Brett Halliday - Shoot the Works

Shayne dropped his cigarette butt into the dregs in his coffee cup and said, “I’m not passing any moral judgments, Bob. What is the woman’s name?”

“I don’t know. If she told me, I’ve forgotten. I’m not used to drinking much, and, by the time I left Callahan’s, I was pretty tight. She was about twenty-five. With a sort of broad face and high cheekbones. I don’t know how to describe her. Not conventionally beautiful, but alluring as hell. I guess that’s the right word. Alluring. She had long black hair that hung to her shoulders and curled up at the ends, and sensuous dark eyes that promise a man everything in the world he wants from a woman the first time she looks at you.

“I guess I sound sophomoric as the devil,” he went on shamefacedly. “But Helen is the only girl I ever touched in my life, and I was just bowled over by her. I do know her apartment was Three-A and it’s the only apartment building on the north side of Flagler between Thirtieth and Thirty-First.”

Shayne leaned back and lit another cigarette. “You never mentioned this to Jim Wallace?”

Pearce shuddered. “How could I? What could I have said? That I had seduced his mistress? I couldn’t bear to look him in the eye afterward. I’ve felt like cutting my throat ever since.”

Shayne grinned reassuringly at the younger man. “That, too, will pass,” he prophesied. “You deserve a lot of credit for telling me and I’ll check on her.”

The telephone rang as he jotted down the information about the girl’s address that Pearce had given him.

He said, “Hello,” and a worried voice asked, “Is that Michael Shayne?”

“Speaking.”

“Rutherford Martin, Mr. Shayne. Could you meet Mr. Tompkins and me in your office at once? It’s extremely important.”

“Something about Wallace?”

“Yes. We have some very important and highly confidential information that may shed an entirely new light on his death.”

Everyone connected with the case, Shayne thought morosely, seemed to have important and confidential information about Jim Wallace. Aloud, he temporized, “I’ll try to make it within an hour.”

“Please, Mr. Shayne. We expect you here at once. We wish to retain your services.”

Shayne said coldly, “I’ve already been retained by Mrs. Wallace.”

“This assignment needn’t conflict at all. In fact, it’s very probable that it will be the greatest assistance to you in solving the case. We’ll pay any retainer you ask.”

“In that case,” said Shayne, “I’ll be right over.” He hung up and rose, telling Pearce, “Go on home to your wife and mother-in-law, and salve your conscience by taking care of them now while they need you. I’ll be in touch with you.”

The lobby of the Weymore Hotel looked a little more modern and inviting in the morning light than it had when Shayne visited it the preceding night. Like many of the older hotels in Miami, the Weymore was largely by-passed during the winter season by the smart and heavy-spending tourist crowd, and had found it profitable to rent many of its larger suites as business offices on a yearly basis. There was a small and inconspicuous Business Directory beside the elevator, and Shayne paused to find the name, “Martin, Wallace & Tompkins, Brokers” listed there. Behind the listing was the notation, “4th Floor.”

When Shayne stepped off the elevator on the 4th floor, he faced a small reception areaway that had been converted from the regular hotel hall. A pert redhead sat at a desk, facing the elevator doors, and it was evident that the brokerage firm had taken over the entire fourth floor of the hotel for its offices.

The girl smiled pleasantly at Shayne, though a faint vertical crease in the center of her forehead indicated that he wasn’t exactly the type of visitor who normally frequented the office.

Shayne dragged off his Panama and grinned. He said, “You’re absolutely right, honey. I haven’t come to build up my portfolio or clip any coupons. Mr. Martin in?” She flushed a trifle at his teasing tone and said primly, “Is he expecting you?”

Shayne nodded, “Michael Shayne.”

Her eyes widened and she said, “Of course, Mr. Shayne. You’re to go right in.” She turned to indicate a closed, paneled door on her right. “Straight ahead and the second door on your left.”

Shayne went through the heavy door which closed silently on air hinges behind him. The second door on the left opened into a large room furnished more like the lounge room of an exclusive club than any business office in which Shayne had ever been. There were a dozen comfortable chairs scattered around the room, with smoking stands by each, and, at the far end, a stock ticker clicked unobtrusively.

There were two men seated in the room, glaring at each other, and Rutherford Martin was pointing a blunt cigar angrily at his partner when Shayne paused in the doorway.

“… tell you it has to be this way. If we don’t give the whole story to Michael Shayne…”

Martin turned abruptly, with his lower jaw sagging, as he looked at the redhead in the doorway. He forced his heavy body up from the deep chair and made an effort to put a genial smile on his florid face.

“Mr. Shayne. My partner and I were just discussing the situation that I wanted to consult you about. This is Mr. Tompkins… Michael Shayne, Tommy.” He made the introduction with a flourish of his halfsmoked cigar.

The junior partner of the brokerage firm unfolded himself stiffly and nodded. “I want you to understand the first thing off the bat, Mr. Shayne, that I am not in accord with Martin on this subject.” He paused, shrugging his slender, immaculately jacketed shoulders to indicate ill-suppressed venom. “I insist it is far too delicate to entrust to a private detective with your sort of reputation.”

Tompkins was in his early forties, very tall and very thin, with hatchet-like features and piercing black eyes.

His over-long glossy black hair was meticulously parted in the center, and he was dressed with a studied air of elegance that grated on Shayne.

The redhead glanced curiously at Martin and then back to the younger man. His gaunt face hardened, but he kept his voice at a quietly conversational tone as he asked, “What facet of my reputation are you referring to?”

“You know well enough what I mean.” Tompkins’ reply was curtly arrogant.

Shayne shrugged and told Rutherford Martin, “To hell with this. I came because you asked me to, but…” He half-turned to leave the room, but Martin stepped forward quickly to seize his arm.

“You’ll have to forgive Tommy’s rudeness. He’s terribly upset by this, Shayne. We both are, and we’ve had a difference of opinion as to how it should be handled. It’s a frightful situation.” He got out a handkerchief and mopped beads of perspiration from his forehead. He held Shayne’s arm in an urgent grip and turned him back slowly.

“Close the door, Tommy,” he ordered. “We’ve got to have Mr. Shayne’s cooperation, and you’re not going to help matters by insulting him.”

“I didn’t consider it an insult,” said Tompkins stiffly, moving behind the redhead to close the door. “I apologize, if that will help. But you know how close Shayne is to that newspaper friend of his. And if one faint hint of this situation leaks out…”

“Exactly why I’ve called Shayne in,” said Martin brusquely. He urged the reluctant detective down into a comfortable chair in front of the one he had been sitting in, and drew another one closer for his partner. “We agree it’s out of the question to confide in the police,” he went on placatingly. “No matter how much we trust their discretion, they have a job to do, and this ties in directly with Jim Wallace’s murder. There’d have to be a complete and full-blown investigation… and that is the one thing we must avoid at all costs. I can’t impress too strongly on you how very confidential this information is, Mr. Shayne. If a word of it leaks out, our firm will be ruined.”