Brett Halliday: The Violent World of Michael Shayne

Shayne kept his feelings about all this to himself. “And those fifteen to twenty thousand voters wouldn’t understand if her Toby connection made the back-home papers.”

“That describes the situation. However, if my investigation of Manners’ bid hadn’t convinced me that he would build the best plane, I would never have had any part in it.”

“Was an Air Force colonel involved?”

Redpath twirled his cigar until it was burning evenly. “That would be Colonel Oulihan, executive aide to the Source Selection Board.”

“What’s that?”

“An ad hoc committee which evaluated the test results and made recommendations, through channels, to the various commands.”

“How much weight does a colonel pull on something like that?”

“He can pull quite a bit, depending on the caliber of his chairman. Oulihan’s a major general, doesn’t happen to be one of the most brilliant officers in the armed services.” He looked at his cigar reflectively. “So Oulihan was in on this. That explains why Manners knew the exact details of the opposing bids. Not only that, he seemed to have an uncanny grasp of the basis on which the bids were being judged.”

“I don’t get that.”

“Every proposal’s a compromise,” Redpath explained. “If you add too much speed you may have to cut down on your cruising range. You have to balance performance against logistics, both against costs. Most companies make a practice of coming in with a hungry bid, planning to get it back on cost overruns, and it’s known that the Secretary disapproves. But how strongly does he disapprove? And so on. An ally on the Source Selection Board would make all the difference between guessing right in such matters and guessing wrong.” He added casually, “Is Oulihan one of the cast of characters in Adelle’s diary?”

“Hell, I don’t know,” Shayne said irritably.

“You’ll want to know how much I had to do with Manners’ success. I spent several hours at the White House, an afternoon at the Pentagon. I made four phone calls, I wrote one letter, I introduced Manners’ chief engineer to a brigadier general. I kept a log of these activities, which were actually fairly routine. I did one other thing which I didn’t record. I occasionally play golf with one of the Joint Chiefs. One afternoon I remarked that I hoped Manners would get the contract. That may sound innocuous enough, but I make it a habit never to intervene with the military except in matters of extreme importance. I believe he got the message. He has to come before the Senate Finance Committee for his appropriation, and as you may know, my views carry some weight on that committee.”

“OK,” Shayne said. “If I told you that Senator Wall stole your wife’s diary and organized this whole thing, what would you say?”

The Senator took his cigar out of his mouth in surprise. “I’d say you’re out of your mind. He’s National’s man.”

“Do you know that for a fact?”

“Three companies, closely linked to National, contributed to his campaign fund in the last election. Contributed heavily. I would also guess that he has the promise of an executive position in the company after he leaves the Senate. He identifies with their interests, and always has. There is absolutely no question about that.”

“I want to ask him a few questions, just the same. I’d like to have you along as a referee. Can you get Hitchcock to call a recess?”

“Easily.” As he looked at Shayne, the detective saw a faint flicker of worry in his cold eyes. “Do you think there’s a chance of wiping this damned diary out of existence?”

“We can sure as hell try. We’d better not leave together. Where’s the hearing being held?”

“Second floor of the new office building.” He got up heavily. “Shayne.”

“Yeah?”

Looking at the oil paintings on the wall as though he was noticing them for the first time, he said, “I mentioned Adelle’s participation in my last campaign so I wouldn’t seem like a fool for marrying her. I also happen to-love her very much. She’s a thoroughly captivating woman. If you can get this incubus off our backs, send me a bill. You’ll have my check in the return mail.”

He looked at Shayne with a return of his usual manner. “But how you expect to accomplish it by flinging wild charges at Tom Wall, I fail to see.”

Shayne grinned. “You never know, do you?”

10:35 A.M.

From the railed balcony around the rotunda, Shayne spotted Henry Clark, the National Aviation lobbyist, on the paved floor below, in a sparse crowd of early tourists who were consulting guidebooks and peering up at the frescoes in the eye of the dome. Shayne was fifteen minutes late and Clark was noticeably impatient. He kept checking his watch and mopping his forehead with a white handkerchief.

Shayne made his way toward him through the crowd. Clark didn’t look out of place among the tourists. He was gray-haired and overweight, in a seersucker suit that fitted him badly and needed pressing. His hat was pushed far back on his head. As his eyes met Shayne’s he put the handkerchief away.

“Mike Shayne, right?”

Shayne nodded curtly.

“I couldn’t have gone on wiping my forehead much longer,” Clark said. “One of my few eccentricities is that I don’t sweat.” He took an unsealed envelope out of his inside coat pocket and gave it to Shayne. “Here’s the list you wanted-people who rented safe-deposit boxes in seven banks, the last week in June. I have more coming. Some we won’t be able to get without a court order.”

“How about the terms, are they OK?”

Clark winced. “I don’t object to your terms. I object to putting them in writing. I typed up an agreement, confining it to one point-if our out-of-pocket expenses are reimbursed, we will be liable to you for a fee of one-half of one percent. That would amount to fifty thousand on a reimbursement of ten million, but I think it sounds better to put it that way. Even so, it’s a lot of money to commit without authorization, and I ought to talk to you fairly soon.”

“I have something underway. It may not pan out.”

“You were right about Wall, it seems. Toby’s testifying now, and Wall is sitting there woolgathering. There were several questions he was supposed to ask, but he seems to have his mind on other things. Money, possibly.”

“I’m on my way over there now. Are you-”

He stopped abruptly.

Two men came in on him from both sides. One, a solid youth with his hair cropped extremely short, said in a friendly drawl, “You’d be Mike Shayne, the well-known Shamus? Tall, redheaded-yeah, you fit the description.”

Clark skittered a few steps, his eyes jumping to the envelope in Shayne’s hand. The second man, a seamed, leathery individual with heavy-lidded eyes, showed Shayne a police shield.

“Lieutenant wants to talk to you.”

Shayne swore viciously. It had taken them less time to identify Bixler than he had expected. After that, an easy sequence had brought them to Shayne. As soon as the news became known in Bixler’s office, the girl he had had champagne with the night before, Margaret something, would volunteer the information that somebody named Mike Shayne had dropped in on Bixler at three A.M., an hour or so before he died. Shayne wasn’t ready to be questioned, but he had to concede that as police work it had been fast and efficient.

“Lieutenant who?” he said mildly. “And what does he want to talk to me about?”

“This and that,” the older man said. “Come on, Shayne, you’re no baby. Are you licensed as a private detective in the District of Columbia? That ought to do for openers.”

“OK, you deserve an explanation. I’m busy now, but I’ll stop in and see you before noon.”