Brett Halliday: Bodies Are Where You Find Them

Pin points of anger shone in Painter’s eyes. “That’s exactly the point. You’ve backed Jim Marsh because of personal animus toward me. You’re afraid to have me assume the post of police chief in Miami Beach, Shayne. You know I’ll use the added authority to see that you discontinue the practice of your so-called profession my side of Biscayne Bay.”

Shayne shrugged and leaned forward to pour a small drink. He muttered, “Sorry you won’t join me. All right, Painter. I’m perfectly willing to grant that I want to see Stallings defeated because you’re slated for the job of police chief if he wins. So what?”

“Just this, Mr. Shayne.” Stallings took up the discussion before Painter could form a suitable reply. “We’re not interested in your motives. We are interested in your methods. I’ll admit that Painter has warned me to expect dirty tactics from you when your cause appears hopeless. But I didn’t expect this, Mr. Shayne. This outrageous flouting of every law and decency. I have been prepared for a criminal attack on my person, but I did not feel it necessary to safeguard my family against you.”

Shayne laughed shortly and sipped from his glass. There wasn’t much he could say until he knew what the devil they were talking about.

“I’m not surprised,” Painter exploded. “You’ve pulled this sort of thing time and again in the past without paying the piper. But this time we’ve got you cold.” He hammered a small fist into a smooth palm. “You’ve gone out of bounds this time and you won’t wriggle out of it.”

Shayne wrinkled his nose at the detective chief from across the bay. “You’ve played that record before.”

“This time you’re really out on a limb, Shamus. Kidnaping is a federal offense. It’s not something you can cover up locally. You picked the wrong man to intimidate when you picked Burt Stallings.”

“Painter is absolutely right,” Stallings told him in a measured tone which carried more weight than Painter’s vindictive snarl. “I refuse to be intimidated. I owe a certain duty to my constituents and, no matter what my own feelings in this matter, the issue is larger than any mere personal consideration.”

“So?” Shayne mused. He gravely sipped from his glass, keeping his face impassively blank. “All right,” he said sharply, “you refuse to be intimidated. Where does that leave us?”

“It leaves you smack behind the eight ball,” Peter Painter exulted. “You took a long chance and failed.”

“I haven’t failed yet.”

“Oh, yes, you have. You’re through, Shayne. Washed up.” Painter’s words were clipped and exultant.

“If you’d shut up this little twerp’s yapping,” Shayne said to Stallings, “you and I might come to an understanding.”

Painter trembled with rage. He drew his lips back for a retort, thought better of it, and laughed coldly.

Stallings shook his silvery head. “We’re not here to sue for peace. I won’t even discuss terms with you until my daughter is safely returned.”

Shayne exclaimed, “Your daughter?” in a tone of complete surprise, caught himself up hastily, and scowled. “I didn’t know you had a daughter.”

“My stepdaughter,” Stallings amended smoothly.

Shayne stalled for time. “I haven’t got your stepdaughter.”

Stallings smiled persuasively. “We hardly expected you to have her in personal custody. However, we’re quite sure a word from you will effect her release.”

Shayne parried, “What makes you so sure of that?”

“Quit beating around the bush,” Painter snapped. “You’re the only one in Marsh’s camp with the guts to engineer a snatch. As soon as Stallings came to me about it I told him you were the one to see.”

“It’s self-evident, Shayne,” Stallings interposed. “Jim Marsh has been a hard campaigner, but a gentleman through it all. I can’t believe Marsh would even condone such an act.”

Shayne emptied his glass and set it down. He lit a cigarette. “From all this talk I get the impression that your stepdaughter is missing; that you suspect she’s been kidnaped.” He addressed Stallings directly. “Do you want to retain me to get her back? It’s quite natural you should come to me for help when a nincompoop like Painter is running the Miami Beach detective force.”

Painter choked over a reply, but Burt Stallings did not allow his equanimity to be disturbed. “I expect you to arrange for her return, but there is certainly no thought of retaining you for the job. The terms set forth in your note are preposterous and I have no intention of meeting them.”

“My note?” Shayne echoed. He shook his head and looked vaguely amused. “I haven’t written you any notes.”

“Denying it won’t help, Mr. Shayne. Who else but you would demand that I withdraw from the mayoralty campaign as the price of my daughter’s life?”

“Who else, indeed?” Shayne murmured. A murky light of anger was slowly kindling in his gray eyes. “Is that what I’m accused of this time?”

Stallings spread out his strong, well-kept hands and smiled patiently. “We’re not wasting our time with accusations. We’re giving you to understand that your plot has failed. I have no intention of withdrawing from the campaign. Unless Helen is safe at home by noon tomorrow, this entire story will be given to the newspapers. I’m sure the voters will rise indignantly against such foul tactics and by their ballots effectively answer the threat you have made.”

Shayne frowned, lowering his eyelids to veil the blaze of violent anger in his eyes. “You seem positive that I’ve kidnaped your stepdaughter. What proof have you?”

“Isn’t your guilt self-evident?”

Shayne hesitated, choosing his words with care. “There is such a thing as a frame-up. Since I am so clearly indicated, don’t you see it’s possible someone else has taken advantage of that situation to throw the blame on me?”

Painter threw back his sleek head with a taunting laugh. “By God, it would be poetic justice if you were hooked in a frame-up — after engineering so many of your own in the past.”

“If you don’t shut up,” said Shayne savagely, “I’ll attend to it for you.”

“Let’s remain calm,” Stallings pleaded. “Helen’s safety must be our first consideration.” He took out a handkerchief and mopped his high forehead, tossed back his mane of silvery hair. “Poor child. Think of the agony she must be suffering.”

Shayne’s laugh was cynical. “I’m beginning to remember now. Helen Stallings was the girl who brought suit against you last month for mishandling her mother’s estate.”

“An unfortunate error,” Stallings told him with a pained expression. “She has since regretted her action.”

“When was she kidnaped? And how?” Shayne demanded. “You’re putting it up to me to get her back by noon tomorrow. I can’t do much without the facts.”

“As if you didn’t know more about it than we do,” Peter Painter scoffed.

Stallings silenced him with a gesture. “It’s possible we’ve wronged Mr. Shayne in our assumption. I’m unwilling to withhold any information that may lead to Helen’s return. She disappeared shortly after lunch today. She was in a temper and drove away in her car without telling anyone her destination. The note demanding that I withdraw from the election was delivered at six o’clock.”

“What was she mad about?” Shayne demanded.

“That’s neither here nor there. She’s a flighty child, given to moods and tantrums, though her mother and I have always tried to be patient with her.”

“Then you haven’t any evidence against me at all,” Shayne told him coldly. “Yet you’ve got the guts to come here and openly accuse me of kidnaping a girl I’ve never seen. By God, I ought to throw both of you out on your necks.” He slid off the desk and stood up, big hands knotted into fists.