Brett Halliday: Murder Is My Business

Dyer removed the cigarette holder from his mouth slowly. “Do you think it was planted there? So he would run over it and think he killed him?”

Shayne shrugged. “It pretty well knocks his chance of being elected mayor.”

Dyer’s fist pounded his desk. “With the Free Press backing Carter — and with Manny Holden making book on the election with even money against Towne — by God, Shayne, you may have it.”

“Manny Holden?”

“A leftover from Prohibition,” Dyer grunted sourly. “He’s slippery as hell and back of most of our rackets. It’d be worth plenty to him for Carter’s crowd to get control of the city machinery.

“It’s a thought,” Shayne told him cheerily. He got up and pushed his chair back. “Towne ought to be grateful to me for pushing an autopsy. It’ll clear his conscience of the boy’s death.”

“He’s going to hate your guts for it,” Dyer growled. “Don’t you see this is just what the Free Press hinted at this morning — what Neil Cochrane was preparing their readers for? Everyone will suspect it’s the old cover-up.”

“That’s something else I’d inquire into,” Shayne said breezily, turning toward the door. “How Cochrane guessed an autopsy would turn out as it did.”

“Do you think Cochrane was in on it?”

Shayne said, “I’m just leaving you a few ideas to play with. Right now I’m looking for a client with a bankroll.” He went out and closed the door firmly behind him.

A taxi took Shayne to Jefferson Towne’s house on Austin Terrace, located in an exclusive residential section on the slope of Mount Franklin above the city. The address was not the same Shayne had known ten years before. At that time, Towne and his daughter lived in a modest five-room bungalow in Five Points.

His present residence was neither bungalow nor modest. Shayne sat up straight, and a grim smile tightened his wide mouth when the taxi turned under a high marble archway onto a curving concrete drive and circled across a terraced lawn to pull up in front of an ugly, three-story, turreted pile of stone.

Shayne got out, said to the driver, “You’d better wait. I don’t think I’ll be very long.” He went up marble steps to a pair of heavy oak doors and put his finger to the electric button.

The left-hand door opened inward and a frock-coated Mexican stood stiffly at attention looking impassively at Shayne. He had a figure like Joe Louis, with the piercing black eyes and high, swarthy cheekbones of an Indian.

Shayne said, “I think Jefferson Towne expects me.”

The Mexican inclined his head and turned and marched down a vaulted hallway with frescoed walls and a thick red carpet underfoot.

It was cold inside the big stone house, and there was an echoing, lonely silence about the hallway. Shayne’s big shoes sank softly into the carpet as he followed at the man’s heels. The Mexican stopped in front of open sliding doors and said gutturally, “Mr. Towne in here.”

It was the library. Shayne could tell that by the rows of books along two walls. It had a low, beamed ceiling and the woodwork was dark walnut. There were dark leather chairs and smoking stands and a fireplace of Aztec tile at the far end of the room.

Jefferson Towne stood in front of the fireplace, with his legs widely spread and his hands clasped behind him. He was a big man, with a rangy frame that didn’t carry any spare flesh even now after years of soft living. A man of heavy bones and whipcord muscles, seasoned by the Texas wind and the border sun. Tanned skin was tightly drawn on prominent cheek and jawbones, making his face a series of harsh contours. He had been a mule skinner and a prospector in his young days, and the look of those earlier days still clung to him.

He said nothing and made no move as Shayne walked toward him. He waited until the detective was ten feet away before saying harshly, “I thought you’d be out to see me.”

Shayne said, “I’m glad I didn’t disappoint you.” He stood for a moment eyeing Towne levelly, and neither of them made any motion to shake hands. Shayne lifted his left shoulder in an almost imperceptible shrug, and turned aside to sit in a leather upholstered chair. Towne didn’t move from his position on the tiled hearth.

Shayne said, “It looks as though you’ve got yourself into a mess.”

“I didn’t send for you.”

Shayne lit a cigarette and grinned up at the big man. “I figured maybe you didn’t know how to reach me.”

“You had no right to tell Dyer you were acting for me. Demanding an autopsy of all the damn-fool things.”

“I didn’t tell Dyer I was acting for you.”

“You gave him to understand I had retained you,” Towne growled.

“He probably wouldn’t have ordered the autopsy if he hadn’t thought that,” Shayne agreed tranquilly.

“Do you realize what you’ve done by your interference? You’ve given the impression that it’s something more than a mere traffic accident. People know that a man of your reputation isn’t called in on a case unless it’s pretty desperate.”

Shayne said mockingly, “That’s too bad. I should be ashamed of having such a reputation.”

Towne’s dark eyes glittered angrily. “The whole thing would have died a natural death if you’d stayed out of it.”

“I thought an autopsy was a good idea,” Shayne murmured. “If we can find some evidence that the man was dead before your car struck him — raise a reasonable doubt-”

“But damn it, that’s the worst thing possible under the circumstances!” Towne exploded. “Read last night’s Free Press and you’ll see what I mean. Your guns are spiked before you get started. Any testimony of that sort will be regarded as whitewash. Every voter will believe the medical examiner was bribed.”

Shayne said, “I read last night’s Free Press.”

“Then you know how things stand. The best thing you can do is to get out of town and leave it alone.”

Shayne said, “I was never paid a fee to stay off a case, but-” He shrugged and let the implication lie there before Towne.

“How much?” asked Towne bitterly.

“I don’t know whether we can hush up the autopsy now,” mused Shayne, frowning down at his cigarette. “With Dyer and Doctor Thompson both.”

“What’s that?” demanded Towne. “I told Dyer last night there wouldn’t be an autopsy.”

“He must have misunderstood you.”

“Are you telling me it’s already been made?”

“Why, yes.” Shayne looked up in surprise. “And it clears you, Towne. The soldier was dead before you ran over him.”

“No one will believe that,” Towne snorted. “The Free Press will howl bribery and corruption. Of all the asinine stunts! If you’d deliberately planned to lose me the election, Shayne, you couldn’t have done worse.”

“The man was obviously murdered,” Shayne told him dispassionately. “You wouldn’t want to cover up murder, would you?”

“What the hell do I care how the soldier died?” raged Towne. “He’s dead. All the autopsies in the world won’t bring him back to life. No one even knows who he was, it seems. Probably enlisted under an alias to hide a criminal record. Lord, the Free Press will be saying next that I murdered him.”

“So you do need me,” Shayne pointed out happily. “The only way now is to find out who did murder him. You’re lucky I’m available for a modest fee.”

“Lucky!” roared Towne. “By God, Shayne, I get it now! You planned it this way. You fixed that autopsy to make it appear the man was murdered and force me into a corner where I’d have to hire you to solve a crime that was never committed. I’ll see you in hell first.”

“You have a filthy mind,” Shayne reproved him.