Brett Halliday - Shoot the Works

Shayne dragged off his hat and smiled. “Mrs. Martin?”

“Yes. I’m Mrs. Martin. What is it?” Her voice was sharp.

He said, “My name is Shayne. I have to see your husband on a very important matter.”

“At this time of night? He’s been asleep for hours. I’m afraid…”

“What is it, Ella?” another woman’s voice asked from behind her.

She turned her head, holding onto the knob tightly. “Some man to see Rutherford. A stranger, and I don’t…”

“I’m a private detective, Mrs. Martin,” Shayne said quietly. “I assure you I wouldn’t be here like this if it weren’t extremely urgent.”

“Did he say his name was Shayne, Ella? That must be Michael Shayne. My goodness! Is he as big and redheaded as they say?”

Shayne pushed the door gently but firmly and Mrs. Martin reluctantly stepped back. She was a large woman with frankly gray hair and a small, pouting mouth. The woman standing directly behind her was tall and bony, at least ten years younger than Mrs. Martin, with snapping black eyes and wearing jangling bracelets on both wrists. Beyond the two women, in the sitting room, Shayne saw a card table in the middle of the floor with cards strewn on top and four coffee cups. Two other women still sat at the table looking toward the door with undisguised curiosity.

The bony woman pressed Mrs. Martin aside and looked him up and down avidly. Her thin cheeks were flushed and he realized she was a little bit drunk.

“You are Mike Shayne,” she announced excitedly and happily. “Think of it, girls.” She turned her head and tittered. “Maybe he’s come to arrest us for gambling.” Shayne turned his left shoulder to her and told Mrs. Martin gravely, “I’m sorry to disturb you like this, but it’s imperative that I see Mr. Martin before the police get here.”

“The… police?” Her eyes widened and her mouth made a round O.

“They’ll be ringing your bell shortly,” Shayne told her. “One of your husband’s partners has been murdered.”

“Mr. Tompkins? Oh, dear. I don’t know…”

“I’m sorry to disturb your husband if he’s asleep, but…”

“He’s been asleep for hours,” she said vaguely and somehow defensively. “He detests bridge games. He always says…”

Shayne took her well-fleshed arm firmly. “Which way is his bedroom?”

“Down this hall.” She let herself be turned away from the living room and the excited chatter of the others. “I suppose Rutherford would want to be wakened. But I think I should call him and explain. You could wait in the study here.” She paused doubtfully before an open door on the left, but Shayne said urgently, “There’s no time to waste. Which is your husband’s room?”

“At the end of the hall.” She gestured weakly to the right, and he let go her arm and walked ahead briskly and rapped on the door before thrusting it open.

The bedroom was dark, with two open windows letting in the night breeze. Shayne heard a creak of bedsprings and a grunting noise from one of the twin beds as he found a wall switch and flipped it. Subdued light sprayed the room from a rose-tinted ceiling fixture.

A bulky figure sat up abruptly in bed and stared at him, blinking his eyes and moving his lips in and out soundlessly.

He wore maroon pajamas and his thick gray hair was in wild disarray and his eyes protruded slightly.

The detective pulled the door shut and said rapidly, “I’m Michael Shayne, Mr. Martin. We’ve met a couple of times though you may not recall it. I’ve got bad news for you.”

“Shayne? Yes, I… the detective, of course. Bad news?”

“Jim Wallace has been murdered.”

“Jim… Wallace?” He closed his eyes tightly and sank back against the pillow, then raised himself aggressively. “Murdered? When? How? Good heavens, man. Do you mean it?”

“I mean it. Tonight. In his apartment. When did you see him last?”

“In the office this afternoon. I still can’t believe…”

“The police will be here in a few minutes, Mr. Martin. My secretary is with Mrs. Wallace and I need the answers to a few questions.”

“But she’s in New York,” the broker protested. “Tommy and I were joshing Jim about it just this afternoon. About her coming back tomorrow and how he’d have to get rid of all his blondes and all.”

“How many blondes, Martin?”

He snorted and shook his head. “None, of course. Not old Jim. It was just in fun because he’s the last man in the world to slide off the straight and narrow while his wife’s away. Now if it were Tommy…” Martin shook his head again. He swung his legs out of bed and reached for a silk robe at the foot of it. “God! I just can’t believe it,” he muttered. “Who would murder Jim? Of all people.”

“If you’ll answer some questions truthfully we may find out. Was Wallace planning a trip?”

“No. Not to my knowledge. He was looking forward to Myra’s return tomorrow. Why do you ask that, Mr. Shayne?”

“His apartment looks as though he was packing for a long trip when a bullet between the eyes interrupted him.”

“I can’t believe it.” Martin closed his eyes again and squeezed his heavy jowl with one hand. “You must be mistaken,” he said flatly. “We had a very important conference for tomorrow morning. Jim had set it up himself.”

Shayne said just as flatly, “On the other hand, there is definite proof that he planned to be a long way from Miami tomorrow. Think back,” he urged strongly. “Wasn’t there any indication of this when you saw him this afternoon? What sort of mood was he in? Nervous or excited?”

“Jim? He was never nervous or excited. Steady as the rock of Gibraltar. Now you take Tommy…”

“Do you mean Tompkins?” Shayne interrupted, glancing at his watch.

“Yes. Now Tommy is different. Volatile, you know, and…”

“I’d like to talk to him,” Shayne interrupted. “Where will I find him?”

“At the hotel. The Weymore. We have our offices there and he has a suite.”

Very faintly, from beyond the closed bedroom door

Shayne heard the unmistakable ring of a doorbell.

He said swiftly, “That will probably be the police now. Is there a back way out?”

“Why, yes. Through the kitchen which is directly ahead when you go out that door.” Martin’s florid face expressed quizzical disapproval. “But why are you ducking the police?”

“Just to keep one step ahead of them, if I can.” Shayne backed toward the door. “Tell them I’ve been here… but was in too much of a hurry to wait and greet them. I’ll be in touch with you.”

He opened the door and slid out, heard Mrs. Martin’s voice from the front door, “… a detective is with him right now. If you’ll come this way…”

Shayne went swiftly down a narrow passage to an open door leading into the kitchen. He closed the door behind him and felt around in the semi-darkness until he found a locked door leading out the rear. He stepped out into the night and circled the rear of the house and into the adjoining yard and thence to the sidewalk. A radio car was parked in front of his car and the other car that had been in front of Martin’s house prior to Shayne’s arrival.

Shayne walked past it briskly, noting that it was empty, slid under the steering wheel of his own car and pulled away smoothly. He drove to 79th and Miami Avenue, and south on the avenue to 4th, where he turned left to the Weymore Hotel, an unpretentious residential hotel near the Boulevard.

He parked in front and went in the large, old-fashioned lobby and stopped at the desk to ask a bored night clerk the number of Mr. Tompkins’ room.

The clerk had a very thin, fawn-colored mustache and he lifted it in the suggestion of a sneer as he shook his head and appeared happy to say, “I’m afraid Mr. Tompkins is not in just now.”