Brett Halliday - A Taste for Violence

Shayne said, “Thanks. That’s exactly what I wanted to hear you say, Gerald. I had a hunch you’d written those threatening letters, but I was afraid it would be difficult to prove.”

“I didn’t say…”

“You made it very plain that you know what’s in those letters,” Shayne interrupted swiftly, before Gerald could get his thoughts in order. “The only person who knows that is the man who wrote them. Roche didn’t show them to anyone else.”

Gerald sank into his chair again and mopped his wet face with his palms. “All right,” he said hoarsely, “if you do have those letters you know there’s not one word about Mrs. Roche and me in them.”

“Naturally.” Shayne’s tone gently chided him. “I just wanted to force you to say you wrote them. I felt pretty sure you did,” he added.

“I suppose it was a silly thing to do,” Seth Gerald groaned. “But I was at my wit’s end with the strike, and with Charles full of noble sentiments about the rights of the workers to share in the profits. I thought something like that might bring him to his senses. Good God!” he exclaimed suddenly. “You don’t think for a moment I meant those letters seriously. You can see that I just hoped to frighten some common sense into him.”

“You don’t have to worry about what I think,” Shayne pointed out. “I won’t be a member of the jury that will have to decide whether you meant your threats or not.”

Gerald wet his lips and made two efforts to speak before he succeeded in blurting out, “No one else has seen those letters. No one else suspects what was in them. He vaguely mentioned them as threats against his life. Nothing more than that.”

“That’s right,” Shayne assented. “If he hadn’t mailed them to me before he was murdered you’d be safe right now. I doubt,” he went on generously, “whether any jury would convict you of his murder without the evidence of those letters.”

“You’re bluffing,” blustered Gerald. “I see it all now. You think you can hold me up… blackmail me… with a threat like that. I warn you I’m not easily frightened. Those letters aren’t real evidence against me. Everyone who knows the circumstances will understand my real motive in writing them.”

“Let’s look at it objectively,” said Shayne. “First, we have Charles’ impending birthday when he will assume control of the mines and possibly fire you out of a soft job. Then we have a strike which he is willing to settle at terms which you consider detrimental. Third, we have a series of letters, anonymous, but admittedly written by you, threatening his life if he does not agree to hold out against the strikers. Next, there is his signed agreement with Brand which would have become effective on his birthday. You were on the spot at the approximate time of his death… you hurried from there to his widow and fixed up a lie for her to tell to explain your presence there. Hell!” he exploded, “that’s enough evidence to hang ten men. Just the letters and the fact that he’s dead would be enough. Juries have a funny way of linking two facts like that together.”

“I didn’t do it, Shayne. I swear I didn’t kill him. He was already dead. I saw him there beside the road. I couldn’t do anything for him, but I thought of the mines… and of Jimmy. That’s why I went to Elsa and advised Jimmy to tell Ann Cornell what to say. I swear that’s the truth.”

“Maybe,” said Shayne. “But do you think a jury will believe you?”

“They will if they don’t see the letters.”

“Possibly.”

“What do you want?” Gerald demanded fiercely. “Tear up those letters and keep your mouth shut and let Brand hang as he deserves. He must be guilty. I don’t believe for a moment Jimmy Roche killed his own brother. You’ll only defeat justice if you bring up those letters. And you’ll lose the five thousand Persona offered.”

“I warned you at the beginning,” said Shayne, “that I like money, but there are other considerations that tempt me.”

“What in God’s name do you want?” Gerald demanded again.

“I’ve decided that I’d like to be chief of police of Centerville for about six months.”

“Chief of police!” Gerald’s mouth fell open and he seemed powerless to close it. He stared at Shayne with a queer look in his eyes, then managed to say, “But we’ve got a chief. Henry Elwood…”

“I’ve met Elwood,” Shayne told him grimly. “That’s why I think Centerville needs a new deal. Those are my terms. Make me chief, and I’ll suppress those letters. Otherwise…” He shrugged wide shoulders and got to his feet.

“That’s the most fantastic proposal I ever heard,” gasped Gerald. “Even if I agreed, what makes you think I could arrange a thing like that?”

“I’ve been in company-owned towns before.”

“But I don’t control the police department. The mayor and the city council are the only ones who have authority to make a change like that.”

“And you own the mayor,” said Shayne. “Get him on the phone.”

“But what would I tell him? What possible reason…?”

Shayne said, “I’ll give you plenty of reason.” He was silent for a moment, his rugged red brows drawn together. Then he relaxed, crossed one knobby knee over the other, and said slowly:

“It wouldn’t be the first time a municipality brought in an expert to straighten things out. Only a few people here know my business. You might explain to the mayor that Henry Elwood is a cold-blooded murderer and is locked up in his own jail. You could say that Charles Roche wrote and asked me to come here and do something about the horrible conditions existing in the police force… the frightened, groveling attitude of the common people after years of tyranny. I’ve heard a lot about how things go in communities like this where the majority of the people are poor and down-trodden and don’t dare say anything. I’ve read about returning soldiers who don’t even go to the polls and vote because the big bosses toss their votes into the waste basket if they don’t mark the right names. You’ve got that condition right here in Centerville.”

Seth Gerald’s black eyes were narrowed upon him. Sweat dripped from his face and dropped on his silk robe. When Shayne paused, he demanded, “What do you mean Chief Elwood is a cold-blooded murderer?”

“Do you know a police sergeant named Gantry?”

“Bill Gantry? He’s on the desk at headquarters,” said Gerald. “Sure I know him.”

Shayne said, “Yeh. Handsome young fellow. I have an idea he’d have been a different man if he hadn’t got hooked up with Centerville’s police department.”

“What about Gantry? All I know is he couldn’t go on with his college work after he came back from the war because he has a wife and three children. He took a job on the police force. What about him?” Gerald stood over him. His tone was demanding. He appeared to have regained his poise.

Shayne glanced up at him and asked, “Does he have a telephone?”

“Probably. I’ll look and see.” Gerald turned swiftly and picked up the telephone book, gave Shayne the number, and asked again, “What the hell has Gantry got to do with this?” His hands were trembling, and again he mopped his face with his palms.

Shayne started toward the telephone on the desk. He asked, “How does Gantry’s family stand around here?”

“One of the oldest… the best. His wife’s parents and their parents were considered… well… what people called aristocrats. First settlers and that sort of thing. Used to be rich. I’ve heard he gave away land and properties to poor people so they could get a start. A goddamned fool, if you ask me,” Gerald ended sarcastically.

Shayne was calling central. He gave the number. The phone rang only half a ring before a woman’s voice answered. “Yes? Is this you, Bill?” She was plainly hysterical. Tears were in her voice.