Brett Halliday - Murder Is My Business

“I won’t promise anything. Turn your information over to me and I’ll use it as I see fit.”

“It’s here in my briefcase,” Lance muttered.

Shayne asked, “Is a Mexican girl named Marquita Morales mixed up in the deal?”

Lance looked surprised. “You do get around, don’t you?” he said. “I don’t think so — not knowingly, at least. I suspected her when I learned she helped soldiers get a change of clothes to cross the border in. But that’s only a small sideline of the ring.”

“Did you ever talk to Marquita about her mother?” Shayne asked.

“Her mother? I didn’t know she had a mother.” Lance got up and stood before Shayne to demand, “Come on — take me in. What are we waiting for? Carmela will be released as soon as I give myself up, won’t she?”

“As soon as your story is checked,” Shayne corrected him. He began pulling on his trousers. “I’ll go down to headquarters with you.”

Thirty minutes later they entered Chief Dyer’s office, to find him fuming over a news item which he held in his hand. “What’s this about Cochrane and the Towne girl?” he stormed at Shayne. “Why the devil didn’t you notify me last night? By God, I have to read the papers to find out what’s happening around here.”

“That’s a headache for the Juarez police,” Shayne reminded him. “Chief, this is Lance Bayliss. He’s giving himself up for the murder of Neil Cochrane. I’ll let you take care of getting him across the border where he belongs.”

Chief Dyer started barking astonished questions, and Lance Bayliss answered them firmly.

It was half an hour later before Shayne and the police chief were again alone in Dyer’s office. The chief fitted a cigarette into his long holder and tilted it between his teeth. “You’ve suspected this Bayliss fellow of having a hand in things all along,” he charged.

Shayne said, “He was in and out of it all the way. Frankly, I thought he might be mixed up in some Nazi spying activities.”

“There’s still a lot of his story not told,” Dyer said. “I figure he just came to the end of his rope on Cochrane and gave himself up to save the girl. We’ll sweat the rest of it out of him, all right.”

“He’s holding a lot back,” Shayne agreed. “By the way, I left the death gun with ballistics for a report last night. Has it come in?”

“Not yet. I don’t see that we need it now.”

Shayne said, “It might be important.” He changed the subject abruptly. “Ever hear of the Plata Azul mine in Mexico?”

Dyer nodded with a look of surprise. “One of Jeff Towne’s properties. A white elephant, from what I hear.”

“What do you hear?”

“The Free Press carried a write-up about it a month or so ago,” Dyer recalled. “Taking Towne to task for investing capital earned in this country in a worthless Mexican mine. Seems he’s a stubborn cuss and has been pouring money into it for ten years without getting anything out, installing a modern stamp mill and keeping a big crew at work without producing anything. Mining men are apt to be like that. Make a fortune out of one mine, and put it all back into another hole in the ground.”

“Where’s the Plata Azul located?” Shayne asked tensely.

“Chihuahua, I think. About a hundred miles northwest of Ojinaga.”

“How close to the border is that?”

“Not so far from the Big Bend. Queerest part of it, as the Free Press pointed out, is why an American wants to fool with looking for Mexican silver when our government pays a subsidy on American silver making it worth almost twice as much.”

Shayne settled back with a frown. “Say that again.”

“Sure.” Chief Dyer was relaxed and discursive, with Lance Bayliss safely in jail. “One of the New Deal boon-doggles still in effect. I think it was back in 1934 when they raised the price of raw domestic silver to about seventy cents, leaving the price of foreign stuff at thirty-five or thereabouts. It was a big help to the western miners even if the rest of the country did have to pay the difference out of tax money.”

“I don’t quite get it,” Shayne argued. “Do you mean our government pays more per ounce for silver mined in this country than if it comes from abroad?”

“That’s it. Every ounce that goes to the mint has to be accompanied by proof that it’s freshly mined, and of its source. Government investigators are on the job checking shipments all the time. Our department has cooperated in running down a couple of operators trying to slip Mexican silver across and pretend it was mined in this country.”

Shayne was sitting erect, listening alertly. He leaned back now and massaged his left earlobe between his fingers. His rugged features held a queer, brooding look of expectancy. Chief Dyer puffed on his cigarette and watched him for a moment, then asked, “Have you anything that ties Bayliss in with the other two deaths we’ve been investigating?”

“All of them have to tie together,” growled Shayne. “Find out why Cochrane was bumped, and you’ll have the answer to the other two.”

“Bayliss says-”

“He lies,” Shayne told him wearily. “He hadn’t seen Carmela Towne for ten years. He’s been around El Paso for weeks without getting in touch with her. He didn’t commit murder last night just because she was out with another man.”

“Why, then?”

Shayne wasn’t listening to him any longer. The brooding look went away from his face, and he became grim and alert. He muttered, “I’ve been wondering how I was going to earn my expenses up here — May I use your phone?” He reached for it without waiting for the chief to answer, called Jefferson Towne’s number.

The Mexican butler answered. Shayne asked for Towne, and waited. After a few moments, he said, “This is Mike Shayne, Towne. Have you heard the news?”

He lifted one eyebrow at Dyer as he listened for a moment, then he chuckled and explained, “Lance Bayliss has confessed using Carmela’s gun on Cochrane last night. That’s right. Thought you’d be interested.”

He listened a moment, and then his voice and expression hardened: “You’ve still got an election to win in two weeks. Remember what I told you last night? That you’d be glad to pay me my own price? This is it. Listen carefully, because I’m just going to say it once: I have in my possession information that will put both John Carter and Manny Holden behind bars if and when I turn it over to the Federal authorities. I’m the only man who has that dope or even knows about it. It’s the only thing that will beat Carter at the polls the way things stand now. If you don’t want to buy it, I’m sure Holden will.”

Pausing to listen, Shayne glanced across the desk at Dyer, who glared at him with amazement and anger ludicrously mingled on his naked face.

“That’s the way it stands,” Shayne said into the telephone. “How much is it worth to you for me to spring it before the election? Sure, it’s blackmail,” he chuckled. “You should be used to that by now. You paid Jack Barton ten grand to keep him quiet about something that would defeat you. Another ten grand won’t break you.”

He waited for a moment, then said harshly, “I don’t trust you either. This is going to be an open-and-shut sale, with everything on top of the table. I’ve got something you want to buy. I’ll sell it for ten G’s and let you look it over to satisfy yourself it’s the McCoy before you make payment.

“We’ll do it at your house in two hours,” he went on sharply. “I’m catching a plane to New Orleans at noon. Do we deal? Or do I have to sell it to Holden and Carter?” He listened again, then said, “Right. In two hours. Have the money ready.” He hung up, and grinned at Dyer. “Now you know how a private dick manages to earn a living in these hard times.”