Brett Halliday: Million Dollar Handle

“Speed it up. Cut back in every four or five minutes.”

The picture blurred. The third time Dave came back, Harry Zell’s great moon face filled the screen. He was at the bar, pouring.

“Let the customers see this,” Shayne said.

Dave backed off and came into the scene again. Shayne explained who Zell was, and what he so desperately wanted. Zell was looking directly at the camera, smoothing his hair. He turned to hand Charlotte Geary the drink.

Painter entered. “What’s this? I don’t get it.”

“Freeze it for a minute,” Shayne told Dave, and went on, talking both to Painter and into the mike. “You probably know Harry’s been trying to buy the track so he can put up a hotel here.”

“I read the papers.”

“But what the papers haven’t printed is that this deal is really crucial. I went through his books last night, and from the way it looked, unless he can slap on some fast Band-aids, the state’s attorney is going to want him for embezzlement. Not only that. He’s in hock to Tony Castle through a factoring firm, and has been for years. If he goes bust, owing Tony a bundle, he’s afraid Tony will do something unbusinesslike, such as kill him. Harry, if you want to contradict any of this-”

“You’re telling it.”

“I tried a little experiment last night, and I think I can say that Harry isn’t one of those people who enjoy physical pain. He screamed like a rabbit being caught by a greyhound. He probably screams that way when he cuts himself shaving. Everything turned on whether Max Geary would accept his offer for Surfside. Max refused. We know why-he had a diamond mine here. But his wife and daughter didn’t know about the diamonds. Zell thought that if Max was out of the way-”

“Come on,” Painter said. “I know who killed Geary. The boy, Sanchez. Dee Wynn saw him.”

“Did you believe that identification? He needed a name to make it saleable. And when he told Harry he saw Ricardo, Harry bought.”

“Shayne, are you telling me that Harry Zell stole Ricardo’s car-”

“Well, maybe not. Sanchez may be right-the bumped fender had nothing to do with the accident. Wynn saw the fender, and dreamed up the rest of it.”

“After leading me to believe that that was a murder-”

“It doesn’t matter. What we’re going to get Harry for is the murder of Dee Wynn.”

“Hold on. Sanchez was named in the deposition. He’s the logical man.”

“I had a detective following Ricardo all day. He went various places, but he never saw Wynn.”

“But why would Zell-Wynn would make a better witness alive.”

“From talking to Wynn, my guess would be that his price tag was something like twenty thousand. That wouldn’t be impossible for Sanchez-he could get it from Charlotte Geary or work it off in a few weeks in the kennel. But I really mean that this is one promoter who doesn’t have a dime. He might be able to raise twenty thousand from some trusting Shylock on a two-hour loan, but after he paid Wynn he had to get the money back in a hurry, and Wynn went into the canal.”

Zell continued to collapse inside his expensive clothes. “I deny this,” he said weakly.

“So after all the fixing and doping and stealing,” Shayne said, “what it comes down to is a real estate deal. Sanchez worked fast last night, and recovered the deposition and the purchase agreement. The deal was off again, after being off and on, off and on. But who’s the sole owner of Surfside if Mom and Pop are both dead? Linda, and she’s the one member of the family who always wanted to sell. All right, back to taped action.”

The scene in the VIP lounge began to roll. Harry Zell and Mrs. Geary, drinks in their hands, went on arguing until Mrs. Geary’s head wobbled and she fell back in her chair. Zell dragged her into the washroom and scattered the pills. He smeared the glass with a towel to blur the fingerprints and came out, smoothing his hair.

In the control room, Zell was mumbling. At a word from Shayne, Dave took the tape off the feed and substituted the live pickup from the VIP lounge. Mrs. Geary’s hand lifted and she sat up, blinking. Shayne heard a cheer from the crowd.

“So that’s one murder less,” Shayne told Zell. “It still leaves you with problems.”

The fat man peered at Shayne. “Well, somebody’s going to put a hotel here sooner or later. It’s so logical.”

“That was Harry Zell,” Shayne said into the mike. “The cops have some straightening up to do now, and I think the rest of the Surfside meeting will be canceled. But don’t be too gloomy. The Flagler season starts in three weeks. If there’s anything you missed or you didn’t understand, you can go home now and see it on television.”

He handed the mike to Painter and went to the escalator. Frieda was riding toward him. Shayne didn’t wait, but went down to meet her.