Brett Halliday - A Taste for Violence

By four o’clock he had completed most of the preliminaries necessary to a complete reorganization of the department, and he settled back to dictate a memorandum to each officer remaining on active duty.

Lucy Hamilton sat across from him with her stenographer’s pad, glancing up at his face each time he hesitated. Overnight, he had become a new sort of man. There was a ruthless, driving efficiency about him which she had never known the easy-going detective to manifest before. He was displaying an amazing talent for grasping details and organizing them, for making rapid and definite decisions that sounded right. He appeared happier than she had ever seen him.

As for herself, Lucy was still befuddled. After recovering from her anxiety upon receiving his telephone message to hurry to the police station, she was immediately confounded to find him directing the affairs of the department. She hadn’t asked questions, for there hadn’t been time. She knew Henry Elwood was locked in his own jail charged with murder, but she didn’t know any of the circumstances. She didn’t know what had been done about George Brand or any of the other persons involved in the Roche murder. All she knew was that Shayne was in the driver’s seat and was getting as much accomplished as possible while he remained there. She had a queer feeling that none of this was real and that she would wake up after a time and find herself back in Miami, but in the meantime Shayne kept on dictating his blunt memorandums and she continued to take shorthand notes.

There was a discreet knock on the door. Shayne stopped dictating to call, “Yeh?”

A patrolman stuck his head in and said, “There’s a man here who insists on seeing you, Chief. Says it’s important.”

“Send him in,” said Shayne.

A quietly dressed man with hard features entered. His pinstriped blue suit was well cut, his shoes highly polished, his manner that of a self-assured and aggressive person. He wore a stiff straw hat with a red and white band. He removed it when he saw Lucy.

He said to Shayne, “Your stupid man outside says I’ll have to get permission from you to see my client.”

“Who is your client?”

The stranger pulled up a straight chair and sat down. “George Brand. You can’t deny an attorney access to his client.” He took a card from his breast pocket and flipped it in front of Shayne.

Shayne read aloud, “Myron J. Stanger, Washington, D. C. Chief Counsel representing NUWJ. What do the initials stand for?”

“National Union for Workers’ Justice. I imagine you’ve heard of us.”

Shayne leaned back, studying the card. He asked, “Are you from Washington?”

“Our headquarters are there. I travel a great deal, but I happened to be in the office yesterday morning when we read of this outrageous affair in the morning paper. I came at once.”

“Do you know your client personally?”

“It happens that I do know George Brand. Most favorably, I assure you. I’ve represented him on other occasions when his zeal got him into difficulties with the law.”

Shayne said affably, “I’m glad Brand has a competent attorney. Lucy, will you get that bottle out of the top drawer of the file? Did you drive down, Mr. Stanger?”

The attorney showed mild surprise at this display of cordiality. It was evident that he had come to Centerville with a far different concept of the reception he would receive from the authorities. He thawed visibly and produced a pipe and tobacco pouch. “Yes, I drove. Left Washington before noon and went straight through to Lexington last night.”

Lucy brought the bottle of whiskey and set it on the desk, went to the water cooler and brought two drinking cups. Shayne stripped the foil from the top of the bottle and twisted the cork.

“You must have gotten a late start this morning,” he suggested as he poured liquor into the two cups.

“I had business in Lexington that held me up until ten-thirty.” Stanger accepted a cup and lifted it gravely. He still appeared a little puzzled and slightly on the defensive, but he wasn’t to be outdone in politeness.

Shayne said, “Bottoms up,” and they both drank.

“That’s good whiskey,” said Stanger. He set the cup down and tamped tobacco in his pipe.

“Are you staying in town?” Shayne asked.

“For a few days. As long as it takes to get this absurd charge against Brand quashed. I’m staying at the Central Hotel.”

“I doubt that you’ll have to be here long. I’ve been getting together what evidence I could, and right now I don’t mind admitting to you frankly that I hardly feel there’s enough evidence to justify our holding Brand.”

Stanger brightened perceptibly, lit his pipe, and relaxed. “I had a feeling,” he said cautiously, “that it was a put-up job to railroad Brand from the beginning. From what I know of the situation here in Centerville I had the impression…” He paused, looking hard into Shayne’s twinkling gray eyes.

“We’re not as bad as a lot of people think. Let’s have another snort and then I’ll send you up to talk with Brand.”

Stanger pulled on his pipe, exuded a cloud of smoke, smiled and said, “Another one never does any harm.”

Shayne poured the drinks and shoved the bottle toward Lucy. “Put it away, please.” He got up and went to the water cooler saying, “Think I’ll have a chaser with this one.” He emptied the whiskey in the drain, took a drink of water, and went back to his chair.

Stanger had downed his drink and was smacking his lips. He said, “Thanks. I’ll go up and see Brand now.”

Shayne went to the door and opened it. “Andrews!” he roared at the newly installed desk sergeant.

Andrews came trotting. Shayne stepped back and pointed at Stanger’s back and said. “This drunken bum has an idea he wants to talk with George Brand. Book him for drunkenness and lock him up so they can talk as long as they like.”

Stanger sprang up and faced them, an unpleasant smile on his face. “I wondered what the catch was. I can prove I’m not drunk, you know, and…”

“Smell his breath, Andrews,” Shayne ordered, “and get him out of here.”

The labor attorney shrugged phlegmatically as though this was all in a day’s work to him, and followed Andrews out.

Lucy was standing at one of the windows looking out when Shayne closed the door and turned toward her. Her back was stiff and her hands clenched into tight fists. Two spots of color flamed in her cheeks when she whirled around and said:

“I wondered what was happening. I wondered and wondered how you got yourself appointed chief of police.” She spat the words out as though they tasted bad. “Now it’s all clear. You’re in it with them to frame George Brand for a murder he didn’t commit. I hate you, Mike Shayne. I loathe you.” Tears were rolling down her cheeks.

Shayne went over and caught her elbows in his palms. “Save it for later,” he said gently. “Right now, I need you.”

“Why do you do things like that, Michael?” She leaned against him. “Why do you pretend to be something else and make me l-love you and then… suddenly… ruin everything?”

“In this case,” he told her, “Stanger gets a good long talk with his client without any interference. Wipe away your tears and come on. We’ve got things to do while they’re conferring.” He kissed both her cheeks and pushed her toward the door, grabbed his hat and followed her.

When they were seated in Shayne’s car, he delayed starting the motor while he explained briefly how he had bluffed Seth Gerald into forcing his appointment as chief of police.

“But you haven’t got those letters threatening Charles Roche’s life,” she protested. “You haven’t even seen them.”