Brett Halliday - A Taste for Violence

Shayne asked, “How do you stand this stink?”

“Ain’t you never been in jail?” the youth asked.

“Not one that smelled like this.” Shayne filled his lungs with smoke and exhaled. The fresh smoke relieved the smell of the stale for a moment, then joined it. He passed the cigarette to the boy beside him and said, “Take a draw.”

“Jeez, thanks.” He took a long draw, said, “Jeez,” again, and passed the cigarette to Shayne. He asked, “What they get you for?”

“Drunk. Only I’m not.”

The young man laughed harshly. “Must of showed some cash.”

“A little. What the hell sort of town is this?”

“New hereabouts?” he countered cautiously.

“From New York,” said Shayne. “Just passing through.”

“This is Centerville, Kentucky, Mister. The hellhole of all creation. You got nothin’ to worry about. They’ll let you loose in the mornin’… with enough jack to get out of town on.”

Shayne puffed leisurely, then asked, “What are you in for?”

“Cut a man up at a dance a coupla weeks ago.”

“How bad?”

“Not too bad. Picked the wrong guy… cousin of Titus Tatum’s. He runs the City Hall gang.”

His indifferent, drawling tone amused Shayne. He asked, “How long you in for?”

“Ain’t been tried yet. Don’t reckon I will be. They’ll turn me out in a week or two. I got folks that’ll get riled up if they don’t. What’s new in town?”

Shayne said, “I suppose you know the strike’s broken.”

“First I heard of it.” The youth jumped up and yelled, “Hey… Brand! You hear that?”

Two or three voices shouted, “Shut up in there! Let a man sleep!”

Another voice, heavily timbred and strong called out, “Do I hear what?”

“Fella here says the strike’s broke!”

“What of it? To hell with the strike,” came an answering chorus, but the voice Shayne knew must be George Brand’s broke in with gruff authority, “Shut up, all of you. I want to hear this.”

Shayne stood up and called back, “I could tell you better if I didn’t have to yell.”

“That’s George Brand,” the young man said in a hoarse whisper. “In for murder.”

“I read about it in the paper.” Shayne moved into the corridor and the heavy voice spoke just ahead of him, “Right down here. I’d like to hear about the strike.”

Shayne walked slowly on until he touched the body of a man. Brand put out his hand and took Shayne’s arm, asked fiercely, “Is that the truth? Have those cowardly fools given up the fight?”

“The news is all over town. Any place we can talk quietly?” He spoke in a whisper.

Brand struck a match before replying. He held it up to look at Shayne’s face. The flickering light illumed his own face as well.

Shayne saw a youngish man with rugged features. There was strength in the solid jaw and firm mouth, intelligence in the cool appraisal of his gray eyes and in the smooth, broad brow.

Brand was studying the detective’s face carefully, but his expression gave no hint of what he was thinking. The match burned out and he dropped it to the concrete floor. His fingers tightened on Shayne’s arm. He said, “Down this way,” quietly, and they went down the corridor to a square room with barred windows through which a little light shone. The stench was stronger here, and Brand explained, “The can’s here at this end. Nobody ever comes close to it unless they have to.” They stopped and leaned against the wall between the two windows.

“I don’t know you, do I?” Brand asked.

“No. I hit town this afternoon.” Shayne hesitated, then added, “Drove up from Miami.”

“Passing through and got picked up by one of the local boys?”

“I got picked up outside the Eustis Restaurant after I’d had dinner and a few drinks.”

“You wanted to talk,” Brand reminded him.

“That’s why I got myself thrown in here,” Shayne told him.

“What’s the lay? Give it to me.”

Shayne gave it to him straight. “I’m a private detective in Miami. A few days ago I had a letter from Charles Roche saying his life was threatened and asking me to come up. He was dead when I got here.”

The end of Brand’s cigarette glowed brightly and he blew smoke toward the ceiling before saying, “So you’re out of a job.”

“Not exactly. He mailed a check as a retainer. I like to earn my money.” Shayne’s eyes were now accustomed to the dim light and Brand’s figure and features were clearer. He was nearly as tall as Shayne, a big-boned man with plenty of flesh, but no fat. A voice accustomed to commanding, and expecting his commands to be obeyed the first time. A voice men would instinctively trust, and which women would instinctively thrill to. His body appeared to be completely relaxed, his left shoulder against the wall, his head back, one ankle crossed over the other.

He was evidently thinking over Shayne’s statement. After a brief silence he said, “Then you’re different from most private operators.”

Shayne skipped that. “Since I got here too late to prevent Roche’s murder, I may stick around and find out who killed him.”

“They’ve got me slated for that. Didn’t you know?”

“I read today’s paper,” Shayne admitted. “Did you kill him?”

“No.”

“It was your gun.”

“Maybe. I was playing poker and I can prove it,” he went on evenly. “They might laugh at one affidavit, but they’ll have a tough time laughing off three.” Brand’s tone was carelessly confident.

The man’s complacency jarred on Shayne. He said angrily, “The way you look at it then… you’re not interested in any help I might be able to give you.”

“What did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t say. It’s John Smith on the police blotter.”

“All right, John Smith. I’ve been around a good many years and I’ve stayed healthy by knowing what the score is. These punks can’t fry me. Maybe you’re on the level and maybe you were

sent here by AMOK.”

“What’s AMOK?” Shayne asked through set teeth.

Brand laughed softly. Too softly. “That’s exactly what you’d say if you’re a stinking fink.” His tone was unchanged.

“And that’s what I’d say if I weren’t.”

“That’s right, too,” Brand conceded. “I’ve not nothing to hide and I’m not playing games. My arrest broke the strike and that’s what they wanted. I lose, and that’s that. Whoever bumped Roche was playing a cinch.”

“You’re a cinch to hang,” Shayne told him quietly, “unless you’ve got a card up your sleeve you haven’t shown.”

Brand didn’t answer at once. He got out a cigarette and struck a match. Shayne studied his face closely by the match-glow as he held it to the cigarette. In his brief judgment, he could see no hint of recklessness, but there was audacity in the upcurve of his mouth and two round depressions in his cheeks that showed when he drew on the cigarette, then disappeared. A gambler, perhaps, who would play for high stakes and enjoy it… but only if the odds were weighted in his favor.

Brand tossed the match away, leaned his head against the wall and smoked.

Shayne said quietly, “I got myself thrown into this goddam jail just to talk to you… size you up.”

“You did?” said Brand politely. He lifted his head from the wall and turned toward Shayne. “I’m not worried.”

“Joe Margule had an accident this evening,” Shayne told him in a conversational tone.

“Bad?” Brand lifted his shoulder from the wall.

“Dead,” said Shayne. He lit a fresh cigarette.

Brand had his feet uncrossed. He took a few steps toward one of the windows, whirled and came back to stand stiffly before the detective.