Brett Halliday - Shoot the Works

“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.

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 tomcatting 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.”