Brett Halliday: Murder Is My Business

On a late fall day in 1944 Michael Shayne was slouched in his swivel chair half asleep when his secretary quietly opened the door to his private office and stepped inside. A felt hat was tipped forward, the brim shading his eyes, and his big feet rested comfortably on his scarred oak desk.

Lucy Hamilton closed the door firmly and advanced toward him. Shayne roused, cocked a shaggy red eyebrow upward, and muttered, “Go away.”

Lucy was slim and straight and supple. She had clear brown eyes and a sweetly rounded face with a firm chin. She said, “No wonder you don’t get ahead in this competitive world. There’s a client outside.”

Shayne yawned and stretched his long arms, then opened both eyes. “I was dreaming,” he said accusingly. “A damned nice dream. And then I saw you standing there. Is the door locked?” He swung his feet down purposefully and started to get up.

Lucy backed away from him. She said, “I never lock the door when I come in here,” with crisp dignity. “Shall I send the lady in?”

Shayne scowled and sank back into the creaking swivel chair. “Is she pretty?”

“No. She’s a little old lady.”

“Money?”

“I’m afraid not. But she’s terribly worried about her boy.”

Shayne said, “Nuts.” His scowl deepened. He pulled off his limp felt hat and sailed it across the room, where it landed on top of a steel filing cabinet. He ran knobby fingers through his bristly red hair and growled, “Why do I always have to draw old ladies without any money? If you were the right kind of secretary-”

Lucy Hamilton had her hand on the doorknob. She opened the door and said, “Mr. Shayne will be pleased to see you, Mrs. Delray.” She stood aside to let the little old lady enter the office.

Mrs. Delray was shrunken and brisk. She wore a voluminous black silk dress that reached almost to her ankles, and an outmoded black hat flared up and away from her wrinkled face. She had a sweet smile and an air of quiet dignity that brought Shayne up from his chair. He said, “I’m sorry my secretary kept you waiting, Mrs. Delray. If you’ll take this chair-”

Mrs. Delray perched herself on the edge of a wooden chair beside Shayne’s desk. The tips of her black, substantial shoes barely touched the floor. “Captain Denton recommended you, Mr. Shayne,” she began at once. “He said I should see a private detective and you were the cheapest one in New Orleans. You see, I haven’t very much money to spend.” She spoke briskly, leaning toward him, her black eyes bright and expectant.

Shayne slid into his chair and folded his arms on the desk. He said, “Captain Denton, eh?” without enthusiasm. “Is he a friend of yours, Mrs. Delray?”

“Oh — no. I don’t know any policemen. I went to his office for help, but it seems that policemen aren’t interested in helping a taxpayer. He said I’d have to hire a private detective and he hustled me right out of his office.”

“Why do you need a detective?” he asked with gentle restraint.

“It’s about my boy, Jimmie. He’s a good boy and he’s not a draft-dodger, Mr. Shayne.” Her voice trembled with eagerness to be believed. She fumbled with the clasp of a large, worn pocketbook and drew out an envelope. She offered it to Shayne, explaining, “This is a letter I got from Jimmie this morning. You can see he’s as patriotic as anybody even if he didn’t ever register for the draft like it seems he should have.”

Shayne took the envelope and pulled out two folded sheets of USO writing paper covered on both sides with penciled words. He settled back and read:

Dear Ma Here I am back in the U.S.A. after five years. A lot of things have happened since I wrote to you a couple of months ago. I haven’t got time to tell you all of them, but it looks like I am going to get a chance to make up for staying out of the War all this time while I was working in Mexico.

Like I told you before, I didn’t know I was supposed to register for the draft while I was in Mexico, and when I found out about the law last year I was afraid to on account of I thought they might arrest me for a draft-dodger.

But I felt guilty about it and finally couldn’t stand it any longer and came back to El Paso. And then a funny thing happened, Ma. It’s like in a storybook. I met up with a man and got to talking to him and he said why didn’t I go to the Army and tell them the truth about being in Mexico all this time and ask to enlist, only not under my real name on account of it might cause trouble for you and because there’s big things happening here and they need me for sort of undercover snooping because I can talk Mexican good and ain’t enlisted under my real name and all that.

I can’t tell you any more about it, Ma, because I don’t know much more, but it’s some sort of spy ring and it’s awful exciting and maybe I’ll be a hero after all.

So when you write to me address your letters to Private James Brown at the above address and don’t worry about it being anything wrong on account of I think you’ll be proud of me when it’s all over.

I’ve got a pass to go into town this afternoon and meet this man and find out more about it.

I will close in haste.

Your loving son, Jim.

Mrs. Delray watched him eagerly. She said, “You can see for yourself, Mr. Shayne, Jimmie’s wanting to do the right thing.”

He muttered, “Yeah,” absently. His right thumb and forefinger gently massaged his left earlobe as he frowned at Jim Delray’s letter, his gray eyes brooding upon the penciled sheets.

Carefully refolding it and replacing it in the envelope, he looked up to meet the mother’s bright eyes. He shrugged his wide shoulders and said, “I don’t see why you need a detective, Mrs. Delray. If you want to take this up with anyone, I suggest you go to the FBI.”

Fear clouded her lined face. “I’m afraid to,” she confessed. “I don’t know what they might do to Jimmie when they find out he was working in Mexico for five years and didn’t ever even register for the draft like the law says. And now he’s gone and enlisted under a false name and all-” Her voice trembled and there were tears in her eyes, but she lifted her chin proudly. “Not that my Jimmie would do anything wrong, Mr. Shayne. He’s a good boy and he’s been that worried about not getting registered.”

“What sort of work was he doing in Mexico?” Shayne asked idly.

“Driving a truck for a mine, the Plata Azul mine, they call it. But he really didn’t know about the draft until last year.”

Shayne lit a cigarette and suggested, “Why not let things go along as they are? If your son has actually got on to some sort of spy ring in El Paso and if he succeeds in exposing them, I’m certain the government will forgive him for enlisting under a false name.”

“But that isn’t all of it,” she said hastily, fumbling in her purse again. She brought out a clipping torn from a local newspaper and passed it to Shayne.

“Right after getting Jimmie’s letter this morning I happened to see this in the paper. It’s — well — you can read it for yourself.” There was a queer urgency in her old voice, a sort of harsh vibrancy that was at the same time proud and pleading.

It was an AP dispatch, datelined the preceding day from El Paso, Texas. It stated that Private James Brown, a recent recruit at Fort Bliss, had died that afternoon in an auto-pedestrian accident, receiving injuries that were instantly fatal underneath the wheels of a limousine owned and driven by Mr. Jefferson Towne, local smelter magnate and candidate for the mayoralty of El Paso on a Citizen’s Reform ticket.

Details of the accident were vague in the brief account, but it was assumed that the soldier had stumbled or fallen into the path of the oncoming limousine; and Mr. Towne’s humanity and citizenship were lauded due to the fact that though there were no witnesses, the candidate stopped immediately and rendered what assistance he could and then made a prompt and full report to the authorities despite the fact that such action might prove detrimental to his political aspirations.