Brett Halliday - The Private Practice of Michael Shayne

The receptionist in the shabby outer office was a drab, flat-chested girl whose cotton print frock looked homemade, clinging damply to under-fleshed shoulders. She looked up with lusterless eyes at Shayne’s entrance and said:

“Good afternoon, Mr. Shayne. You’re to go right in. Mr. Kincaid is waiting.”

Shayne nodded and went past her untidy desk to the frosted glass door marked private. He tapped on the glass, then turned the knob and walked in.

Two men were sweating in the poorly ventilated inner office. The larger of the two, a stranger to Shayne, wore wilted white flannels, a sleeveless polo shirt, with a yachting cap tilted jauntily back on graying hair. He looked about thirty and was probably forty; bronzed by the Miami sun, solidly fleshed by good food, his mid-section kept trim and firm by rigorous gymnastics and the ministrations of an expert masseur.

In contrast to the other’s powerful physique and outward appearance of exuberant good health, Larry Kincaid looked anemic and underfed. His thin cheeks held an unhealthy pallor, and a heavy lock of black hair fell dankly aslant his forehead, as if twisted by nervous fingers and left lying there. His eyes were dark, and Shayne had seen the time when they snapped with fire and enthusiasm, but now they were furtive, irritable. Hunched behind a flat desk with both elbows supporting his weight, shoulder blades showed sharply beneath the thin white coat of tropical worsted.

Both men looked up quickly and with some unease at Shayne’s entrance, managing to convey an impression of conspiracy.

Recognizing the detective, Larry Kincaid’s pale lips twitched into a smile, and he said, over-effusively, “Hi, there, Michael. We’ve been waiting for you.”

Shayne nodded. He said, “Hello, Larry,” and there was a faint note of solicitude in his voice. He dropped his Panama on the desk and dragged a straight chair closer to the attorney, adding, “I came as soon as I got your message.”

“That’s all right, now that you’re here. This is Mr. Thomas-Elliot Thomas,” Kincaid went on, jerking his head toward the ruddy-faced man. He gushed the name of his client.

Shayne lowered his rangy body into the chair and said, “Is that so?” He didn’t add, “So what?” but his tone clearly supplied the omission.

The attorney’s upper lip twitched. “You must have heard of Elliot Thomas, Michael.”

Shayne said, “It isn’t an unusual name.”

He clasped big bony hands about one knee and let his placid gaze drift to his friend’s client.

Elliot Thomas moved a blunt-fingered hand impatiently.

“My identity is of little actual moment. As a matter of fact, I prefer to remain in the background as much as possible.”

“Of course,” Kincaid assented. “That’s perfectly natural, Mr. Thomas.” He faced toward Shayne hesitantly.

“I need some help in handling a rather delicate affair, Michael. I thought of you, of course.”

Shayne lit a cigarette and spun the match across the room and out an open west window through which the late afternoon sun streamed, making a veritable oven of the small office.

“What’s on your mind, Larry?”

“Without going into details, Mr. Thomas has commissioned me to deal with an extortionist who is making demands upon him. I’ve advised him not to pay the scoundrel a penny. I want to work out a plan with you to pretend we’re going to pay, and then take the evidence from the miscreant by force when he brings it to exchange for the money he has demanded.”

Shayne frowned and rubbed a calloused hand over his bristly red hair.

“Isn’t that compounding a felony?”

“Don’t be absurd,” Kincaid scoffed. “You’ve never worried much about legalities in handling your cases.”

Shayne shrugged wide shoulders.

“I don’t like to fool with blackmail, Larry. I don’t like to see you mixed up in a case like that. Why doesn’t your client go to one of the shysters who make a living off blackmailing? Miami is full of them.”

Again, there was that faint note of solicitude in his voice, as though he was subtly reminding Larry Kincaid of something previously discussed and understood between them.

“Why should I turn down a case?” Kincaid demanded irritably. “I’m counting on you to help me, Michael.”

Shayne said, “No.” He stood up, carefully avoiding the lawyer’s gaze.

Elliot Thomas cleared his throat and flashed a white-toothed smile at Shayne.

“Why don’t you wait to get the facts, Mr. Shayne? This isn’t the sort of blackmail I imagine you think. I haven’t done anything of which I am ashamed, nor do I have anything to conceal. The evidence the party wishes to sell me is negative rather than positive. He threatens to withhold proof of my integrity and thus cause me considerable embarrassment unless I pay him an absurdly large sum of money.”

Shayne turned slowly, sending a hard glance toward Thomas.

He shook his head emphatically. “That’s immaterial. If you hadn’t come to Larry I might have helped you. God knows, my reputation will stand anything without being hurt. But if a lawyer starts taking questionable cases like this, he’s sunk. I’ve seen it happen to better men than Larry. One smirch on his reputation means he’s done for. And that brings up a point.”

A long forefinger shot out at Thomas.

“Why the hell did you come to Kincaid with an extortion deal? Who told you he would touch something that stunk?”

“Just a minute,” the young lawyer pleaded. “Don’t go off half-cocked like that, Michael. Mr. Thomas didn’t come to me. It was Grange who first approached me.”

“Harry Grange?”

“Yes. You know him, don’t you? He asked me to contact Mr. Thomas for him.”

“Which makes the whole thing stink worse,” Shayne grunted. “You’re turning on your own client just like any cheap fee-splitter. I’m surprised at you, Larry.”

Kincaid’s miserable eyes lowered before the somber gaze Shayne bent on him. His upper lip twitched and he started an explanation which was interrupted by Elliot Thomas’s voice, calm and even-tempered:

“I didn’t realize you were to be called in to pass judgment on the moral aspects of the situation, Shayne. Kincaid recommended you as an efficient-”

Shayne said, “Shut up,” without taking his gaze from Larry Kincaid’s bloodless face.

“I certainly shan’t stay here to be insulted further.” Thomas got up and started for the door, but the young lawyer pushed his chair back and got in front of him.

“Don’t pay any attention to Michael, Mr. Thomas. He’ll come around all right. I’ll handle everything just as I agreed. I’ll see Grange and fix everything.”

“See that you do,” Thomas snapped, and went out the door.

Kincaid circled the detective and sank into his chair with a groan.

“Good God, do you know who that was?”

Shayne shook his head, a brooding look of melancholy on his angular face.

“I don’t give a goddamn who he is, Larry. This is the wrong angle. You’re just getting established here in Miami. You can’t touch stuff like that without getting talk started. Hang on a little longer. The right clients will start coming.”

Kincaid’s thin lips were sulky, defiant.

“You’re a hell of a one to preach,” he whipped out.

Shayne pulled his chair around and let his big frame into it. His lean, hard-featured face was impassive, but there was a glint in his gray eyes.

“All right, Larry. I’m a mug. I’ve got a reputation for taking the cash where I can get my hands on it. I know how it works. I take off-color stuff because that’s the only sort of cases I get a chance at. I’m not married, and if I get bumped or railroaded to Raiford-that’s my tough luck and nobody else’s. You’ve got Helen and the boy to think about.”