Brett Halliday - A Taste for Violence

Shayne said, “Thanks, Emma,” and she said, “Yessuh,” and went away. He poured three inches in the bottom of the empty glass and said, “This will help to wash the taste of some execrable Portuguese brandy out of my mouth… Centerville’s finest, I understand.” He drank half the contents and settled back with a sigh of pleasure.

“Charles never showed those letters to anybody,” Jimmy said, breaking the silence of a full minute.

Gerald frowned at Jimmy Roche and his smooth voice roughened a trifle when he asked, “Did Charles send you those letters, Shayne?”

Shayne studied the glowing end of a freshly lit cigarette and said, “I understand they’ve been turned over to the police.”

“Only one of them,” Elsa said throatily. “The only one Charles showed me. He was very secretive about the others.” She picked up her cocktail glass and took a long drink.

“Was it signed by Brand?” Shayne asked casually.

“It was not signed at all,” she said shortly, slid down in the chair and toed the footstool over to rest her feet.

“I’ve told Mr. Shayne that even though his services aren’t needed here,” Gerald said silkily, “I feel sure you would want him to keep the check Charles sent him as a retainer… to cover the expense of his trip up here, if nothing else. I’m sure you agree.”

“Of course,” she said listlessly. “If he hasn’t any further evidence against Brand he may as well go back to Miami.”

Shayne tossed off the rest of his drink, set the glass down on the tray, asked, “And if I could prove George Brand is being railroaded for a crime committed by someone else? What then?” He cast a quick glance at the three faces, leaned his head back, and watched a cloud of smoke roll toward the ceiling.

The silence in the room was thicker than the clouds of smoke Shayne puffed toward the gold and rose ceiling. A dead silence. Shayne saw them looking at each other; Gerald’s black eyes disturbed; Elsa’s fringed with her long lashes, green and inscrutable; Jimmy’s naked and dull.

The faint laboring of a car beginning the steep climb below sounded through the quiet, growing louder as it came nearer. Gerald and Elsa bent tensely forward. Jimmy uncrossed his ankles and stood up straight. The car stopped in front of the house, and there were firm, confident footsteps on the concrete steps. The doorbell rang.

Shayne heard Emma’s flat shuffling feet carrying her weighty body through the hall, and turned to get a glimpse of her as she passed the archway leading into the living room. The front door opened.

Shayne poured himself another drink of cognac, drank half of it, chased it with ice water, and waited.

The man who came in was short and bulky, bull-necked and swarthy. His feet were small, and he took short steps, but there was aggression in his whole manner and an air of triumphant excitement which he tried decorously to hide by the solemnity of his light brown eyes and a drooping black mustache.

“Mrs. Roche,” he said gravely, and crossed the room with both hands outstretched. “I can’t express my sorrow of your bereavement. Believe me, my dear. Your husband’s death is a great loss to the state of Kentucky and the mining industry. You must try to forget your personal grief and think of their loss. He was a forward-thinking man… the type of new blood we needed. The entire South is mourning his loss tonight.”

Elsa lifted her right hand languidly and said, “Thank you, Mr. Persona,” and he took it gently between his stubby short fingers and fat palm, turning aside to say to Seth Gerald:

“And I want to congratulate you on behalf of AMOK. It’s a wonderful triumph. A smashing victory. I confess I’ve been worried. We’ve watched developments with deep concern, and some of us feared… but that’s beside the point now. The strike is broken. All’s well that ends well, eh?” He was chafing Elsa’s hand between his palms. She drew it away and looked angrily at its redness.

“I’m afraid I don’t quite understand,” said Gerald stiffly.

“Don’t you know?” His tone was incredulous. He drew his stocky body to its full height of five feet six. “Good God, man, haven’t you heard? The strike is broken. The men have just announced they’re going back to work tomorrow. The news was all over town as I drove through.”

Shayne stretched his legs out comfortably and sipped cognac between long drags on his cigarette. His eyes were very bright, his features relaxed, his wide mouth upquirked at the corners.

Mr. Persona turned gracefully on his small feet to address Elsa Roche. He was apparently too absorbed in his own triumph to notice Seth Gerald’s silent consternation. He said, “You will forgive me, Mrs. Roche. What I’m saying can’t possibly lessen your personal grief, but in the years to come it may be a consolation to realize your husband did not die in vain. The repercussions of this fiasco will be felt throughout the country… the whole world. People who have been cold will be warm.

“Besides,” he continued, “think of the lasting effect upon our national economy. There will be international reverberations, I assure you. The miners have been taught a drastic lesson. In the future they’ll think twice before following the arrogant and stupid leadership of a man like George Brand. I consider the victory largely due to your excellent handling of the situation,” he continued, turning on the ball of one foot to face Seth Gerald. “Your appeal to the miners in the local paper was a masterly stroke. It caught them off balance.”

Persona turned again on the ball of his foot. He saw Michael Shayne, and for the first time seemed to realize the presence of a stranger in the room.

Gerald said, “What I did seemed the obvious thing to do.” He saw, then, that Persona had turned and was looking at Shayne. He said, “This is Michael Shayne… Mr. Persona, Mr. Shayne.”

Shayne didn’t get up. He nodded and said, “How do you do, Mr. Persona.”

“Shayne is a private detective,” said Seth Gerald.

Mr. Persona went over to Shayne and extended his hand. Shayne took it and felt a rock-crusher grip on his knobby fingers.

“Mr. Shayne is a private detective who just drove up from Florida,” Gerald continued smoothly. “Perhaps you’ve heard, Shayne, that Mr. Persona runs AMOK.”

“So?” Shayne’s bushy red brows rose a trifle. He studied the swarthy man curiously, and added, “Often?”

Both Gerald and Persona looked puzzled. Then, Seth Gerald chuckled. He said, “I think I see what you mean. A sort of joke. A-M-O-K.” He spaced the four letters carefully. “Associated Mine Operators of Kentucky. Mr. Persona is the chairman of the Board, with headquarters in Lexington.”

“It seems to me that right now murder runs AMOK,” said Shayne gravely.

Persona glanced inquiringly from Shayne to Gerald. Jimmy Roche strolled up to join them.

“Jokes,” said Persona, “are definitely out of place and in bad taste in so serious a situation.” He had apparently missed the play on the word. “Bringing in strikebreakers won’t be necessary now, for at least a year. You mark my words.”

“Mr. Shayne is not here to bring in strikebreakers,” Gerald interposed hastily. “He came to Centerville in response to a personal letter from Charles who had a premonition of being murdered. Unfortunately Mr. Shayne arrived too late to prevent it.”

“Or fortunately?” Shayne looked at the three men in rapid succession, then turned his eyes upon Elsa Roche. Her lids were closed, and she appeared to be in a stupor.

“What do you mean by such a statement?” Persona’s swarthy face was darkly red.

“It seems that Roche’s death was a lucky thing for AMOK. If this local labor disturbance was as important to the entire industry as you say, it might have been disastrous had Charles Roche lived to take over the management of the Roche Mining Industries.”