Brett Halliday - The Violent World of Michael Shayne

The detective smoked the cigarette down to the stub before deciding that, late as it was, he had to tell Hitchcock what he had learned. Bixler had worked for Hitchcock’s committee. If he had been dealing with Toby, Hitchcock should know about it. Not in the morning, but right now.

Sighing, Shayne tried to get his bearings. He turned the wrong way on Massachusetts Avenue, realizing his mistake after several blocks. He was relieved to see the big mounted statue of General Sheridan. He knew his way from there.

He was surprised to see the lights still on in Hitchcock’s house. As he slowed, he heard a car door slam. Fully awake now, he accelerated, cut in sharply, then slammed on his brakes. The car that was backing out of the Hitchcock driveway, a big station wagon, slithered to a stop inches away from his front fender.

A woman wearing dark glasses, with a scarf tied over her hair, craned out the window. “Move your car, please,” she said, in a voice that showed she was used to having her suggestions followed. “You’re blocking me.”

Shayne got out to look the situation over. “Yeah, you’re right.”

She raced her motor angrily. “Do you want me to ram into you?”

“That might work,” Shayne admitted. “Your car’s heavier than mine.”

“Is this some kind of joke?” she demanded. “Move out of my way this instant or I’ll call the police.”

“You wouldn’t really do that,” the redhead said politely. “Would you mind taking off your dark glasses? I just want to be sure you’re Mrs. Redpath before I say the wrong thing.”

She took out her feelings on the motor, racing it violently. “Damn it, you only saw me for ten minutes. It’s dark, and I hoped you wouldn’t recognize me. Please, Mr. Shayne, I can’t talk to you now.”

Shayne grinned at her. “You were friendlier the last time I saw you. You even said you’d help if there was anything I didn’t understand. Mrs. Redpath, there’s hardly anything I do understand.”

“I said that hours and hours and hours ago.” Her voice climbed. “Will you get out of my way?”

Shayne went on grinning. “I’ve been wondering what your husband did for Sam Toby on that Manners contract, and why. That’s what you’ve been talking to Hitchcock about, isn’t it?”

She managed to control herself, but the effort showed. She took off her dark glasses.

“I understand you’ve been doing all right without any help.” Drawing a quick breath, she produced a fairly presentable smile, though her arms and shoulders were still tense. “My husband doesn’t know I’m here. I hate to think what would happen if he wakes up before I get back. Senator Hitchcock can explain. If there’s anything else you need to know, come to see me in the morning. I’ll arrange to be alone.”

She smiled again, and this time it looked more real. With her foot on the brake, her skirt had slipped back from her knee. Her legs were brown and slender. She was effective, and she knew it.

Shayne said stubbornly, “This will only take a minute. I need the answers right now.”

Her smile departed. “You won’t get them! I can’t answer that kind of question on the spur of the moment! I need some advice first.”

“Legal advice?”

She switched off the motor and hauled at the emergency brake. “I can’t make you move. At the same time I don’t think you’re sure enough of yourself to hold me by force. I’ll find a taxi.”

She unlatched the door. Shayne shut it again.

“I’ll give you some advice, Mrs. Redpath. If you can’t help being anxious, don’t let it show so much.”

“You know nothing whatever about it!” she snapped.

“God knows that’s true.”

He returned to his Ford and backed out of her way. She came past him, stopping when the two cars were parallel.

“Shall I expect you in the morning?” she said in a low voice.

“Maybe. It depends on what I find out in the meantime.”

“Leave one or two things for me to clear up. I’m sorry I screamed at you-I should have known better. Goodnight.”

After she was gone, Shayne backed in against the curb and parked. His face was thoughtful. He opened the door and got out. Stevens, the big man who took care of letting people in and out of Hugh Manners’ apartment, was waiting for him.

He looked relaxed and deadly, like a sleeping rattlesnake. “Mr. Manners thought you’d be turning up here, Shayne. He wants to talk some more. He doesn’t think you leveled with him the last time.”

Without turning, Shayne knew that somebody else had materialized behind him. His only chance was to move fast.

“Always glad to talk to Mr. Manners,” he said easily, and swung from the heels.

He put his full weight into the punch. It exploded at the point of Stevens’ jaw. The big man’s relaxed smile slackened. Shayne grasped the front of his shirt and pulled, pivoting. Now he saw the other man, a Mexican, wearing a loose, brightly patterned sports shirt. He had his hand inside his belt, but he wasn’t quick enough. The big man plowed into him, his arms windmilling. He was already on his way down, and he took the Mexican with him. Shayne stepped in close and kicked the gun out of the Mexican’s hand. Another kick sent it under the nearest car.

Stevens was still partially conscious. The other man pawed at him, trying to push him off. Shayne knew he didn’t have time to cramp his car out of its tight berth; there was too good a chance that Stevens also had a gun, and his head would clear soon enough to use it. Shayne plunged into Hitchcock’s driveway and across the garden, making for the back wall. From a lighted window at the rear of the house Trina Hitchcock called peremptorily, “Is that you, Shayne? Mike Shayne!”

Shayne hit the brick wall without breaking stride, straightening to his full height as his body hurtled upward. He caught the top of the wall with both hands. In one fluid motion he was up and over.

He dropped into somebody’s flower garden. He was in darkness. He felt his way along the wall to a brick barbecue pit and stepped up on it, raising his head cautiously. He was concealed from the street by the Hitchcock garage. He heard running footsteps. Swinging onto the wall, he rolled over, landing lightly. The side door to the street, which he and Hitchcock had entered by earlier, had a spring lock and could be opened from the inside.

He looked out carefully. The street was empty. By this time, if Shayne had figured correctly, Stevens and his friend were a block away, waiting to cut him off when he emerged on the next street. He checked again at the corner, feeling like a foot soldier in an enemy city. He went around fast, leaped into the Ford and hit the starter and the gas. He backed violently into the car parked behind him, then came forward, the wheel all the way over. Fenders scraped, but he broke through and roared away, the gas pedal on the floor.

He swung onto Thirty-first, shifted, and was doing seventy before he reached M Street. He turned north, tires screaming. He didn’t think there was anybody behind him, but he didn’t ease up until he had circled through the cloverleaf and was on the freeway, heading south along the river.

3:10 A.M.

Hehired a taxi to lead him to Oskar’s, the after-hours club on Larue Place. After they found it, Shayne signaled the driver to follow him until he found a better place to park. Then he transferred to the cab for the brief trip back.

“Will I have any trouble getting in?”

“Not if you’re not a cop,” the driver said cheerfully. He was short and fat, with a dead cigar clamped between his teeth. “And a cop wouldn’t have to pay cab fare to find it, would he?”

“I got the address from a bellhop,” Shayne said. “It sounded OK, but I don’t like the looks of the neighborhood. I never appreciate getting rolled.”