Brett Halliday - The Violent World of Michael Shayne

“A blackjack, a two-hundred-dollar dress-my head’s spinning. What does it mean?”

“I wish I knew, Miss Hitchcock. I think they have something else underway, which probably involves your father. I also think they don’t want me around when it happens. Do you know how I can get in touch with Senator Wall?”

“He lives at the Park Plaza, but he won’t thank you for waking him up at two in the morning.”

“I’ll take a chance. Thanks.”

“Mr. Shayne-” she said quickly.

He waited. After a moment she said, “Well, frankly I don’t understand it. It’s cold comfort to be told that you don’t either. I’m in no position to give you orders, though, so goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

He looked up the Park Plaza and dialed the number. The switchboard girl connected him with the night manager, who explained that they had a policy of not ringing their guests’ rooms after midnight without advance authorization, and would Mr. Shayne care to leave a message?

Shayne said, “I’m calling on Senate business, and it’s important. Can you tell me whether or not he’s in his room? If he hasn’t come in yet I won’t waste any time arguing.”

“One moment.” When the voice returned to the line, it reported flatly but with a faint note of surprise, “Senator Wall is out.”

Shayne’s exhausted body was telling him to call it quits, but he forced himself to keep going. He looked up Ronald Bixler’s address; the little Civil Service investigator might know where he could start looking for Wall. Then he dialed Trina Hitchcock’s number again.

She picked up the phone promptly.

“Shayne again. Sorry to keep bothering you, but Senator Wall hasn’t come in.”

“That’s funny. He’s a stickler about how much sleep he gets, and with that big hearing in the morning-”

“Probably that’s what he’s working on. Did he give you any idea of where he might be?”

“No, it was very cloak-and-dagger and hush-hush, that’s the way Tom is. But I still don’t see why you’re so anxious to talk to him.”

“I don’t think he knows Manners is in town. I know where he can be found if Wall wants to hit him with a subpoena, but it has to be done now. I doubt if he’ll still be there in the morning.”

“Why should anybody want to subpoena Manners? It’s Sam Toby they’re investigating. I assure you, Tom Wall knows what he’s doing, and in any event I’m not in his confidence.”

“Will you wake up your father for me?”

“I wouldn’t think of it. Mr. Shayne, in fairness, this isn’t really your forte, is it? You’ve taken care of Maggie Smith, and you seem to have done it thoroughly and well. Daddy’s on the alert now and nothing so terrible is going to happen. Now don’t make any more trouble. Go home.”

“What do you call trouble?” Shayne said softly.

“I didn’t mean that. I know I’m not making any sense. But I engaged you to do something specific, the kind of thing experience has fitted you for. You’ve done it. Why isn’t it over? Of course I want you to consider that whatever is left of that ten thousand dollars is your fee, and please accept it without arguing.”

“Is it your money, Miss Hitchcock?”

“What are you implying by that? Of course it’s my money. Mr. Shayne-isn’t it barely possible that some of these interrelationships may be more than you can hope to work out in a couple of hours?”

“Barely possible,” Shayne said wryly.

“And that by bulling around blindfolded, the way you’ve been doing, you may be doing more harm than good? Right now my father may not appreciate what you’ve done. Probably he let fly some fairly caustic observations about meddling busybodies, et cetera, but someday when he can think back on this period in tranquility, he’ll give you credit for preserving him from the stupidest blunder an old man can make. Now will you go home?”

“I’ll think about it,” Shayne said.

“Do. Now I intend to take another pill. Goodnight again.”

Shayne had promised to think about it, and he thought about it for fully a minute after he hung up. Then, swearing savagely under his breath, he put himself back together and left the booth.

2:10 A.M.

Ronald Bixler lived in a large anonymous concrete-and-glass apartment house in the Southwest redevelopment area. Shayne hesitated after finding his name and apartment number in the lobby. At this hour an urgent knock on the door would stand a better chance of being answered than the ringing of a doorbell.

Using a strip of celluloid that he carried in his wallet, he opened the inner door. An automatic elevator took him up nine floors. He found Bixler’s apartment. Music was playing softly inside and he heard voices.

He knocked sharply. The voices stopped. He was facing a small round one-way mirror, and there was a faint clatter as it opened on the inside.

The door was thrown open promptly. Bixler, his face red, his eyes bulging, was wearing a kind of smoking jacket with velvet lapels. On a mannequin in a store window it had probably looked quietly dashing. It was wrong for Bixler.

“Mike Shayne!” he cried with his slight lisp. “This is what I call a pleasant surprith! Come in, Mike, and join us in a glass of cold champagne.”

His apartment was furnished simply, with good modern furniture. A big picture window looked out at the lights along the Potomac. There were two champagne glasses on a glass-topped table, a few lipstick-tipped cigarette ends in the ashtray, but no other sign of Bixler’s guest.

“I hope I’m not butting in,” Shayne said.

“Absolutely not. There’s always a welcome for Mike Shayne in my humble-ah, pad. I’ve been entertaining, because what would life be like without the ladies? She’s a little shy.” Lowering his voice, he said confidentially, “It’s the first time I ever had her up here.” He knocked at the closed bathroom door. “It’s OK to come out, Margaret. It’s Mike Shayne. The one I was telling you about.”

A faint voice inside said, “Tell me as soon as he’s gone.”

“I want you to meet him! I know it’s late, but you don’t have to worry-Mike’s been around.”

When there was no answer, Bixler shrugged.

“Make yourself at home, Michael. If I’d thought there was a faint chance you might be dropping by, I would have laid in a supply of Markell’s. Isn’t that what you drink? Or is it Martell’s?”

He twirled the champagne bottle ceremoniously in its bucket and filled a glass for Shayne. “See what you think of this bubbly. The man at the store said I couldn’t do better at twice the money.”

He beamed after Shayne tasted the champagne and nodded approvingly.

“Do you live it up like this every night?” Shayne asked. “Working for the government must be a better deal than I thought.”

Bixler laughed heartily. “That’s good, Mike. No, working for the government is financially very unrewarding, if you don’t count in the fringe benefits. This is a celebration.”

“You’ve started spending the two thousand bucks I gave you?”

Bixler touched his finger to his lips, sending a meaningful glance at the bathroom door. “I’m celebrating two things. The second thing was even more satisfactory, both to ye olde bank account and my self-esteem. A small financial token of esteem from a certain senator who must here remain nameless, but whose name begins with-” He sketched the letter W in the air. “I didn’t bargain. I named a price and then I was like granite. I just smiled quietly. Finally he paid it.”

“I hope this wasn’t the same information you sold me.”

“Certainly not. I never sell anything twice. That way you can make enemies.”