Brett Halliday - A Taste for Violence

Shayne sampled everything before him, pushing a forkful of mashed potatoes around in the white gravy before putting it in his mouth. “I was assured the Eustis was as good as any restaurant here,” he told her and made a wry face.

After a few minutes they pushed their half-filled plates away. Shayne poured himself half an inch of brandy in his empty water glass, raised his bushy brows inquiringly at Lucy before setting the bottle down.

Lucy shuddered. “Not for me. What are we going to tell Mrs. Roche, Michael?”

“I am going to tell her as little as possible and find out as much as possible.”

Lucy frowned at his emphasis on the personal pronoun. “You’re not going to leave me out there in that cabin to sweat it out while you visit a charming widow… alone.”

“I do better with widows,” Shayne said, “if not accompanied by a lovely young secretary,” and grinned at her.

“No,” said Lucy flatly.

“You’re going to stay right here at this table with this bottle in plain sight. You’re going to look as desolate as you feel, because I’ve deserted you. You’re going to feed quantities of silver into the slot machines and nickels in the jukebox. You’ll have a host of friends when I come back… men who’ll be anxious to cheer you up in your loneliness and drink your liquor.” He was looking straight into her surprised eyes, a crooked grin on his wide mouth. “You’ll pick up more damned stuff about Centerville in the course of an hour than I could get in two weeks,” he ended gravely. The crooked smile was gone. His gaze brooded around the dining room.

“All right for you,” Lucy flared angrily. “Go on… and I don’t care if you never come back.”

Shayne drank the brandy in his glass and stood up. His face was grim as he stalked to the cashier’s desk without looking back. Those close to their table had heard Lucy’s angry outburst and were whispering among themselves, their eyes upon the flushed and bewildered girl he had left behind. Shayne looked back. Lucy was sitting stiffly erect, the half-filled bottle of brandy in front of her where he had placed it.

Shayne paid the bill and indicated Lucy with a jerk of his head. “The lady,” he told the cashier, “isn’t quite ready to leave yet. “

The cashier nodded understandingly, and Shayne went out. Darkness brought little relief from the sweltering heat. It was as though the sun’s burning rays lingered, pocketed there in the narrow gap between the two mountains and held by a roof of darkness, as though a heavy lid had been clamped upon it to prevent its escape.

A middle-aged couple were entering the restaurant. Shayne addressed the man and asked, “Could you direct me to the Charles Roche home on Mountaincrest Drive?”

They stopped, looked him over curiously, gave him the directions in a polite southern drawl, and went inside. Shayne got in his car and turned to the right around the first corner. He drove two blocks and turned to the left on a winding road, a sixteen-foot strip of macadam, which climbed steeply upward. The motor labored in second gear and the air grew cooler as he left the floor of the gulch. There were only a few residences here on the higher slope, and he passed two intersecting roads. He had been told he couldn’t miss the Roche house, that Mountaincrest Drive formed a dead end there. He kept pushing the car up until he reached the dead end in a wide gravelled circle in front of a one-story house blazing with lights from every window.

Two cars were parked in the driveway. One a new convertible Cadillac coupe, cream in color; the other a 1946 Buick. Both had Kentucky licenses.

Shayne parked behind them and got out. He walked up five concrete steps and across a wide verandah to twin french doors. The glass was heavily curtained, but enough light came through to outline an electric button. He pressed it, took off his hat, and the air was cool upon his damp red hair.

The door opened and a bulky Negress looked out at him. She looked surprised, started to close the door, but stopped when she saw Shayne’s face. She said, “Yessuh?” and he recognized the voice that had first answered the telephone.

He said, “I’d like to see Mrs. Roche.”

She hesitated, then asked, “Whut did you say y’all’s name wuz?”

“Shayne.” Shayne spread his wide mouth in an engaging smile. “Tell Mrs. Roche I’m an old friend of her husband’s just passing through Centerville, and when I heard the sad news, I had to come up and pay my respects.”

“Yessuh,” she said, “I’ll tell Miz Roche,” and stepped back, leaving the door slightly ajar. Shayne could hear the sound of low voices inside. Presently a tall, pleasant-faced man came to the door. He was in his forties, his hair graying at the temples, and he was immaculately groomed in a dark blue business suit. He wore a white shirt and a black bow tie. Shayne thought he must be the local undertaker and was prepared to speak in a grave and sympathetic tone.

The man stepped out on the porch and closed the door firmly behind him. When Shayne heard his voice, he knew the man was not a local undertaker. It was an incisive voice, pleasant enough, but aloof. The voice of an educated man and one accustomed to issuing orders. “Mr. Shayne, did the maid say? Mrs. Roche doesn’t recall anyone bearing that name.”

“She probably never heard it,” Shayne told him. “That is, perhaps Charlie never spoke of me. I met him five years ago in Miami.”

The man stiffened slightly. Immediately and intuitively Shayne felt he had made a mistake in using the familiar form for Charles Roche’s first name. He had an instant hunch that the dead man was one who was always called Charles even by his most intimate friends.

The man’s voice was more austere when he said, “In that case I don’t believe it is necessary to disturb Mrs. Roche at this time. I will be glad to give her your name and your expressions of condolence.”

“I would like to give them to her myself,” Shayne said evenly.

“I’m afraid that’s impossible.” The tall man was courteously dismissing him. “She is prostrated with grief and I cannot allow her to be imposed upon by strangers.”

Shayne was sure he recognized the rolling smoothness of the phrases from the news story in the Gazette. He said, “You’re making a mistake, Mr. Gerald. I’m quite sure Mrs. Roche will wish to see me when you tell her I had a letter from her husband three days ago.”

The general manager of the Roche Mining Properties raised his black brows. “Indeed? I fail to see why that should interest her particularly.”

“Enclosing his personal check for five thousand dollars,” Shayne continued, “and prophesying his death very shortly.” His vision was keener now, more adjusted to the dim light coming through the curtains, and he could discern the expressions on Gerald’s face better.

“Ah.” Seth Gerald sucked in his breath and his dark eyes were reflective. He took a step nearer Shayne and looked at him with more interest than he had shown before. “Did you say the name was Shayne?”

“Michael Shayne.”

“From Miami?”

Shayne detected a faint tremor of uneasiness in the flowing voice. “From Miami,” he said.

“I see.” Seth Gerald moved aside and stood drumming his fingertips on the verandah’s low concrete enclosure. “I’ve heard the name, if I recall correctly.”

Shayne didn’t say anything. He put his hat back on his head and took out a pack of cigarettes. He lit one and puffed on it.

After a time, Gerald asked, “Exactly how much did Mr. Roche confide in his communication?”

“Enough to bring me up here as fast as I could come by car.”

“Would not the check have produced the same result?” Gerald’s tone was suave, but Shayne got the impression that he bared his upper teeth to ask the question.