Brett Halliday - Shoot the Works

“Do you have a photograph of Wallace that I could take around to Lola Berger’s place to try for an identification?”

“A photograph?” Martin repeated helplessly, moistening his lips and glancing about the office. Then his eyes lighted and he got ponderously to his feet and went toward a large framed picture on the wall which he lifted down and offered to Shayne.

“Here is one of the three of us taken four years ago when we first formed the firm. They are quite good likenesses, and…”

They were very good likenesses of all three of the partners, Shayne saw as he looked down at the framed picture. He tucked it under his arm and said, “I want you to stay here in your office, Martin, until I come back. And if Tompkins comes in or calls in, I want him to be here, too. I think I’m going to locate your million dollars for you.”

“That’s wonderful, Mr. Shayne. But I don’t understand…The broker’s words were wasted on Shayne’s hastily disappearing back as the detective hurried back to the elevator, hugging the framed picture under his arm.

Fifteen minutes later he parked in front of the Flagler Street apartment house again.

Traffic on the street was light at this hour of the afternoon, and there was no outward sign to indicate that violent death had occurred on the premises a short time earlier.

For the third time that day Shayne went through the empty foyer to the elevator at the rear and pressed the third floor button.

There was the same dank smell in the air when he got out, and the only difference this time was the uniformed figure of a policeman standing in front of the Berger apartment.

He straightened briskly as Shayne approached, and said, “You’re Shayne, aren’t you? I’ve got strict orders…”

Shayne said, “Skip it, Bud.” He turned his back on the patrolman and pressed the bell of the door opposite Lola’s.

The door opened after a moment and the bald man with the scraggly, white mustache peered out cautiously. His rheumy eyes brightened when he recognized Shayne. “Come in, Mister. Come on in. I know who you are now. Mike Shayne, huh?”

He turned back and said excitedly, “It’s that private detective that was here before, Ida. You remember?”

“’Course I remember.” Ida’s triple-chinned smile was happily welcoming. “I told you I bet he was the one that’d solve it, didn’t I, Peter? Just like in the private eye pictures on TV. I can’t say I thought so much of that chief you was here with last time,” she sniffed to Shayne. “Always interrupting a body like he didn’t really care what was what. The things I could of told him about Miz Berger…”

Shayne said, “That’s why I came back without him this time, I consider you and your husband the most important key witnesses in the case. Take a look at this picture, please. Look at the three men.” He held the framed photograph out for the couple to look at. “Have you ever seen any of them before?”

“That one.” Ida unhesitatingly pointed to Tompkins. “I’d know him any time, anywhere. I’ve seen him slipping in and out of the apartment across the hall plenty of times. You have too, Peter, and don’t you deny it. I know what you told me before,” she went on with a toss of her head. “That it doesn’t sound so good to admit that we peeked out the keyhole sometimes and through a crack in the door to see what was going on, but, like I told you, this is important police business and we’ve got our duty as common, ordinary citizens to tell the truth. So you up and tell Mr. Shayne, Peter. That’s one of her men all right.”

“Yes, it is for a fact,” said the bald-headed man reluctantly. “I recognize him, all right.”

“What about the other two?” Shayne’s voice was quietly insistent. “Look at them closely. Have you ever seen either of them here? Any time? Even once?”

They both leaned forward and studied the features of Wallace and Martin avidly and hopefully. But both shook their heads after a time and confessed regretfully, “Neither one of the other two. But that young, slim one. He was in and out a lot.”

“Last night? Did you see him last night?”

They both hesitated, looking at each other speculatively, and then the husband said apologetically, “We’re plumb sorry to admit it, but we just didn’t bother to look out last night. No, sir. We just didn’t. Is it real important? Did he kill her?”

Shayne said, “We don’t know yet whether anyone killed her or if she committed suicide, but your identification of the man in this picture is an extremely important clue and I’ll see that you get full credit for it in the newspapers when the whole story comes out.” He hurried out before they could waste his time with further questions.

Shayne stopped at the first telephone booth he reached and put through a call to Gentry. He said, “Mike Shayne, Will. Got anything on Lucy?”

“Not yet, Mike. Nothing to worry about, though. Nothing on Mrs. Wallace either. Every man on the Force is alerted to pick them up. Sit back and take it easy.”

“Sure,” said Shayne thickly. “Sure, Will. That’s just what I’m doing. In the meantime, meet me at the brokerage office in the Weymore Hotel. Fourth Floor.”

“What’s up, Mike?”

“I don’t know. Except we’re on the home-stretch.” Shayne paused and his voice became more friendly. “Done any thinking about that note signed Lola and where I found it?”

Gentry said, “Yes, Mike. I have at that. How soon at the Weymore?”

Shayne said, “I’ll be there in about ten minutes. Switch any calls on Lucy there?”

“Will do,” Gentry said, and Shayne hung up.

It took him one minute less than ten to reach the Weymore. When he stepped off at the fourth floor, the reception girl looked at him in wide-eyed amazement and said, “You do get around, Mr. Shayne.”

“Chief of Police here yet?”

“No, sir. But Mr. Tompkins came in ten minutes ago. He seemed upset when I told him you’d been here and gone. I think he wants to see you.” She reached for a plug in her switchboard and Shayne said, “Tell him to see me in Martin’s office. And send Chief Gentry in as soon as he arrives.”

He went in to Martin’s office, carrying the framed picture, and laid it down carefully on the broker’s desk. Martin leaned back in his chair and studied the detective quizzically. “You look like a cat that’s swallowed a lot of thick cream, Shayne.”

Shayne said, “I feel like hell. Your firm is going to get your goddamned money back, and Rutherford is going to hang a murderer, but I still don’t know where my secretary is.”

He turned aside, lifting ragged, red eyebrows as Tompkins came hurrying in the door.

“What’s this all about?” sputtered the junior partner. “Alice says you’ve been trying to reach me all afternoon.”

Shayne said, “Sit down, Tompkins.” He turned his head at the sound of heavy footsteps in the hall outside. “That sounds like Chief Gentry. We’ll all be cozy when he gets here, and settle the entire deal… I hope,” he added, half under his breath, as Will Gentry came in.

The chief caught Shayne’s worried look and shook his head. “Nothing yet, Mike. But I’ve been thinking it all over and I’ve reached the conclusion…”

“I’ve reached a couple of conclusions, too,” Shayne told him. “Sit down, Will. And you sit down, too, Tompkins,” he added to the junior partner, who was pacing back and forth with his hands clasped behind his back.

Shayne stood in the middle of the floor, flat-footed and glowering, until the chief and Tompkins settled themselves in chairs.

Then Shayne addressed Tompkins, with a long forefinger pointed at him. “This is your last chance, Tompkins. What sort of alibi do you have for the period when Wallace was murdered last night?”