Brett Halliday: Blue Murder

Capp pulled a towel off a rack and blotted his face. “Am I supposed to know her?”

Shayne tore up another hundred-dollar bill and dropped it in the toilet.

“Will you cut that out,” Capp complained. “Gretchen Tucker. I’m trying to think. Who’s she?”

“The wife of a United States congressman, and she’s the wrong kind of person for you to fool with, Frankie. You want to stay with what you know.”

Capp used the edge of the washbasin to pull himself erect and managed to stay on his feet to confront his bedraggled image in the mirror.

“I don’t know the lady, but go ahead, pound on me some more. I’ve got an Italian name. They weren’t thinking about people like me when they wrote the Constitution. The Italians hadn’t come yet.”

He walked out of the bathroom ahead of Shayne, stopping short when he saw the dog. He breathed, “You killed him.”

“Did I?”

Capp said softly without turning, “I won’t forget this. He’s been with me a year and a half. I liked that mutt.”

“A real killer, I hear.”

“Vicious. But with me, so goddamn playful.” He collapsed into a chair. “Still sort of rubbery. If you want me to make any sense, get me a drink. A large Chivas. It’s been a long day.”

Shayne found a glass and filled it with Scotch. He poured a cognac for himself. Capp drank thirstily and breathed out in a shudder.

“Do me a favor. What’s happening in town? You wouldn’t shoot my dog and slap me with a pistol unless you thought I broke some ordinance or other. What is it this time? Come on, Mike, for Christ’s sake, it’s only a game.”

“If you don’t want to talk about Mrs. Tucker, how much do you know about dirty movies?”

“Movies?” Capp said, apparently surprised. “Not a hell of a lot. But I don’t talk about business, you know that about me. If you talk about business to people who don’t like you, it gets back to Internal Revenue. Are you working for Tucker?”

“Yeah, he’s mislaid his wife. We thought you might be able to help.”

“Much as I’d like to. Seriously — you bust into somebody’s house and shoot their dog. Is that any way to get cooperation? All I want of you right now is to stay out of my toupee. I want to hit the sheets. Tell me what you’ve got. Maybe I can explain it.”

“She was seen in your car, at the toll station on the causeway. And the thing that irritates Tucker most is that she was laughing.”

“Who’s your witness, Tucker?”

“A friend of his.”

Capp grinned. “Laughing, was she? Awful. There ought to be a law against it. Women go for you, don’t they, Mike? A private detective, you’ve killed people. That turns on a certain kind of chick. I get some of the same kind of thing, I’m not ashamed to admit, but with me, it’s ninety percent acting. But they don’t know that. I haven’t fucked her yet. Tell the congressman. Experience tells me it’s a matter of days. She’s panting.”

He went on talking, and Shayne watched him put his picture of himself back together, a man who knew the rules and understood how to bend or evade them. He had beaten Shayne twice, once badly, and it was clear from his tone that he thought he was going to beat him again.

Shayne discovered, after all, that he couldn’t drink Capp’s cognac. He broke in.

“Where’s she living?”

“I don’t call her. She calls me.”

Shayne stood up. “I’m wasting your time. One thing I ought to tell you. Every now and again Tucker reminds himself that he ought to be worrying about her. But when he’s talking about politics I think he sounds more sincere. Whatever you’ve got, you may not be able to squeeze much out of it. Put the price too high and he’ll write her off as a bad debt.”

“He’s a lousy human being,” Capp agreed. “I don’t know how you stand to work for him.”

Shayne flipped him his wallet. “You’ve been lucky, Frankie. This time I think you’re pushing your luck. Tucker has connections that may be too strong for you, not just here but all over the country. He’s an investment. Those backers will hang onto him as long as they can.”

“This is a threat?”

“Not exactly. I’ll be watching you. I want you to go right on doing what you’re doing, because this time I don’t think I can miss.”

“You don’t know shit, Mike — remember I said that. Tucker’s a politician. Don’t believe everything he tells you.” He croaked with laughter. “Man, are you in for surprises.”

“I’ll try to prepare myself. If you stay in Miami, we’ll see each other again.”

“Why shouldn’t I stay in Miami? It’s where I live.”

They were facing each other across the body of the dead dog. Capp nodded in that direction.

“I’m going to make you sorry you did that.” Shayne turned and went out. After starting his Buick, he gunned the motor and took off with a scream of tires. His phone buzzed beside him. He flipped the switch.

“Call you back.”

At the corner he double-parked, latched the door silently and ran back, not jogging now but running. The phone was ringing inside Capp’s house as he approached the broken bedroom window. He was in time to hear Capp say hello.

“You shouldn’t call me here,” Capp said harshly. “Did you ever hear of a guy named Mike Shayne? He’s working for Tucker, and that means we start being careful. Don’t say anything! Get up the goddamn money and I’ll be in touch with you!”

The phone banged down.

Shayne backed off as Capp came into the bedroom. A light was turned on. Seeing the disheveled bed, Capp swore and his face twisted. He lifted the mattress, exposing a plywood bedboard, and felt beneath it.

Whatever he was looking for wasn’t there. He straightened slowly.

“Shayne,” he whispered. “I’ll kill the bastard, I’ll kill him.”

He was facing the mirror, as though to check his own reactions. He had been about to light a cigar. It snapped in his fingers. Suddenly he swept everything off the bureau, and threw the broken cigar at the mirror.

“I’ll kill him.”

On his way to the bar for another drink, he changed course and kicked the dog’s body so hard that he lifted it off the floor.

“And you were supposed to be so quick. You phony.”

Back in his car, Shayne signaled his operator and told her he was ready to take the call. It was from Tucker.

“Shayne, thank God I managed to reach you. Can you come right away.”

“What’s happened?”

“I’ve had a communication from our friends. I don’t want to talk on the phone. I don’t want to talk about it at all! It’s rather — terrible. I need your advice.”

Shayne told Tucker to expect him in ten minutes, and hung up. He was hurrying and jumped a few lights. The beat-up Dodge that had been parked outside Tucker’s condominium was gone, and the curb space was still open. Shayne parked as before in the tenants’ parking area.

Tucker was in shirt sleeves, his tie loose. He had been combing his hair with his fingers, and he no longer looked like a politician on the way up, but a politician whose career is over. Even that effect seemed slightly calculated, as though he had tried several versions of it before coming to open the door.

“You said ten minutes. It’s nearer fifteen.”

He turned to lead the way. “I had a couple of belts while I was waiting. Not such a good idea. Things are buzzing. In here.”

He had a slide projector in operating position on a low table, aimed at a patch of wall.

“Get yourself a drink if you want one,” he said. “Cognac, wasn’t it? You’re in for an interesting viewing experience.”

There was an empty manila envelope beside the projector, inscribed: “To the Hon. Nick Tucker, with love.” Instead of a stamp, there was an inked heart, dripping blood.