Brett Halliday - Guilty as Hell

He grinned again, making one of his abrupt shifts. “But the junior-executive racket isn’t as bad as I expected. I’ve always wanted to be a writer. Dad gave me a year after college and I wrote a bunch of short stories. I sold a few. If you make the mistake of looking mildly interested, I’ll press copies on you. Maybe some day I’ll write about what goes on in the Despard administration building. The public would be amazed!”

“How long have you worked there, Forbes?”

“Two years. In my own opinion, I’m underpaid. I’m also not very good about making out personal budgets and crap like that, so I frequently find myself short of funds. I didn’t steal any formulas, however. Formulae. I know that for a fact, even if nobody else does, so I haven’t wasted any time investigating myself.”

He took a sip of coffee. “I’ve picked up a certain amount of gossip, which I hope I can use if I ever get around to writing that novel. I didn’t go hunting for it; it just drifted in. One of the first things I learned was that Hal Begley Associates isn’t listed in the Yellow Pages as a spy firm. Ostensibly they’re a chi-chi employment agency, handling nobody earning less than twenty thousand a year. Probably they even do some legitimate business along those lines, I don’t know.”

“Why not?” Shayne said. “That’s the easiest way to pick up industrial secrets-hire somebody who can carry them out in his head.”

“I hadn’t thought of it that way. What I’m getting around to, slowly, is that Walter Langhorne and the girl from the Begley firm were seen together at an art auction in Palm Beach.”

Shayne considered. “Has Langhorne said anything about changing jobs?”

“Mr. Shayne,” Forbes said anxiously, “I feel like a fink! He’s not only talked about changing jobs, he said something about tying up with United States Chemical, damn it! Naturally he told me in confidence, so if you use this, would you mind disguising where you got it? He’s a friend of mine. He’s easily the brightest man in the place.”

“And he’s still working there, which might mean that Candida tried and didn’t get him.”

“It might, or it might mean that he’s taking a postdated check. He cares what his friends think, and he wouldn’t want them to think he’s a thief. But I can’t believe it, Mr. Shayne. It’s perfectly true that he doesn’t think he owes his main loyalty to E. J. Despard and Co. But he’s one of the few people I know with any moral standards at all. There are more important things in Walter’s life than the quarterly dividends.”

A shotgun went off in the blind to their right. Glancing up, Shayne saw a single mallard almost directly overhead, climbing. He would have had a shot a second earlier, but it was too late now.

“And at that point,” Forbes said, “I decided I was no longer running this investigation. The last thing I could do is go up to Walter Langhorne and ask him to explain what he was doing in Palm Beach with the sinister Candida Morse.”

There was a hoarse, urgent shout. Shayne and Forbes looked at each other for an instant. Then Shayne whirled and stepped up out of the blind.

The senior Hallam burst from the adjoining blind, his crest of gray hair blowing in the wind. He had his tan hunting cap in his hand. He crunched it violently, threw it down in the reeds and banged his thigh with his fist.

Shayne splashed toward him. Hearing the sound, Hallam turned and waited. He was a short, plump man whose usual position was straight up and down, to get the maximum mileage out of his limited stature. He had a tight mouth, sharp, unfriendly eyes. Everything about his bearing showed that he wasn’t in the habit of losing, and if he did lose occasionally, he would do it without grace. Now he had suddenly changed roles. He was breathing as though he had climbed a long flight of stairs.

“There’s been a terrible accident,” he said in a strained voice as Shayne reached him.

He made a distracted gesture and pressed both clenched fists to his chest. Shayne stooped and looked into the blind.

Walter Langhorne lay on the muddy duckboards. A magnum charge of 4’s had caught him in the left cheekbone and there was nothing left of that side of his head.

An intelligent-looking Labrador retriever whimpered beside the body. One shotgun, a fine lightweight English weapon, hung from a nail at the back of the blind. Another, a full-choked 20-gauge, lay on the boards at Langhorne’s feet. Shayne’s quick scrutiny of the blind picked up one other object of interest-a silver pocket flask on the bench.

Forbes, at Shayne’s shoulder, made a sound as though he had been hit. Shayne turned back to the father. Hallam had dropped his hands and seemed to cringe away. A drop of saliva glistened at the corner of his mouth.

“How did it happen?” Shayne asked quietly.

“I don’t know.” Hallam stared at the water at his feet. “I just don’t know.”

He drew a long shuddering breath. His eyes started slowly up the redhead’s rangy body. When they met Shayne’s eyes he gave his head a short shake, as though awakening from a hard sleep.

The detective took out his pint of brandy. “Take some of this. You have to talk about it sooner or later. You might as well get it over with.”

Hallam went on shaking his head. His hand started up to take the bottle, but he dropped it again.

“No. If they smell it they’ll think I’m drunk. I’m cold sober. I drink very sparingly, Shayne. Four ounces of whiskey before dinner, sometimes a weak Scotch afterward. I never touch alcohol before lunch.”

“Then that’s Langhorne’s flask in there?”

Hallam blinked again and his back straightened. He was beginning to recover, though both fists were still clenched. His son was vomiting into the long reeds at the end of the blind.

“The flask,” Hallam said. “A silver flask. Yes, it’s Walter’s, of course. It cost a hundred and twenty-five dollars at Tiffany’s in New York. I happen to know. A hundred and twenty-five dollars!” He made a quick, convulsive motion. “Shayne, he just sat there drinking, making barbed remarks. I’ve known him since I was ten years old. Stop that!” he told his son sharply. “Or go farther away.”

His tall brother-in-law, Jose Despard, emerged from the next blind in the line. After a moment he came toward them, an awkward figure in too-large waders. Hallam scooped up a double handful of salt water and dashed it over his face. After doing this twice more, he straightened, dripping. This time he came back to his full height.

“Despard,” he called, “What’s the reason for the kaffeeklatsch? You people make one holy hell of a decoy. Especially you, Shayne, with that red hair.”

Hallam said steadily, in something approaching his usual tone, “I just shot Walter.”

“What?”

“The damn fool popped up in front of my gun.”

Despard looked blank. He swiveled from Hallam toward Shayne. The detective told him, “We’ll need the sheriff. Go in and phone.”

Despard looked back at Hallam. “You shot Walter?” he said stupidly. “Walter?” Suddenly his eyes sharpened. “What makes you think he’s the one? Have you gone out of your mind?”

“It was an accident,” Hallam said coldly. “Let’s everybody get that straight. Call the sheriff.”

After a moment, Despard turned and headed for the jeep. Shayne offered Hallam a cigarette. Again the older man shook his head. Forbes, at the end of the blind, came erect. He was pale and shaken.

“The sheriff knows me,” Hallam said. “His name’s Banghart. What’s his first name?” He thought for a moment. “Ollie Banghart. I think we put some money in his campaign last year. I’d give anything if this hadn’t happened. I was swinging on the duck. I was low to start with. Much too low. When the gun came around, there Walter was, falling toward me. It was too late to do anything.”