Brett Halliday - A Taste for Violence

Shayne cogitated for a moment, then said, “Gerald and Jimmy will know why you wanted to see me… that you’ve spilled all this to me. There’s no use our trying to deny it. We’ll have to play it this way,” he went on briskly. “I’ll take you home and go straight to Gerald to discuss what you’ve told me… as a loyal stooge for AMOK. I’ll tell him I’ve advised you to keep your mouth shut for the present, which I do, and that I’ve gotten your confidence by pretending I believe in Brand’s innocence and promising to help clear him… which I hope I have.”

She laid her hand on his and said quietly, “I have to believe in you. There’s no one else. If I can’t trust you, I’m sunk.”

“You’re not sunk,” he assured her. “But I want you to understand why it’s imperative that I seem to play ball with Gerald and AMOK. Without their backing I wouldn’t last another hour in this town, and you know it.”

“I know.” She shuddered, then cried out violently, “It’s all so horribly wrong. There’s no decency or honesty here. No one dares to speak up. The people here are either crushed into hopeless apathy or have grown smug and acceptive. I don’t know which is worse. I do know I can’t stand much more of Centerville.”

She started the motor, turned on the headlights and backed the car around to drive up the dirt road onto the highway. Shayne sank back and stretched his legs out, lit a cigarette and mulled over the things she had told him while she drove swiftly toward town.

Neither of them spoke for several minutes. Then she asked suddenly and breathlessly, “There’s something I forgot… When Charles wrote you that letter a few days ago, did he mention me?”

“Your husband’s letter is one of the things I have resolved to keep strictly to myself until this affair is ended.”

“But… I have a right to know. It makes so much difference. Don’t you see… Charles may have learned that I had been with George a couple of times… and it might have something to do with… his death.”

Shayne said, “I’m sorry, but I learned long ago that the only way to keep a secret is to keep it.”

“Why is this secret so important?”

“It may be damned important to your husband’s murderer. Don’t you see the spot it puts him in? He doesn’t know how much I know… whether he was named in the letter or not.”

“But… why does that apply to me,” she argued angrily. “What difference could it make if you told me?”

Shayne sighed deeply. “You’ve told me a story tonight, Mrs. Roche. Certain things disagree with the testimony of other people. All of it may be the truth, or part may be the truth, or it may not be the truth at all. I’d be a sorry investigator if I accepted the unsupported word of any person even remotely connected with murder.”

“That means you suspect me, doesn’t it,” she retorted.

“It means that I believe nothing that isn’t corroborated,” he corrected her patiently. “There wouldn’t be the least difficulty making out a circumstantial case against you, as far as that goes. Look at it impersonally. You admit having been out with George Brand on at least two occasions. Suppose your husband learned of this, objected violently, and started out to confront Brand and have a showdown. Plenty of murders have been committed for less reason.”

“But I told you all about George and me. I’ve told you why Charles went to see him.”

“That’s the trouble, Mrs. Roche. I have only your word for any of these things you’ve told me. Suppose Seth Gerald denies everything you’ve said. Which one of you shall I believe?”

“You can tell me this: Did any of those anonymous letters mention George Brand and me?” She was pleading with him now.

“What anonymous letters?” Shayne asked blandly.

“The ones he refused to show me. You practically said he sent those to you.”

“Did I?”

“Didn’t he?”

“I’m sorry,” he said again. “That communication from your husband is my one ace-in-the-hole, and I’m not ready to show it yet. If you really want your husband’s murderer to pay for his crime you’ll have to let me play it my own way.”

She said, “Very well,” in a tone of weary resignation.

An automobile was approaching swiftly from Centerville, its headlights augmented by a powerful searchlight mounted above the windshield. It turned constantly to sweep each side of the highway. Its beams caught the Roche Buick at a distance of some five hundred yards.

“That light! It’s blinding me,” Elsa said.

“Stop the car,” Shayne ordered.

She put on the brakes just as the other car slowed to a stop beside them. Shayne said swiftly, “Don’t say a word except to follow my lead. No matter who it is or what they want.”

They sat quietly while a rear door of the other car slammed shut after a man had gotten out. He approached the left-hand side of the Buick and looked in at Elsa, past her to Shayne. He turned his head and called, “Yep. This is them, Chief.”

Another man got out and the other moved aside. Chief Henry Elwood said, “Evenin’, Mrs. Roche. Sort of late for a widow lady to be out with a stranger, isn’t it?”

“I’m an old friend of her husband’s,” Shayne told him quietly. “Mr. Persona will vouch for me.”

“You better come along with us,” the chief told him. “And you better drive on home, Mrs. Roche, ’less you take it in your head to pull some of the other prisoners out of my jail. I’ll send a man with you to see you find your way home all right.”

Shayne said, “Chief Elwood is right, Elsa. Try to get some sleep and I’ll call you in the morning.” He got out and went around the front of the Buick to the tonneau of the other car. There were two men in the front seat. The rear seat was empty. He got in and the chief followed him inside and slammed the door shut. The car started ahead slowly, continuing away from the village while Mrs. Roche drove on toward Centerville.

Shayne settled back in the darkness and lit a cigarette. The chief smashed the lighted cylinder against his face with a heavy, back-handed blow and said placidly, “You’re going to need your mouth for talkin’, Shamus.”

Michael Shayne drew in his breath, gritted his teeth, and counted slowly up to twenty-five. Then he said, “I’ve been smoking too much lately, anyhow.”

“I’ve heard,” said the chief, “that you’re a smart cookie. We’ll get along all right if you remember this is my town.”

The blow had reopened the cut on his lip. He got out a handkerchief and dabbed the blood away gently. “Mr. Persona gave me the idea the town belonged to AMOK.”

“Persona,” grunted the chief, “can hire all the special deputies he wants, but I still run Centerville.”

“And Seth Gerald runs you?” Shayne said bitterly.

Shayne felt this blow coming. He turned his face away and Elwood’s heavy palm struck the side of his head. “Keep driving straight ahead,” he rumbled to the driver. “Not too fast. We’ve got lots of time and aren’t going nowhere.”

A bell was ringing dully in Shayne’s left ear. He kept his face averted, looking out the window at the thin mist.

“When did you and Mrs. Roche fix that stunt up?” Elwood demanded.

“What stunt?”

“Getting yourself locked up in my jail long enough to talk to her boy friend.”

The man sitting beside the driver turned half-way around and Shayne could see his profile clearly. It was the larger of the two officers who had arrested him in front of the Eustis Restaurant. Shayne said, “Nobody has to work hard at getting himself locked up in the Centerville jail. I was having a few drinks… tending to my own business…”