Brett Halliday - The Violent World of Michael Shayne

“Call him up and cancel your date for tonight. Say you have a headache.”

“That’s no lie.” She lifted the phone slowly, as though it was heavier than she expected, and started to dial. Then she slammed it back and stood up. “No! First I think I deserve the privilege of telling you what I think about people like you. You’re one of the main things that’s wrong with this world, Mr. Shayne. Probably my friendship with Emory wouldn’t have amounted to much. There were too many arguments against it. He doesn’t care about the theatre and I don’t give a damn about politics. But it was nice! After an evening together life seemed to be fairly manageable for a change. Do you think that anybody -anybody on God’s earth, including detectives-has a right to any privacy?”

She was beginning to get through to him. “You’ve made your point,” he said. “Now get on the phone. This isn’t just anybody. It’s a United States senator. Make the goddamn phone call and then you can yell all you like, if it makes you feel any better.”

She said coldly, “What does the United States Senate have to do with the fact that a dried-up stick like Trina Hitchcock doesn’t consider me a suitable playmate for her father?”

“Do you think I give a damn how many women he sleeps with if he isn’t hurting anybody? But Sam Toby didn’t dump you in his lap as a public service. Everybody keeps telling me there’s a billion dollars involved here, and then they go on to say that a billion dollars is a lot of money. Just don’t act too hurt. Make the phone call and get it over with.”

She picked up the phone again and tried to club him with it. He caught her hand. She was breathing hard. As her breasts rose they almost touched him.

“Is that what Trina told you? That it’s the same as eight years ago? I’m doing something for Sam Toby?”

“Come on,” Shayne said roughly, “what difference does it make?”

“It might make a lot of difference. I want to know what kind of story she sold you.”

“Will you get it through your head that we aren’t just guessing? We know that Toby set up the first meeting with Hitchcock. That’s definite, and it goes on from there.”

“It isn’t all that hard to meet people in Washington. We met at a dinner party. I don’t think Sam was even there.”

“But he arranged for Hitchcock to be there, and to be seated next to you. This comes from Mrs. Redpath. Why would she lie about it? The only thing we don’t know is how much you’re being paid.”

Her face darkened. “I see.”

“If he had to pay you anything. With this other thing to hold over you, he might be able to get you for nothing.”

“Just so I’ll know where I stand, what do you think I’ve been hired to do?”

“To frame the guy, for God’s sake! You’d have a few drinks with supper. Then a few more. Then you’d make the famous remark about how it’s been such a wonderful evening you don’t feel like saying goodnight. Then one of you-Hitchcock himself, if the drinks and all those dreamy looks have taken hold-would bring up the subject of a motel.”

“That’s enough!” she said.

“And then tomorrow morning Toby would turn up in his office with the photographs, and naturally nothing would happen to him at the hearings. The thing that makes it perfect is that you don’t look the type. But I have an idea you’d take a good picture.”

“What type do I look, Mr. Shayne?”

She slid open the top drawer of the desk, felt in it as though looking for a pencil, and brought out a little automatic. It was a.25, a lady’s weapon, but in Maggie Smith’s hand it looked efficient and deadly. Her lips had tightened, and Shayne knew she was perfectly capable of pulling the trigger.

She held her right wrist with her left hand to keep the muzzle from wavering. “Don’t move until I tell you to. We’ve had a rash of holdups around here, and my friends made me buy a gun. Now I have to think for a minute.”

“You won’t shoot me,” Shayne said.

“Not even with a billion dollars at stake?”

“You’re being dumb, Mrs. Smith. I know Toby won’t like to be told that his plan has flopped. But he’ll know you tried. If that gun goes off, you’ll be in a real jam. Too many people know I’m here.”

Her green eyes had filmed over. “If I shoot you, I’ll think of something. I’m quite ingenious. But I’d try to shoot you in the shoulder, where I understand it hurts. I’d prefer to knock you unconscious. I have to talk to Emory before you do. Now I want you to keep those big hands away from your body and turn around slowly. You’re a sizable target, Mr. Shayne.”

Shayne eased carefully off the desk. “I’d like to tell you why I think this stinks before you slug me. Any kind of blackmail is bad, but this kind is really lousy.”

She motioned impatiently.

“Sex is a fine institution,” Shayne said, beginning to turn. “I hate like hell to see it being used this way. What did Hitchcock do to deserve it? He’s just trying to do his job. I can tell from looking at you that you wouldn’t be mixed up in this unless somebody was squeezing you. You don’t need money that much. I’ve just had an idea. Tell Hitchcock the whole thing, and let’s put Sam Toby in the can where he belongs. Then you can stop worrying about that old mistake in the Caribbean.”

“Will you shut up?”

She shifted the gun to her left hand and picked up the heavy ash tray. Her tears had finally formed and spilled over. Shayne lunged backward, clamping the little gun between his hip and his elbow. She tried to wrench it free, and he stepped up the pressure. She brought the ashtray down hard on the back of his neck, a bad place to be hit. He twisted away, getting her wrist in one hand and shaking it with a wringing motion. The automatic went spinning across the room and broke the glass protecting one of the autographed pictures.

She brought the ashtray around again in a jangle of bracelets. She would have broken his jaw if she had connected. He released her abruptly. She hit the corner of the desk and the ashtray crashed to the floor. She came back at him, trying to rake his face with her fingernails.

“Oh, you bastard,” she sobbed.

One of her fingernails grazed his cheek. He forced her arms against her sides. The perfume she wore was strong and disturbing. She tried to bring her knee up between them and he tightened his hold, bringing her in against him.

He held her tightly until she began to subside. He was getting her full charge. There were no two ways about it; this was a hell of a lot of woman. Suddenly her defiance left her. She rested her forehead against his shoulder. Shayne’s tight punishing grip had become an embrace.

“Please, Mike,” she said. “You’re hurting me.”

She heard the click of the latch before he did, and sprang back.

“Maggie?” a man’s voice said. “Are you busy?”

9:17 P.M.

It was Hitchcock.

He was shorter than he looked in photographs. He was able to look dignified at times, but his face was constantly relaxing into a more natural expression. Shayne recalled that he was constantly running his fingers through his shock of iron-gray hair. He was famous for the sloppiness of his dress. His suits were rarely pressed, and they were usually sprinkled with ashes from the long cigar that was almost always in his mouth.

Tonight, calling on a lady, he was wearing a new gray suit. His shoes were shined, the knot of his necktie was in place, and his hair was brushed. He had a bouquet of roses.

“Maggie, I know I’m early, but I thought you’d be willing to skip Act Three for once. I’ll wait outside.”

“No, don’t do that,” Maggie said, touching her hair. “Senator Hitchcock, this is Mr.-” she hesitated “-Wayne.”