Brett Halliday - A Taste for Violence

“I’m the owner,” Seveir told him.

“No stockholders? No mortgages?” Shayne persisted.

“I built up the Gazette from a small weekly paper, Mr. Shayne. I really don’t see…”

“Who tells you what not to print?” Shayne interrupted grimly.

“I told you last night,” the publisher began, but Shayne interrupted him again:

“And I offered you a first-hand story on conditions in the local jail but you didn’t take me up. And I gave you a direct quotation to print in your paper today, but it isn’t in the edition I saw. Why not? Who told you to kill the story?”

“The Gazette’s editorial policy is my own,” said Seveir stiffly. “I have to consider what’s best for the community as a whole.”

“And what’s pleasing to your advertisers?”

“A paper like the Gazette is dependent on the good will of its subscribers and advertisers, Mr. Shayne. I wouldn’t remain in business long if I failed to recognize the duty I owe to the best interests of Centerville.”

“Meaning the mine operators… and the Roche mines particularly. I understand that, Seveir. I wanted to hear you say it out loud so we’d have a basis for further discussion.” He passed the two typewritten sheets he had taken from Stanger’s Gladstone across to Seveir just as Lucy hurried in with a slip of paper.

Lucy’s face was glowing with excitement. Disregarding the visitor, she exclaimed, “Michael! How on earth did you know?” She laid the paper before him and pointed to the second item. “There were only two wires night before last. This is the one you wanted, isn’t it?”

Shayne read the brief message and the name signed to it. He said quietly, “That’s it, Lucy. We’re ready to go now. Wait a moment.” He stopped her as she turned away. “I have a hunch I’m going to need you to draw up a little agreement between Mr. Seveir and myself.” He looked across at the perspiring publisher who was intent upon the agreement Charles Roche had prepared and signed before his death.

“This is extraordinary,” sputtered Seveir. “A damnable betrayal of his class. Heaven knows what the consequences would be now if this thing were made public. It’s absolutely subversive.”

Shayne leaned back and studied the publisher with narrowed eyes. “I take it you wouldn’t want to publish a full text of that agreement in tomorrow’s Gazette. Along with proof that Mr. Persona, chairman of the board of AMOK, had a secret agreement with George Brand to pay out a slush fund of twenty thousand dollars in the event the strike was defeated.”

“I wouldn’t touch a thing like that,” declared Seveir, pushing the document away from him in horror. “There’s no telling what repercussions might follow. The confidence of the people would be undermined. The whole structure of our society…”

“How would you like to take a long vacation, Mr. Seveir?”

“A vacation?” he faltered. “I don’t believe I understand.”

“A trip around the world. Freedom from care for a while. Forget the newspaper business and the underpinning of society. You must have promised yourself such a vacation for a long time. Hasn’t your wife urged you to do something like that?” Shayne spoke casually with an underlying tone of concern, as for an old friend.

Mr. Seveir moved his thin lips nervously before he replied, “Why yes. For a good many years I’ve been promising her… but… I don’t understand, Mr. Shayne.” Perspiration stood out on his forehead, and his glasses were misted over. He took out a snowy white linen handkerchief, unhooked his glasses, wiped them carefully, then mopped his brow.

Shayne leaned forward and propped his elbows on the desk. “How much does the Gazette net you in a year?”

Seveir’s thin hands shook as he replaced his glasses. “I don’t see why I’m required to reveal my…”

“How much?” Shayne said harshly.

“Our gross earnings were slightly over twenty-five thousand last year,” said Seveir proudly. “But with salaries and overhead and taxes…”

Shayne settled back again while Seveir tried to figure what he had left after overhead and taxes were computed. He said, “I’ll make you a proposition. This is flat and final and requires an immediate yes or no. I’ll preface my offer by explaining that hell is about to break loose in Centerville. The strike you’ve just seen won’t be a patch on what’s coming. You can’t do one damned thing to prevent it by staying here and running the Gazette. Here’s my proposition:

“I’ll lease the paper from you for six months. The entire plant, good-will, staff and everything. I’ll pay you a net rental of a thousand dollars a month for six months. One-half down in cash when you sign the agreement and the balance in monthly installments. You can have a good time on a grand a month, Seveir. You can do all the things you’ve been promising yourself and your wife for so many years.”

“But I’m not ready to retire. Not for years yet.”

“Six months,” Shayne pressed him. “You get your paper back then. Along with a decent town.” He was digging in his pocket and brought out the wad of thousand-dollar bills. He counted off three of them before Seveir’s fascinated eyes, and pushed them across the table. “You’ve got just one minute to think it over. Then the offer will be withdrawn and won’t be made again.”

As though hypnotized by the sight of so much money, the publisher touched the bills tentatively with his fingertips. He wet his thin lips and tried to say something, then took off his glasses to polish them again.

Shayne turned to Lucy and said, “Draw up a simple memorandum for us to sign. Make it in the form of a letter from Mr. Seveir to me, setting forth the terms I’ve just mentioned. Type it in triplicate.”

He turned back to the publisher and said quietly, “I don’t believe you like a lot of things you’ve been forced to do to show a profit here in Centerville. I don’t blame you for riding with the tide, but that tide is turning, Seveir. All you have to do is step aside and get paid for it. That shouldn’t be a difficult decision. Frankly, Centerville isn’t going to be a safe place during the next few months. I’ll put that agreement signed by Roche before the miners if I have to distribute handbills. They’re going to be angry, and they aren’t going to be pleased with a local paper that refuses to print the news.”

“I’ll step aside.” Seveir’s voice was brittle. “If you can give the miners an even break, it’s more than I’ve dared do.”

Lucy re-entered the room with a brief typed memorandum. She gave each man a copy and Shayne said, “Now send a wire to Timothy Rourke in Miami: ‘Come on first plane. Have just leased daily paper for six months. Need you to manage campaign guaranteed to undermine quote civilized unquote society. Heads will roll tomorrow and mine among them if you not here to help. Mike Shayne, Chief of Police, Centerville, Kentucky.’”

He grinned widely as he finished, and Lucy Hamilton laughed outright. “Tim will never believe it,” she declared. “He’ll be sure it’s just a drunken hoax.”

“He’ll call me the minute he gets it,” Shayne assured her, “collect.” He glanced over his copy of the memorandum while Lucy went to file the telegram.

Mr. Seveir’s hand trembled when he took his fountain pen from his pocket and unscrewed the top, but he signed his name to both copies of the document with a firm hand. Still dazed and unbelieving, and with three thousand dollars in his pocket and six months vacation beckoning to him, he went from the office.

Lucy came in and perched herself on a corner of Shayne’s desk. “All right, master-mind,” she said sweetly. “Tell me what you intend to do with a six-months lease on the Centerville Gazette.”