Brett Halliday: A Redhead for Mike Shayne

“I wrote you a detailed report day before yesterday,” Anderson told him calmly. “Remember, when you first showed it to me I admitted I didn’t know what the hell it was, but promised I’d find out. If you don’t read reports from Ballistics how do you expect to know what’s going on?”

Anderson was an old and valued department-head in the Miami Beach Police Force and one of the few men serving under Peter Painter who would dare to speak up in that manner, and the chief conceded gruffly, “All right, Anderson. There’s just too much paperwork involved in my job. So, it’s a Russian gun, eh? How did it get into Miami?”

“That, I can’t say. Not officially or legally, I’m quite certain. There’s no record of any such importations. So, you ran up against this last night, Mike?” he added curiously. “And came out of it alive?”

“By the grace of God and a lot of luck. Tell me, Andy. About the other one. Was it brand new also? Factory-fresh?”

“That’s one of the first things I noticed about it. The Russians use a special type of grease as a protection in packing their guns for shipment,” he went on, speaking half to Shayne and half to his superior. “My tests confirmed the presence of that grease on the other gun, and I’d guess this one will show it up, too.”

“So, there it is.” Shayne spoke musingly, narrowing his eyes in thought and tugging worriedly at his left earlobe. “Two completely virgin Lenskis popping up in your territory within days of each other, Painter. Each one in the hands of a punk who probably didn’t have the slightest idea what he had hold of. Does either one of you have any idea what price they would bring from a rare gun collector in this country?”

Both the detective chief and sergeant were silent for a moment, and then Anderson offered diffidently, “I got interested and checked all the information I could find in technical journals, and while the Russians don’t quote any actual retail prices as we do, I gathered that the production cost on this model was roughly equivalent to a hundred and fifty of our dollars.” He paused and then added strongly, “From what I’ve seen of its performance I’d say it was a hell of a bargain at that price.”

Shayne shrugged and offered blandly, “I’ll double that price for a dozen of them if you can turn them up, Sergeant.”

“You planning to equip a private army?” sneered Painter.

“It’s my thought,” said Shayne equably, “that if there’s a supply of these loose around these parts, I’d much prefer to get them into my hands instead of in the possession of trigger-happy boys like the one I came up against last night. I think we should make a hell of an effort to locate the source of supply and cut it off before your men start getting blasted off their beats,” he added seriously to Painter.

“So now you’ve started worrying about the welfare of my men,” said Painter bitingly. “That’s very commendable. Just how do you suggest we go about locating the source of supply?”

Shayne shrugged. “Routine police work. These two men who were both killed with Lenskis in their possession… check back on all their associates and try to learn where they might have picked the guns up… find out how long they’ve had them in their possession.”

“Sure. We ask questions like that, you know what kind of answers we’re going to get. Any other bright ideas about how I ought to run my police force?”

Shayne said dispassionately, “You asked me.” He turned to Sergeant Anderson. “Where do punks like these normally pick up a gat if they need one for a job?”

“Any pawn-shop… second-hand store. You know how it is. Of course, the boys in the rackets that really have connections…” He shrugged significantly. “That’s a different story. But on your own, you’d just ask around, I guess.”

“Then why don’t you try asking around?” Shayne suggested sharply to Painter. “Cover every pawn-shop on the Beach, and get Will Gentry to do the same in Miami. He’ll cooperate if you explain how important it is.”

“Do you know how many pawn-shops there are in the Miami area?” demanded Painter witheringly.

“I haven’t any idea. It takes a dick five minutes to make his visit and ask a question.”

“And you know what sort of answer he’ll get to that sort of question. Christ alive, Shayne. You haven’t cut your eye-teeth in police work.”

“You’ve got stoolies, haven’t you?” persisted Shayne. “Put the word out.”

“I think you’re making a hell of a mountain out of a damned small molehill,” fumed Painter. “Personally, I’m not ready to concede that any gun produced by the damned Commies is so far superior to the ones we produce. It stands to reason, dammit. This lousy thing will probably fall to pieces next time anybody fires it. What’s all the excitement about? You’d think, by God, we’re about to be invaded.”

Shayne said, “Okay. It was just a suggestion.” He paused and then added, “If you want to get a stenographer in I’ll dictate a statement on last night and sign it. You can also get an affidavit from Ericsson, the warehouse manager, if you want it, testifying to the effect that I was officially on guard duty last night, and was protecting their property when the shooting occurred.”

He settled back and lit a cigarette while Painter dismissed Anderson and ordered a stenographer to come in.

It was after eleven o’clock before Michael Shayne finished dictating the long and detailed report required by Painter, waited for it to be typed in triplicate and signed all three copies.

It was hot as he emerged from Police Headquarters, the cool breeze of early morning having died away during the time he had wasted inside, and he got in his car and pulled away hastily, crossed to the mainland by the Venetian Causeway which was comparatively cool with open blue water on both sides of the roadway.

At the end of the Causeway he continued on directly to Miami Avenue and turned southward, cruising down the crowded street slowly while he considered various possible courses of action, discarding each one as impractical until his eye was suddenly caught by the faded sign on a dingy bar on the right hand side of the street which was called starkly and simply, “PAPA’S PLACE.”

He eased into a parking spot a short distance ahead, pleased that he had been reminded of Papa Gonzalez at this juncture. He walked back briskly and entered the ill-lighted barroom which stank of stale beer and human sweat.

But it was cool inside, and crowded for that hour of the morning. At least a dozen men were hunched over mugs of beer at the long bar, all of them Cubans and chattering explosively in their own language. Half the tables along the wall were occupied, with two checker games and one game of dominoes in full swing, and these tables were surrounded by onlookers who watched and commented on each move made by the players.

Shayne stopped at the unoccupied end of the bar, blinking his eyes at the dimness and trying to remember how long it had been since he had last entered Papa’s Place. More than a year, he guessed. Probably two or three. Soon after the initial Castro triumph in Cuba, he thought, and prior to the disillusionment of so many Cubans and the influx of refugees into Miami.

The bartender came toward him languidly, a tall, mustached, one-eyed Cuban, with a questioning scowl on his swarthy face at the sight of the red-headed gringo. Silence had fallen over the men seated at the other end of the bar, and their heads had turned to regard him furtively.

Shayne looked dubiously at the row of dusty bottles behind the bar and decided to play it safe by ordering Bacardi. “A straight shot with a little water on the side,” he told the bartender, getting out his wallet and extracting a five-dollar bill.