Brett Halliday - Shoot to Kill

“I’m completely in the dark about all this,” the pudgy, round-faced man standing behind Mark Ames declared unhappily. The strong odor of whiskey came from him and his eyes were bloodshot behind rimless glasses which were settled firmly on his bulbous nose. “I was upstairs resting in my room waiting for Alfred to bring me a drink when I heard all this commotion downstairs and then in the hallway. A shocking affair. Disgraceful,” he told Shayne firmly. “Citizens shot down in cold blood in the privacy of their own homes. A commonplace in Miami, no doubt. Certainly it would not be countenanced in a civilized community. I am told you are a detective, Mr. Shayne. Who is that vicious young murderer across the room?”

Shayne said gravely, “His name is Ralph Larson. What’s yours, by the way?”

“This is Mr. Sutter, Shayne,” interposed Mark Ames quickly. “An attorney from New York City. He flew down this afternoon to consult Wesley on some legal matter and I’m afraid he’s gotten a poor idea of our mores here in Miami.”

“There have been murders committed in New York, I believe,” Shayne commented drily. He turned away as Alfred got to his feet with his burden of broken glass and scurried toward the rear, presumably in the direction of the kitchen.

The outer door opened and Patrolman Powers stepped inside. He looked around the living room and at the five men in some surprise to see them there, and announced loudly, “The Homicide Squad is on the way. Everyone is to stay put until they get here.”

“You stay down there, Powers, and keep an eye on them and see that they don’t get their heads together and make up any stories,” came Griffin’s voice booming down from the head of the stairs. “I’m standing guard at the scene of the crime to see that nothing is touched… the way it says in Regulations.”

Powers called back loudly, “Yes, sir. I’ll see to it.” He stood with his back against the door and his thumbs hooked inside his pistol-belt, and looked them over sternly. “Just take it easy the way Officer Griffin says,” he advised them. “That way, everything will go smooth and we won’t have any trouble.”

Shayne grinned at him and then crossed the wide room to the settee where Timothy Rourke was seated beside Larson. The younger man sat bolt upright and defiant. He asked bitterly, “What’s all this silly rigmarole about? I killed Ames, goddamnit. He deserved killing and I’m glad he’s dead. So why in hell don’t they put the handcuffs on me and take me off to jail?”

“There’s a certain protocol to be followed,” Shayne told him. “Take it easy. You’ll end up in jail all right. In the meantime, relax. This is probably the last drink you’ll have for a good long time,” he added as Alfred reentered the room stiffly carrying his silver tray with a pitcher of ice cubes and a carafe of water and an assortment of unbroken glasses on it, in addition to the two bottles of liquor which Alfred had retrieved unharmed from the floor.

Shayne beckoned to the houseman, and asked over his shoulder, “Scotch or bourbon, Ralph? And how do you like it?”

The young man shuddered and shook his head. “I couldn’t touch a drop. I think I’d vomit.” He hesitated with his young face working queerly. “I keep seeing him sitting there grinning at me,” he burst out. “I wanted to kill him. I enjoyed pulling the trigger. But now…” He shook his head dazedly and buried his face in his hands.

Michael Shayne took two cubes of ice from Alfred’s proffered pitcher and dropped one of them in each of two tall glasses. He lavishly poured bourbon in one glass and Scotch in the other, added a dollop of water to each and took one glass in each hand, waving Alfred on to the others. He handed the bourbon highball to Rourke who continued to sit beside Larson, and muttered obliquely, “Don’t take it so hard, Tim. You did your best, damn it.”

“None of that whispering,” said Powers sternly from his military stance in front of the door. “I guess it’s all right for all of you to have drinks, but there’s to be no private communications between suspects until you’ve each made your statements.”

Shayne shrugged and turned away from the two reporters with a glass of watered Scotch in his hand. On the other side of the room Mark Ames had refused a drink, but the New York attorney was eagerly pouring Scotch with a shaking hand into a tall glass containing two ice cubes. He filled it nearly to the top and set the bottle back on Alfred’s tray, and lifted the glass to his mouth with both hands gripping it tightly.

Shayne grimly watched him lower the contents by a good two inches before he took it away from his mouth, and he wondered whether Lawyer Sutter was going to still be sober enough to make a statement when Homicide arrived. Not that it mattered much, he told himself. Nothing that Sutter had to tell them could possibly change anything.

Then he heard the low, discreet whine of a carefully controlled siren from the distance on Biscayne Boulevard and knew they hadn’t much longer to wait before the efficient technicians from Will Gentry’s Homicide Squad took over.

Sergeant Griggs was a short squarely-built man in plain clothes, but his driver who entered the doorway behind him was in uniform. Griggs had an intelligent, weathered face, shrewdly cold eyes, and a completely bald head. He pivoted slowly, just inside the room, scrutinizing each man carefully, and not a flicker of surprise showed on his impassive features as his gaze slid over the detective and the reporter.

With no indication of pleasure, he said, “Well, well. Miami’s gift to television and the demon reporter of the daily press. Just what goes on here?”

“There’s been a shooting, Sarge. Upstairs,” said Powers eagerly. “These fellows claim that one sitting down there did it.”

Griggs’ gaze rested briefly on the seated Ralph Larson, and then shifted back to Shayne. “Who’s the stiff?”

“Wesley Ames,” Shayne told him.

“They tell me your secretary called in the first alarm. What do you do… get printed announcements when a murder’s about to be committed?”

“Not quite. This time it just happens…”

“Skip it for now. Let’s go upstairs and get the picture straight. You may as well tag along, Rourke, so we can get full newspaper coverage. That way, you can write the facts for once without having recourse to your imagination. You stay here with Powers,” he directed his driver. “Send the other boys on up as soon as they get here.”

He went toward the stairs and Shayne and Rourke followed him with their glasses in their hands.

Griffin was standing importantly at attention outside the open door of the study. He said, “Not much work for you on this one, Sarge. Here’s the murder weapon.” He held out Larson’s. 38. “I took it off that big redhead while it was still hot and smoking.”

Griggs nodded and walked into the room past him, disregarding the gun. “You hang onto it, Griff. Maybe you’ll get a citation for discovering important evidence.” He stopped and surveyed the sagging door with its DO NOT DISTURB sign still hanging from the knob, then turned his attention to the inner door jamb where a heavy brass socket for a bolt still dangled from one half-withdrawn screw.

“Looks like we not only got murder, but a breaking and entering rap to boot,” he observed sourly.

“I’m guilty, Sergeant,” Shayne admitted cheerfully. “It seemed like a good idea with shooting going on inside.”

Griggs shrugged and walked on into the room, coming to a halt beside the dead man behind the desk and looking down at him fixedly. “He looks dead enough,” he observed without emotion.

Wesley Ames did look very dead. In life he had had sharp features, and in death they were tight and pinched. He wore a white shirt without a tie and unbuttoned at the throat, and a heavy, fancy waistcoat of garish red that was tightly buttoned up the front with a row of large silver buttons. The center button was missing. In its place was a round hole where the. 38 bullet had entered his body. Around the hole was a wide stain of darker red. Slumped sideways out of the chair as he was, the white leather-cushioned back of the arm-chair showed another round hole where the bullet had come out of the body and entered the chair. Griggs said, “Right through the heart, it looks like. He probably died instantly.”