Brett Halliday - Violence Is Golden

Shayne introduced himself and went on. Christa gave him a quizzical look.

“Doctor, my leg is starting to stiffen up. Do you think you could-”

“In public?”

“No, on second thought I think I can wait.”

Shayne lowered his voice. “Do you know her?”

Christa shrugged slightly. “She had me take a picture of her looking up at the nose of the airplane. She’s nobody, as far as I know-a schoolteacher.”

Shayne and Christa conferred briefly in the room they were given in the big new St. Albans Hilton. Alone, Christa was curt and businesslike, with none of the playfulness she had displayed on the plane. He went back to the lobby to put in a call to Tim Rourke in Miami, using a public phone so it wouldn’t go through the switchboard.

“You’re hot, as usual, Mike,” Rourke told him. “People saw you at the airport. You may remember I thought it would be a good idea to wear a beard. Dark glasses aren’t enough.”

“Do they know what plane I took?”

“Not yet. Painter’s been pestering me, as you can imagine. I told him you said something about having to leave for California on short notice, but I’m not sure he believed me.”

“What did the M. E. say about LeFevre?”

“He died from a half dozen raps with the barrel of a pistol. No surprises. And he was doped to the eyes. That square of blotting paper was loaded with pure cannabis extract. That’s like marijuana concentrate, very potent, very fast-acting. It’s supposed to make you relax and hallucinate at the same time, a scary idea. I’ve cleared it with the paper, Mike, and I can fly down tonight. They’ll even pay my expenses. How’s it going so far?”

“Pretty terrible. I’m in the spotlight. I’ve got a couple of names I want you to check. George and Naomi Savage. J. Moss. Joe Lassiter, the pilot. See if there’s anything in the files. I’m at the Hilton. But be careful when you make contact, because I still don’t know who’s playing on whose team, and that goes for a sensational blonde I seem to be shacked up with.”

He saw Mary Ocain come out of the elevator and said hurriedly, “Got to go now.”

As he folded the door open, the Negro clergyman who had been sitting across the aisle on the plane swerved toward him, smiling.

“We never got around to introductions,” he said. “I’m Crane Ward.”

Mary Ocain stopped at the newsstand and looked at the paperbacks while Shayne and the minister shook hands. They continued across the lobby to a cigar stand, where Shayne bought cigarettes. George Savage, standing beside several unclaimed suitcases, was watching them.

“Are you coming out to the Old Fort with us?” Ward asked. “It’s meant to be extraordinarily interesting, one of the first Spanish structures in this hemisphere. I’d be happy to offer you and your friend a seat in my carriage.”

Mary glanced at her watch and started for the coffee shop. Naomi Savage, still with her clipboard, intercepted her.

“I know who you are, you see,” Ward said with a touch of shyness. “I like to unwind with a good mystery at the end of the day, and I find more and more that, when I open a newspaper, I turn first to the crime news. So the name Michael Shayne isn’t new to me. In an unprofessional way, I might be termed an aficionado. While I certainly can’t condone some of your methods, there’s no question that they get results. You’ve probably accomplished more good, without intending to, perhaps, than nine-tenths of the people in-” he hesitated, and said self-consciously, “in my own racket.”

Shayne snorted.

“I’m sincere,” Ward declared. “Possibly I tend to idealize your role because I have come to the end of my own career. I like to think that, with a slight change in circumstances thirty-five years ago, I myself might have chosen a life of action. I have no intention of asking any prying questions. If you’re on a case, I know I couldn’t be of any real assistance. But there’s one thing perhaps I can do. There’s been a great deal of buzzing about you and Miss Hochberg. Hypocrisy, in my humble opinion. The church would have to be blind to reality to maintain that all sexual intercourse outside of wedlock is evil or ugly.”

Naomi and Mary started toward the street. Mary gave Shayne a significant look as she passed.

“I’ve heard some uncharitable and un-Christian remarks,” Ward was saying. “I didn’t want to rebuke them directly. They aren’t members of my congregation. They may not even be Episcopalians. But one advantage of this reversed collar is that it confers a kind of dubious status. I would like to sponsor you and Miss Hochberg, to take some of the heat off, as it were. If we are seen together, I think it might stop some of this malicious gossip and make your trip more pleasant.”

“Christa wanted to do some shopping,” Shayne said. “But I’ve been down here a dozen times and I’ve never taken the trouble to go out to see the Fort. Today I think I’ll surprise myself and go.”

The harbor had silted up since the sixteenth century. It was only used now by shallow-draft fishing boats. The old Spanish fortifications still dominated the headland looking out to sea. The governor’s palace had been partially restored and was in use as a museum.

About half the members of the tour, like Christa, had decided to skip the side trip and go shopping for bargains. The others rode out in chartered carriages. It was a hot, dusty ride. Before leaving, Shayne had filled a flask with cognac, and after clopping along the narrow road for twenty minutes, he offered the clergyman a drink.

“With the greatest of pleasure,” Ward said, accepting the flask. He took a healthy swallow. “In recent years I’ve had a high-prestige parish in a commuting suburb of Chicago. I not only drink, I play a murderous game of bridge, and I’ve forced myself to learn a sedate version of the twisting dances the young people do nowadays.” He laughed. “Religion in a modern suburb is a terribly competitive thing.”

He proved to be well informed on Shayne’s major cases and questioned him closely about why he had done certain things and not done certain others.

“Most of the time I was guessing,” Shayne said. “When I guessed wrong, I scratched everything and started over. But it’s surprising how many criminals really want to be caught.”

“You’re not serious.”

“It’s part of the point. I don’t mean that they feel guilty about something else and they want to be punished. Take an imaginary case. Say you’re only pretending to be an Episcopal minister. The best disguise isn’t necessarily the most perfect one. When somebody offered you a drink in the middle of the morning, it would be smart to accept-only a real minister would feel secure enough to go out of character. If you see what I mean. But even if it worked, it wouldn’t be really satisfying unless the rest of us knew how clever you’d been. And that’s where I come in. I’m always willing to admit that a murderer is smarter than I am, so long as we’re talking into a tape recorder.”

Ward looked at him shrewdly. “I really am a member of the Episcopal clergy, I’m a little sorry to say. But I still have some of the wits God gave me, and I’ve kept fairly fit by way of tennis and mountain climbing. I think I can lay claim to being on the side of the angels. If you ever need a strong right arm-”

He added, “Although I’m sure you and Miss Hochberg joined this tour solely because you wanted to visit the Latin-American capitals, and you’re carrying a gun only as a matter of habit. Now would it be out of character to ask for another drink of that excellent brandy?”

They collected on the steps of the restored museum. Naomi Savage was an excellent guide, well informed and full of enthusiasm. While she was talking, she went through a nervous routine with her glasses, sliding them along her nose, pushing them back firmly, then taking them off to swing them by an ear piece. Mary Ocain hovered about in the background taking pictures. Outside in the ruins, she asked Shayne to pose on a tumbled heap of rocks looking out to sea. She gave him careful directions, then took several shots from different angles.