Brett Halliday - A Taste for Violence

Shayne said, “No,” and puffed on his cigarette.

“What do you want of Elsa… Mrs. Roche… now?”

“To decide whether to return the five grand retainer or keep it,” Shayne said bluntly.

“Indeed? And on what will your decision depend?”

“Several things.”

Seth Gerald stopped drumming on the concrete and strutted a few steps toward Shayne. He said, “Shall we stop fencing? As I understand it, you are a private detective from Miami who was called here by a letter from Mr. Roche written several days ago.”

“That’s correct.”

“And you arrived too late to be of any aid. Charles had discussed with me the advisability of calling in a private detective when he received those threatening letters, but I don’t recall that your name was mentioned. I don’t believe you need to bother Mrs. Roche with this matter, Mr. Shayne. I appreciate the ethics which caused you to consider returning the money, but I’m confident I can speak for Mrs. Roche in asking you to keep the money, since it was not your fault that you arrived too late to prevent what he feared. I feel quite certain Charles would wish it.”

Shayne was not more than a couple of inches taller than Seth Gerald’s six feet. They were standing close together. Shayne lowered his eyes to look into Gerald’s through a cloud of cigarette smoke. He said, “You’re missing the point completely. If I keep Roche’s retainer, I’ll feel morally bound to find his murderer.”

Seth Gerald took a short turn on the verandah, came back to face Shayne and asked, “Have you read the Centerville Gazette?”

“That’s why I’m here.”

“Perhaps you don’t fully understand the last-minute headline,” said Gerald stiffly. “The case against George Brand is complete.”

“What about his alibi?”

Gerald dismissed the question with an eloquent shrug. “Contemplating murder, Brand naturally prepared an alibi in advance. You can trust Chief Elwood not to be misled.”

Shayne took a final drag on his cigarette and spun it over the concrete enclosure at his right. “This has been very interesting, Gerald. But not informative. I’ll have a talk with Mrs. Roche now.” He went to the double doors and turned a knob.

Seth Gerald was quick. His hand gripped Shayne’s arm and he said harshly, “You can’t force yourself on a grieving widow.”

Shayne shook his hand off and pushed the door open. “Can’t I?” he growled, and put a number twelve shoe over the threshold.

Gerald grabbed him again before he reached the wide arch leading into the softly lighted and enormous living room which John Roche had designed for the wife of his eldest son. He snapped, “I warn you, Shayne…” then let his hand fall to his side when Shayne kept going.

A young man was leaning over a cabinet radio. He was thin and colorless and his eyes were murky. He wore fawn-colored slacks and a tan sports shirt with the tail hanging out.

Elsa Roche was relaxed in a deep chair, her small feet resting on an upholstered footstool matching the chair. She held a cocktail in her left hand and a long jewelled cigarette holder in the other. Black hair was brushed smoothly back from her low forehead, outlining the widow’s peak centering it. She wore a sheer black dress with a sweetheart neckline that revealed the beginning contours of youthfully pointed breasts. Long black lashes were lowered to half-close her eyes, and she did not raise them when Shayne entered the room.

Gerald said in a tone evidently intended to warn Elsa Roche, “This man is a private detective whom Charles engaged to come here… by letter… some three days ago. He insisted upon coming in, even though I assured him the need for his services no longer existed.”

The young man at the radio turned his head and looked at Shayne just as Shayne glanced in his direction. His dark hair was plastered down except where singed ends curled up. Shayne stared at him for an instant, noting the lack of eyebrows and lashes, and the puffy pallor of his skin.

Turning back to Elsa, he said, “The name is Shayne. I have accepted a retainer from your late husband and feel obligated to look into his murder.”

She said, “A private detective?” and made it sound like a ridiculous occupation. She did not change her position, but looked far up into Shayne’s face.

“Michael Shayne? The private eye in Miami who’s always grabbing headlines?” the young man asked.

Shayne said, “You have the advantage of me.”

“I’m Jimmy Roche.” He straightened his body and took a step toward Shayne. “So Charles got up enough gumption to write you. What did he say?”

“Quite a lot,” Shayne told him, turning his attention again to Elsa Roche. Her dainty left hand was curled into a tight fist and a large diamond glittered on the third finger above a yellow gold band set with tiny stones. She had set her cocktail glass down and was holding the long jewelled holder in her right hand. The cigarette had fallen from it, and there was the smell of the rug burning.

Shayne stepped forward and put his toe on the glowing cigarette. “Pardon me,” he said. “This looks like a pretty good rug.”

Elsa Roche ignored his act and his words. She continued to look up at him. Her gray-green eyes showed nothing of the emotion which had caused her to double her fist and let the cigarette fall from the holder unnoticed. She asked, “Did Charles mention any one he was particularly afraid of?”

“Letters from clients are privileged communications, Mrs. Roche. The fewer people in Centerville who know what your husband said, the better chance I’ll have to find his murderer.”

“This is all quite beside the point,” Seth Gerald said impatiently. He moved to stand closer to Shayne. Jimmy Roche came over to join them, and they made a semi-circle in front of Elsa’s chair. “Charles’ murderer is behind bars right now,” Gerald went on, “and we don’t want any…”

“Get Mr. Shayne a drink, Seth darling,” she interrupted. She spoke lazily, but an electrical current seemed to flow into the room.

“Cognac,” Jimmy suggested, “that’s what Shayne drinks.” He turned aside and called, “Emma! Bring a bottle of Hennessey and a glass. Straight?”

Shayne said, “Thanks. With ice water on the side, if you have it.”

Jimmy said, “Sure,” and walked toward a door in the rear of the room, opened it, and went out to give further orders.

Shayne went over to a chair and sat down. Seth Gerald moved slowly around the room for a moment, then seated himself across from Shayne. Elsa Roche sat up straight, then leaned forward to clasp her hands around a crossed knee and commanded:

“Come sit beside me, Seth darling, and stop being so tragic. I don’t think the case is any too strong against Brand, and if Mr. Shayne has, or can get enough evidence to help hang him, why shouldn’t we have it?”

“He hasn’t said he has any. What can he have?” asked Gerald crossly. “He just arrived in Centerville.”

Jimmy Roche returned to the room and went over to lean against the radio cabinet. “Those threatening letters,” he interposed, “if Charles sent them to Shayne and if they’re signed by Brand… that ought to be enough to hang him.” He spoke excitedly, but his eyes were clouded and dull.

Elsa flashed a scornful glance at her brother-in-law, then said to Gerald, “I told you to come over and sit beside me, darling.”

He picked up his highball glass from the end table beside his chair and drew an occasional chair close to her. He asked Shayne, “Did Charles send you those letters?”

Shayne said, “What Charles sent or said to me is private.”

The Negro maid came in with a tray holding a bottle of cognac, an empty glass, and another clinking with ice water. She looked inquiringly at her mistress, then placed the tray on the table at Shayne’s right.