Brett Halliday - Shoot the Works

The same dead silence and the same dank and shuttered smell greeted him on the third floor when he got off.

He turned to his right to the door of 3-A and reached out his forefinger to press the bell when he became aware that the door was standing open a fraction of an inch.

And through the tiny slit there came a new odor that started his blood racing and raised the short hairs at the back of his neck.

It was the acrid smell of gunsmoke, and he shoved the door hard and went in fast as it swung open in front of him.

The living room windows were closed, now, and the smell of burned gunpowder was strong inside the room.

His former hostess lay half in and half out of the bedroom, twisted on her side with sightless eyes staring at him and with a round hole in the center of her forehead.

Her right arm was outstretched, and just beyond the lax fingers lay a.32 revolver.

Shayne stood very still, looking down at her, and through the closed windows above Flagler Street came the faint shrilling of a police siren that keened up to a high note and then faded to silence in front of the building.

Michael Shayne stood exactly where he was, at least ten feet from the body of the dead girl, and waited for the police to find him there.

A few minutes later, Shayne heard the elevator start down, and it returned quickly and the door opened and hard heels pounded down the hall to the door standing open behind him.

He turned to face a young uniformed patrolman who came to a fast stop in the doorway and surveyed him with cold eyes.

“Well, what goes on here?”

Shayne stood where he was and gestured calmly toward the dead woman behind him. “She was lying like that a few minutes ago when I arrived. The door was unlocked and I walked in.”

“Dead, huh?” The young cop’s voice quivered slightly and he swallowed hard and narrowed his eyes, dropping his hand to the butt of a holstered gun. “Turn around and walk to the wall and put your hands flat against it over your head.”

Shayne did as he was directed. The patrolman came up behind him and felt over him for a weapon. A blast of sound came from across the hall as the door opposite Lola’s apartment was opened, and when the cop stepped back and said gruffly, “All right. I guess you’re clean,” Shayne turned to see an elderly couple from the opposite apartment peering timidly in through the open door.

“Trouble in here, Officer? Heard you running down the hall and we wondered.” The man was bald and had a scraggly, white mustache. Beside him, a fat woman was bare-footed and wearing a shapeless housecoat. From their apartment the sound of music came out and invaded the silence of the death room.

“Homicide,” said the young officer officiously. “Go back inside and wait until I get help.” He moved forward and closed the door firmly in their faces, turned back to Shayne. “You reported this?”

Shayne shook his head. “I heard your siren coming just as I stepped inside. I waited without touching anything because I knew you’d be right up.”

“How’d you know that when you just heard my siren?” snarled the cop. “How’d you know I was headed here?”

“Because I had this telephone number called into headquarters fifteen minutes ago and asked them to check it for trouble. I’m a private detective,” he added. “Shayne is the name. Hadn’t you better call in?”

“Shayne, huh? Heard about you. Yeh, I guess I better had.” The policeman crossed to the telephone and dialed a number. “Garson here. I got a DOA. A dame.” He gave the address and apartment number. “And a big redhead standing over the body says he’s a private op named Shayne.” He listened a moment and said importantly, “Right. Henry’s down covering the front.” He replaced the instrument and turned slowly, went across to the body and knelt beside it to feel the wrist gingerly.

He rocked back on his heels and muttered, “Still warm. Sure your prints aren’t on that gun, Shamus?”

Shayne said, “I’m sure. Aren’t there powder burns around the wound?”

“Yeh. She was shot close up, all right. Maybe suicide.” Garson got to his feet frowning. “You claim you called in fifteen minutes ago saying there was trouble here? That was before you got here, huh? Kinda psychic?”

Shayne said, “I’ll answer all the questions when the homicide boys get here. Let’s let everything lie right now.” He crossed to the sofa and sat down and lit a cigarette.

Lola was still wearing the same nightgown and robe she’d had on when he visited her earlier, and her face was still devoid of makeup, her long black hair still uncombed. The empty gin bottle lay on the floor where it had been, but her shoes and the articles of clothing on a chair were gone. There was no tray or glasses in the room either, and some of the ashtrays had been emptied of butts in the interim.

The young patrolman stood stiffly near the door and waited, and there was an uncomfortable, oppressive silence between the two men.

Garson relaxed with a look of relief on his face when they heard the tramp of footsteps coming down the hall. He opened the door and saluted smartly when Captain Linehan walked in followed by three detectives. “Garson, sir. Not a thing has been touched since my arrival.”

The captain said, “Okay. You can wait in the hall.” He was a slender, dyspeptic-appearing man with a look of confirmed cynicism that came from many years of viewing scenes like this one. He let his sharp gaze slide across the seated redhead, and then he crossed to the body and knelt beside it. Behind him, also in silence, one of the detectives was setting up a camera tripod while the second opened a finger-printing kit and the third sauntered about, looking inside the kitchen and bathroom. There was no hurry or bustle about their actions. The woman was dead and would remain dead, and they had all the time in the world to ascertain what the silent apartment could tell them about her death.

Linehan stood up and brushed off his knees and moved over to sit down beside Shayne. “I know the chief’ll be here as soon as he hears you’re in on it. Save telling your story twice if we wait.”

Shayne said, “Sure, Cap.” He took a final drag on his cigarette and leaned aside to mash it out in a tray. “How long you figure since she did it?”

“You make it for suicide?”

Shayne shrugged. “You boys are the experts.”

“Ten minutes to an hour, I’d guess,” Linehan said casually. “That fit with what you know?”

Shayne nodded slowly. “It’s well within the limits. It’s been just about ten minutes since I found her.”

A flashbulb went off, and then there were voices in the hall outside and Will Gentry appeared in the doorway a moment later. The captain got up to confer with him briefly and Gentry listened to what he had to say and then moved in and sat in a chair near Shayne and said stolidly, “All right, Mike. Start at the beginning.”

Shayne said, “So far as I know, Will, it started several days ago when she had lunch with Jim Wallace.” He told him briefly about Bob Pearce’s revelations early that morning, omitting the fact that Bob had come back and spent the afternoon with her, intimating that Bob had trailed her home.

“So I came up this morning for a talk and found her nursing a hell of a hangover. Dressed just as she is right now. She insisted on starting another one with about a pint of gin, and didn’t make much sense, Will. She halfway denied knowing Jim Wallace, and I got a strong impression that she didn’t know or care that he was dead. I didn’t get too far along questioning her,” he went on with a grimace. “We were interrupted by the arrival of some guy with a suitcase whom she called Gene. Her husband, is my guess. He pulled his knife on me and I got to him with a good right just as he swung on her and they went out on the floor together.”