Brett Halliday - So Lush, So Deadly

Rourke was still in second when he came up behind Shayne’s Buick. Shayne heard him swear. He opened his eyes and pulled himself forward, then slowly opened the door and got out.

The red Volkswagen lay on its side as Shayne had left it. In retaliation, De Rham and the Angels had wrecked the Buick, as well as they could wreck it in a limited time without heavy equipment. All four tires were flat. The headlights and taillights had been smashed. All the glass was gone except the windshield. The body was battered, the doors were sprung and off their hinges.

“As I think I told you, some of these guys aren’t too sold on nonviolence yet,” Rourke said. “Old habits.”

Shayne checked his liquor supply in the back seat bar. They had cleaned him out.

“I grabbed a couple of pints on the way out of the house,” Rourke said. “You never know when it’s going to come in handy. Stop panting-I’ll give you a drink.”

They returned to the Ford. Rourke took a flat bottle of cognac out of his glove compartment and opened it for him. A pint of cheap blended whiskey-Rourke claimed he couldn’t tell the difference between that and more expensive brands-was already open. They clinked bottles.

“Cheers,” Rourke said.

Shayne drank and breathed out luxuriously.

“Mike, I know you’re a fast recuperator. But this time I think I’d better check you in at St. Clare’s and let them take a few stitches. Whatever it is, it can wait till breakfast. You look pretty feeble.”

The cognac had begun to circulate, burning away the fog in Shayne’s brain.

“That’s what everybody tells me,” he said. “First Mrs. Brady, then Brady, now De Rham. Wait till breakfast. I’ve been tied up and fed a Mickey and faked into a wrong part of town and slugged and knifed. It begins to dawn on me that something’s about to happen and nobody wants me around.”

“Just the same-”

“Do something for me,” Shayne said brusquely. “Two cars in front of the VW you’ll see a catch basin. I skipped a tape into it earlier. A flat package wrapped in cloth. I know you’ll be glad to climb in and get it for me. You’re in better shape than I am.”

Rourke didn’t move. “I haven’t fooled around in catch basins since I was a small boy, Mike. That’s a job for the Sanitation Department.”

Shayne took another drink, keeping his eyes on his friend. After a moment Rourke sighed.

“You probably figure I owe you. I got some good eyewitness stuff on the riot, and if I’m patient you may tell me what else has been happening. I’d better keep you happy.” He got out. “Don’t you want to watch?”

“I’m comfortable here.”

“Yeah. Why am I the one who always has to do the dirty work? And in this case dirty is the right word.”

Shayne heard the grating clang. Rourke mumbled to himself.

“Goddamn Shayne. Gets me out of bed at all hours. I have to climb down into the goddamn sewer-”

There was a faint splash. His voice continued, echoing hollowly. The monologue quickly became more obscene.

“Got it!” he cried. “Didn’t think I would, did you, you lazy bastard? Sitting up there on your butt, swilling cognac-”

He scrambled out and reappeared between the cars, walking squishily. “I suppose you want me to unwrap it for you.”

“Please,” Shayne said, grinning. “No reason why both of us should get muddy.”

Rourke tore off the wrappings and handed his friend a reel of tape. Then he took off his shoes, smelled one, and tossed them over his shoulder.

“I needed a new pair anyway.”

“Get the recorder. I’ve got an outlet on my dashboard, if it works.”

Rourke watched critically as he opened the door and got out. “Hell, you’re in great shape. You could have done your own diving.”

The Buick’s front seat had been slashed repeatedly. Shayne found his key and turned the ignition switch, and was rewarded by a quick glow of the generator light. Rourke plugged in the recorder and set it on the shelf over the dashboard. When he pressed a button the reels began to revolve.

“What do you know?”

He clapped the tape into place. There was a soft whirr, and a man’s voice began to speak. It was thin and faltering, and at times fell off to a whisper.

“My name is Dennis O’Toole. I live at 2909 Waverly Street in this city. Employed at Winslow Mills, twenty-one years on the looms, last five years watchman in main plant.”

Another voice-Shayne recognized De Rham-said quietly, “Can you tell me how the fire started?”

“All my fault. I take the entire blame.”

“Your fault in what way, Dennis? Did you set it?”

“Mother of God! Why would I do such a terrible thing? No, I was intoxicated. Too drunk to pull the alarm.”

“You were drunk and didn’t turn in an alarm.”

“A pint of whiskey in my locker.”

A long pause followed, and De Rham prompted, “You’re saying that a pint of whiskey appeared in your locker? Are you sure you didn’t bring it in yourself?”

“Never. Because I know my weakness. I never leave a drop of whiskey in a bottle. But there it was, and I swear by the Blessed Virgin I don’t know how it got there. I drank it and went to sleep.”

“Where, Dennis?”

“Sleep overtook me in the office.”

“I see. Now what we’re trying to establish is the origin of the fire. You understand that. What woke you?”

“Dreams. I smelled-”

“You smelled smoke?”

“Smoke, chemical stink. All around. There was smoke on the stairs. I couldn’t get my breath. Broke window. Saw-”

“What did you see? Tell me what you saw. You say you broke the window and you looked out -”

“Man running.”

“A man?” The voice sounded disappointed. “Think, Dennis. Are you sure it was a man?”

A long pause.

“In a funny hat. In the car, a woman.”

“You saw a woman?” De Rham’s voice said quickly. “Can you describe her for me?”

“A red dress. Dark glasses.”

“She was wearing a red dress. Dark glasses. What kind of car?”

“White convertible. I think an Olds.”

“Where was the man running from?”

“The side gate.”

“You said he was wearing a funny hat. What do you mean by that?”

“Well-a striped band.”

“Can we come back to the woman again, Dennis? What color hair did she have?”

Silence.

“Dennis, I have a photograph here. Can you tell me if this is the woman you saw in the car? — Dennis, if you’ll just look at this picture for a minute I’ll call the Sister. Dennis.”

From that point on the tape whirred softly until Rourke turned it off.

“And that’s what I pawed through the mud to get? A pint of whiskey in a locker, a funny hat, a woman in a red dress-” The expression on Shayne’s face stopped him. “What’s the matter?”

“Everything’s the goddamn matter,” Shayne said through set teeth. “And I’m supposed to be a hard man to fool!” He bit off a savage obscenity. “It’s so obvious I ought to have my license revoked.”

“Mike, you’re grinding your teeth. That can’t be good for you. Remember you’ve just been unconscious.”

“I’ve been unconscious most of the day,” Shayne snapped. “There still may be time if we hurry.”

“Don’t bother to explain, I’m only the chauffeur. Just give me directions.”

Shayne got out of the car too fast, and realized abruptly that he was still a long way from normal. The street tilted and shifted and almost threw him. His ears rang. He steadied himself against the Buick, and a moment passed before he understood that the ringing sound he heard came from somewhere in the wrecked interior of his car.

He hesitated, but there was no time to waste.