Brett Halliday - Murder Spins the Wheel

“I never claimed to be a genius,” Waters said sullenly. “Harry!” he screamed. “Don’t!”

Harry had stopped listening. His head came forward with a snap. The. 45 was pointed at Waters’ chest, and with his last strength he tried to pull the trigger.

Waters recoiled against the desk, holding the yellow pad as though it could deflect a bullet. All at once Harry pitched out of the chair and the gun slithered across the carpet. Waters was on it in one catlike motion. Shayne came out of his chair like a released spring and caught his friend before he was all the way down.

Waters pointed the. 45 at him. “Now we work fast, Shayne.” He ripped the top sheet off the pad, thumbed his lighter with one hand and set fire to the partial confession. “We stick him in my car and dump him. There’s going to be no connection between him and me. Give me any trouble and you’re going to be lying right there beside him.” His voice was high and hysterical, but the. 45 in his fist didn’t waver. “In fact, you know too damn much about that heroin, and I think I’d better-”

Shayne interrupted, “Doc, we just agreed that thinking isn’t the thing you do best.” He picked up Harry, one arm under his shoulders and one under his knees. “Haven’t you realized yet that I’m the one person who can get you out of this?”

“Shayne, damn it,” Waters said in a complaining voice, “I was asleep when he started slapping me in the face with that. 45. I don’t know what’s what any more.”

He looked at the unconscious gambler with something approaching affection. “This is the way he used to be. When he was younger he was a real bulldozer. I didn’t think he still had it. How about getting all the way back from New York, when you wouldn’t think he could make it around the block? You know what he was going to do when you walked in? Get my confession, shoot me and put the gun in my hand. Yeah! I could see it in his eye.-Now let’s get him out of here.”

Shayne carried Harry Bass to the front porch. Waters opened the screen door for him, sending agonized glances into the darkness. He overtook Shayne at the top step and nudged him with the. 45.

“I’ll get the garage doors open. We’re going to be working together, right? We’ve got a lot of picking up to do.”

Harry’s unconscious body was beginning to slip in Shayne’s arms. Shayne grunted and shifted his hold.

“He’s heavier than he looks. Damn it, give me a hand before I drop him.”

They were halfway down the steps. Waters caught Harry’s body as it got away from Shayne. The redhead’s hand came up from underneath, closed on the. 45 and wrenched it away. Then he eased Harry down onto the steps.

“Goddamn you, Shayne!” Waters exclaimed. “What are you shooting for here, that two hundred G’s?”

“I hope I’ll collect a fee,” Shayne said, “but Harry’s going to need the rest for legal expenses. If you’re not the one who planted the drugs in Harry’s coat, who did?”

“Why ask me? Maybe Vince Donahue. And how will you prove it?”

A voice said sharply, “Drop the gun, Shayne!”

Shayne opened his hand and the. 45 fell to the porch steps. He grinned bleakly.

“What’s been keeping you guys?”

A powerful flashlight came on, stabbing at Waters. “Cool it, Doc,” the same voice said as Waters came about, crouching.

Waters bunked in the powerful beam. “Who said I’m going anywhere? You want Harry Bass, right? Here he is.”

Two men in dark tropical suits came around a bush, ten yards away. Painter and Sanderson followed. All four were holding drawn guns.

Painter danced up to Shayne. “Did you go off the deep end this time! You don’t give aid and comfort to a fugitive from justice around here and get away with it! I’m going to nail you for conspiracy.”

“I doubt it, Petey,” Shayne said calmly, and looked at the two men in dark suits. “Which one do I talk to?”

The larger of the men, with a tanned face and a fair mustache, said, “I’m Nate Williams, Treasury Department. You can talk to me.”

“You saw him, didn’t you?” Painter said. “Helping his dear friend and buddy to escape. Don’t try to deny it, Shayne. I’ve got two outside witnesses this time.”

“All Harry did was hit a cop with an ashtray,” Shayne said. “To me that’s only a misdemeanor. It was a piece of bad luck that the cop died.”

“You heard what he said, I hope,” Painter said excitedly. “These men are narcotics agents. Harry Bass wasn’t transporting heroin from Miami to New York, I suppose. You’re not up on the late news, Shayne. They caught him red-handed!”

The second Treasury agent stooped over Harry. “This man needs an ambulance, Nate. He doesn’t look too good. I’ll phone from inside.”

“You can have Bass,” Painter said. “He’s all yours. Shayne is the one I want. It gives me great pleasure,” he said, looking up maliciously at his redheaded enemy, “to put you under arrest for accessory after the fact. Sanderson, put the cuffs on him.”

A car Shayne recognized as Tim Rourke’s turned in from the shore drive. It was hailed at once by two Treasury agents. After a moment it proceeded slowly up the driveway, the two agents walking alongside.

Shayne said, “I told a few people to meet me here. If you can get Petey to calm down for a minute, Williams, we can clear the air while we’re waiting for the ambulance. Harry won’t be hitting any more cops tonight.”

“You seem to think you’re in charge,” Painter said. “Let me tell you, you’re not.”

“I’ve heard Shayne gets results,” Williams said to Painter.

“Results!” Painter howled. “By blackmail and stunts and intimidation and pure stupid luck! And because people like you are willing to play footsie with him instead of putting him in jail where he belongs!”

“You don’t seem to like Shayne much,” Williams remarked dryly. “If we all try hard, maybe we can keep personal feelings out of this. I’m interested in pinching off this heroin pipeline before it gets into production, and I should think you would be too, Chief.”

Painter was momentarily silenced, and Shayne put in, “There isn’t any heroin pipeline. This was a one-shot deal. The aim of the whole thing was to get Harry Bass. It worked.” He looked down at his friend. If he lived, he would have to stand trial for killing a peace officer in front of two witnesses, a crime still subject to the death penalty in New York. He looked up and forced himself to say in a businesslike tone, “It would help if you’d send a man to pick up a white Alfa-Romeo, over on La Gorce, beside Brevity Lane. The keys are in it. That’s the car they used to smuggle the stuff in.”

After getting instructions from Williams, the two agents who had come up the drive with Rourke turned around and trotted away. Rourke left his headlights on, to light up the group on the steps and the gravel.

“This is the kind of spirit I like to see,” he exclaimed, coming out of his car. “Peter Painter breathing fire, with his gun showing.”

Sanderson sheepishly began to put his gun away, but Painter snarled, “Keep it out. Keep your eye on Shayne. He has something up his sleeve.”

Steve Bass ran up the steps and knelt beside his father’s body. “He’s been hurt! He needs a doctor! Did anybody send for a doctor?”

“He’s had a hard time,” Shayne told him, “but it’s nearly over. We’re getting an ambulance.”

Steve turned back to Rourke’s car. “Betty, come on out,” he called. “This is Mike Shayne. Tell him what you told me about Vince.”

Betty opened the door herself, but tripped coming out and ended up in Painter’s arms. The little man, embarrassed, tried to pass her on to Sanderson, who was looking another way. Finally Painter leaned her against Rourke’s front fender. She looked up with admiration at the big redhead, on the steps above her.