Brett Halliday - Shoot to Kill

Shayne nodded somberly. “Most murders are. You want a drink now, angel? You were about to have a C and C when I got that call.”

Sitting on the edge of the sofa, Lucy shuddered as she leaned down to slip on her shoes. “That was hours ago and the champagne has all worn off now. I’d like a nice tall glass with ice cubes and cognac and filled to the top with soda. Then you can tell me all about Ralph Larson and Wesley Ames. I’ll go in the bathroom to comb my hair and put my face back on. I feel quite disheveled and practically wanton.”

Shayne chuckled and told her, “You looked like an innocent child asleep there on the sofa.” He took the tray into the kitchen to get fresh ice cubes and open a bottle of soda, and the telephone started ringing as he returned with the tray.

Lucy was coming out of the bathroom and Shayne stood by the table with the tray in his big hands scowling down at the instrument. “I’m afraid this isn’t our night for quiet drinks, angel. If we’re lucky that’ll be Dorothy Larson calling again.”

“Why lucky?” asked Lucy curiously, and Shayne realized that she didn’t know about Dorothy being missing. He set the tray down and picked up the phone, but this time it was the voice of the desk clerk from downstairs:

“There’s a man to see you, Mr. Shayne. He says it’s very important.”

“Who is it?”

“Mr. Sutter, he says. From New York, and he has to see you at once.”

Shayne said, “Send him up,” and put the instrument down and scowled at Lucy and tugged at his ear lobe. “A lawyer from New York named Sutter,” he told her. “He was at the Ames house waiting to see the man when he was killed. I don’t know what he wants with me, but he’s on his way up.” He shrugged his shoulders and poured a generous dollop of cognac into a tall glass holding three ice cubes. He filled the glass to the top from the bottle of Club Soda and handed it to Lucy just as a knock sounded on the door. He told her, “I’ll get it,” and went across the room to admit the pudgy figure of Alonzo J. Sutter.

Shayne nodded pleasantly to the New York attorney, noting that the man carried himself more erectly than before and that his round eyes behind the rimless glasses were not as bloodshot as they had been. He said, “Come in, Mr. Sutter. Perhaps you’ll join us in a drink.” He closed the door and turned to wave a big hand at Lucy who was gracefully settling herself in one of the comfortable chairs with her glass in hand. “My secretary, Miss Hamilton,” he said formally. “This is Mr. Sutter, Lucy.”

Sutter nodded vaguely toward Lucy and said, “I’m delighted,” in a tone which belied his words. He shook his head firmly at Shayne and said, “No drinks, please. I came here hoping and expecting to have a very private talk with you about a very confidential matter, Mr. Shayne. It is of vital importance,” he went on severely. “I made inquiries about you after you left the Ames residence, and I ascertained that you are highly regarded locally as a discreet and competent private investigator. I wish to consult you in your professional capacity,” he ended abruptly, again with a doubtful glance toward Lucy and the array of liquor bottles and glasses on the table.

Shayne laughed easily and put his hand on the rotund attorney’s elbow and guided him toward a chair near Lucy’s. “We couldn’t be any more private,” he said cheerfully. “I assure you that Miss Hamilton is the soul of discretion.” He pushed Sutter down into the chair and turned to the table, adding, “Let me know if you change your mind about a drink.”

He poured himself a noggin of cognac and sat down comfortably in a deep chair across from Sutter and Lucy, and said, “I though you’d gone to a hotel for the night and were catching an early plane back to New York.”

“I am at a hotel. The Costain on Third Avenue. And I have a reservation on a plane departing at nine A.M. for New York. But I am hesitant to leave Miami with things at loose ends as it were. Earlier in the evening, when I first became aware that Mr. Ames had been shot, it appeared to me that in a sense my mission was accomplished… that I could rejoice whole-heartedly and return to New York to inform our client that all was well and that… er… he had nothing further to worry about.

“However, afterthoughts began to worry me. The death of Mr. Ames does not necessarily settle the affair I came here to negotiate. The question now arises: Who will take possession of his private papers? What disposition of his effects will be made? Will his widow, perhaps, or his secretary, continue his syndicated column? Who will control what will be printed in the future?”

“How does that concern you or your client?” Shayne demanded bluntly.

Mr. Sutter sighed and he blinked his eyes rapidly behind the rimless glasses. He settled himself more deeply and comfortably in his chair and reached inside his coat to take a fat cigar from the breast pocket. He bit off the end and got a lighter from a side pocket and put flame to the cigar. He pursed his thick lips and expelled a cloud of smoke, and began speaking as though each word he uttered was distasteful to him:

“I came to Miami on a very definite and unpleasant mission. In my briefcase at the hotel I have an envelope containing twenty-five thousand dollars in currency which I was authorized to hand over to Wesley Ames in exchange for documents in his possession which would be ruinous to one of our valued clients if printed in Ames’ newspaper column. I am opposed to extortion and to the payment of blackmail in any form. The very thought is abhorrent to me. But I had no choice in this matter. I came here prepared to act for our client and make the exchange in good faith. Now, Ames is dead. I realize that the documents in question must be there in his study, accessible to whoever goes through his private papers and takes possession of them. I realize now that I will have failed my client if I return to New York tomorrow morning without those papers in my hands. That is why I am here, Mr. Shayne.”

“Why?” demanded Shayne.

“It seems to me that you are in a position to recover them at once, before someone else finds them and realizes their possible value. You appear to have the full confidence of the local police and it should not be difficult for you to gain access to the dead man’s study tonight on some pretext. The papers must be there at hand. All arrangements were made and Ames expected to turn them over to me tonight.”

“Just what are these ‘papers’ that you were prepared to pay twenty-five grand for? What am I supposed to look for?”

“They consist of certain original documents highly incriminating to our client,” Sutter told him primly. “I hesitate to divulge his name, but I must trust you I suppose. He is Alex Murchinson. The name may be unknown to you, but he is high in the councils of our city government and the documents consist of private agreements with certain prominent contractors in the city relating to what might be referred to, vulgarly, as kickbacks or payoffs for the awarding of certain contracts for services to be rendered the city. It was highly irregular and most imprudent for Mr. Murchinson to have such documents in his possession while vacationing here recently,” Sutter went on severely, “but some of the details were finalized here where it was convenient and safer to meet some of the other parties concerned without arousing suspicion.

“They were stolen from his hotel suite on the night of his departure for New York,” the attorney continued, “by a woman who had insinuated herself into his confidence and was evidently in the employ of Ames for just such nefarious purposes. I have in my pocket photostatic copies of the original documents which were mailed to our client after his return to the city, with the thinly-veiled threat that unpleasant details would be subsequently primed in the Wesley Ames syndicated column unless payment of twenty-five thousand dollars was made to him. It was my intention to compare the photostats with the originals before turning over the money to Ames.”