Brett Halliday - A Taste for Violence

“The Associated Mine Operators of the state of Kentucky hereby retains Michael Shayne to obtain evidence against George Brand for the murder of Charles Roche. In the event of Brand’s conviction on this charge, Associated Mine Operators of Kentucky agrees to pay said Michael Shayne the sum of five thousand dollars ($5,000.00).”

Persona signed his name and wrote underneath it, “Chairman of the Board,” and carried it across to Shayne.

Shayne read it carefully, folded it, and nodded his red head. “It’s exactly what I want.” He placed the folded paper in his wallet. “Now. I want to ask you one question, Mr. Persona. What do you suggest in case I uncover evidence exonerating George Brand?”

Seth Gerald stood beside Persona in front of Shayne’s chair, his arms folded, and for the first time since Shayne had seen him he appeared relaxed, though his black eyes glanced occasionally toward the door through which Jimmy had carried Elsa Roche.

Persona studied the end of his glowing cigar, flipped a half-inch of ashes on the rug, and said slowly, “We are not worried about that, Shayne. The man is guilty.”

“If you believed that you wouldn’t be offering me five grand just to prove it,” Shayne told him quietly.

“It’s worth that to make certain Brand is convicted,” said Persona. “Isn’t that true, Seth?”

“True enough,” Gerald admitted, “but I still don’t see the need of dragging Shayne into it. Chief Elwood assures me he has Brand dead to rights.”

Shayne relaxed a little farther in his chair, leaned his head back against the cushion, and said, “It’s because you don’t see the need of it, Gerald, that you’re just the manager of a coal mine instead of holding an important position such as Persona holds. You don’t have the wider vision such a job requires. Isn’t that correct, Persona?”

“Well… I wouldn’t like…”

“You see, Gerald,” Shayne interrupted in a bantering tone, “This five-grand offer from AMOK is in the nature of insurance. You might call it a bribe to induce me to suppress any evidence of Brand’s innocence if I should run across any such unpleasant thing, to put it crudely, in the course of my investigation. Isn’t that the way you look at it, Persona?”

Mr. Persona’s attitude was that of a man completely satisfied and self-assured. “I prefer to stand behind the offer just as it is written. Not a word has been said about suppressing evidence.”

Seth Gerald turned away and was pacing slowly up and down the room, his brow furrowed, his head bent.

Shayne said with grating harshness, “Naturally not. It’s strictly a business proposition. A nice, gentlemanly deal that will bear the fullest scrutiny if it’s ever made public. Frankly, I hope the guy is guilty as hell and I collect your fee, but I warn you that Charles Roche is still my client, even though he is dead. Now if you’ll tell me how to get to Twelfth and Magnolia, I’ll go to work.”

Gerald stopped near them and said, “The police have already gone over Brand’s house with a fine-toothed comb. You won’t find anything there.”

“But I might find Mrs. Cornell at home… just across the street,” said Shayne quietly. “I want to hear her story about last night when a headache kept her from sleeping.”

“What’s that about Mrs. Cornell?” said a hoarse voice behind them. “She hasn’t anything to do with this.”

The three men turned to see Jimmy Roche standing in the doorway, swaying slightly.

Shayne said evenly, “Perhaps not. But I wondered if she might be the attraction that drew your brother to that vicinity… instead of George Brand.” He was trying a shot in the dark.

Jimmy Roche’s face was terrible to look upon. His naked eyes glared drunkenly and his outthrust chin accentuated the puffiness of his cheeks. His hair was tousled, slanting across his forehead. He caught the doorjamb with both hands and leaned against it.

“I hear,” said Shayne, “that Mrs. Cornell is a very attractive woman.”

Elsa Roche pushed past Jimmy. Her gray-green eyes were molten with anger and some super-induced emotion. She screamed, “You lie about Charles. He never looked at that woman. He never looked at any woman but me.” She stood there swaying, her hands tightly clasped.

Gerald was on his way to Elsa. Persona held his half-smoked cigar stiffly in the air and didn’t move. Jimmy Roche let go the doorjamb and fell to his knees, pulled himself up again and hung on.

Shayne said, “If you’ll tell me how to find her house, I’ll run along and pay her a visit.”

Seth Gerald had reached Elsa and was holding her up. He said, “You can get directions from anyone in the village. Turn left at the second intersection and right on the third street. That’s Twelfth. Magnolia Avenue is the second street down. Her house and Brand’s are east of the corner.”

Shayne was standing in the archway. He glanced swiftly at the occupants of the room, said, “Thanks,” and went out to his car.

There were only two houses on the block of Magnolia Avenue beyond Twelfth Street. They were near the center of the block, opposite each other. It was impossible to see a house number, but there were lights in the house on the left-hand side as he approached. Shayne drew up before it and stopped.

The cottage was small, the approach darkened by a spreading eucalyptus tree as he went up the planked walk toward a tannish glow from the shaded upper glass of the front door. He could hear loud dance music from a radio inside, through windows that were open with the shades drawn low. He went up four wooden steps and across the narrow porch. He rapped on the door, and it opened almost immediately, swinging far back to outline the woman standing there.

Shayne saw her face first. Her eyes were elongated and blue, her brows and lashes light brown beneath a mass of taffy-colored hair wound in thick braids around her head. She wore a playsuit, blue-striped, with the neck cut round and low. A separate skirt had three buttons buttoned at the top and it flared open to reveal panties of the same material. The skirt reached almost to her knees. She was tall, at least five-feet-nine, slim-waisted and full-breasted. Her legs were firm and extraordinarily long.

Shayne said, “Pardon the intrusion. I’m looking for Mrs. Ann Cornell.”

“I’m Ann Cornell.” She was not perturbed or curious. The corners of her mouth were lifted and there was a hint of amusement in her eyes.

Shayne took off his hat and said, “I’m Michael Shayne. I’d like to talk to you.”

“Talk?” She turned and led the way to a comfortable chair. “Please sit here,” she said, and went over to take a chair opposite him, buttoning the rest of the buttons on her skirt as she went.

“Yes. I’d like to have a talk with you,” he repeated.

“I thought that was what you said. I’ll turn down the radio.”

Shayne looked around the small room. The walls and ceiling were of pine panelling, painted a light gray. The wide rough boards of the floor were stained a dark brown with cotton rugs here and there. The furnishings and drapes were cheap, the colors blending to give the room a pleasant atmosphere.

When the radio was turned low, she said, “I’m sorry if I’m supposed to recognize your name. Michael Shayne?”

“There’s no reason why you should,” he told her. “Unless you’ve heard Roche mention me.”

“Jimmy?” She caught her lower lip between her teeth, frowned and shook her head. “Are you a friend of his? I supposed you were another newspaper reporter.”

There was a moment of silence between them. Then Shayne said, “I may as well begin by telling you I’m a detective… retained by the mine operators to look into Charles Roche’s murder.”