably. I found it hidden away in a bureau drawer of his.”

  “Jim?” he shook his gray head and clucked disapprovingly. “Rather proving your thesis that he must have been entangled with some woman to have yielded to temptation?”

  “Rather,” agreed Shayne. “You’re certain you never heard Wallace mention her name?”

  “I can’t be certain. Yesterday I would have said it was inconceivable that Jim was carrying on any sort of affair. Today … I simply don’t know what to think. You say you found this note in Jim’s apartment? Then I was right in assuming you had gained access before Chief Gentry ordered that you should be kept out? I tried to tell Tompkins that you were a man of many, talents and could be trusted to get results. But you didn’t find the money?”

  Shayne shook his head. “I’m convinced it isn’t in the apartment. This note is the only thing I found that seemed important.”

  “And I agree with you that it may be very important, Mr. Shayne.” Martin arose excitedly. “She may well be the key to the whole affair. Come to Jim’s office with me. We may be on the track of something
vital.”

  As Shayne followed him out and down the corridor, he explained rapidly, “I don’t know whether we’ll find it there or not, but Jim always kept in his desk a small address book with private telephone numbers that had no connection with the business. I’ve seen him refer to it in the past quite often.”

  He hurried to the door opposite Tompkins’, with its neat lettering, “Mr. Wallace.”

  It was larger than the offices of the other two partners, but it was not a corner room. Otherwise, it was much the same as theirs.

  Shayne followed Martin inside and watched him seat himself in the chair of his dead partner and pull open the top, right-hand drawer of the desk.

  He triumphantly lifted out a small, leather-bound address book and asked the detective, “What is her last name?”

  Shayne said, “All I know about her is the note I found. Just Lola.”

  Martin pursed his thick lips and began turning through the pages slowly. “I don’t know …” He paused and the tip of his tongue showed between his lips as he stopped turning pages.

  “It’s right here,” he said excitedly. “The last entry under L. Lola.” He read a telephone number aloud, and Shayne recognized it immediately as the same number Tompkins had dialed a few minutes before, when he believed himself safely alone in his office.

  “But there’s no address,” muttered Martin. “And no other name. Isn’t there some method you detectives have for getting a name and address just from a telephone number? Or is that just a figment of the imagination of fiction writers?”

  “The telephone company has a cross-reference file,” Shayne agreed: “But.…”

  “Of course,” said Martin happily, “I remember my mystery reading now. Why not dial the number and see who answers?”

  Shayne said, “That’s fastest sometimes.” He started to reach for the telephone on the right side of the desk, but Martin interposed quickly, lifting the other one instead.

  “That goes through the switchboard. This is a direct outside line.” He pursed his lips with the address book open in front of him, dialed the number carefully.