Бретт Холлидей - Murder in Haste

“I’m sorry.”

“Well, he’s seventy-six. This may sound cruel, but I can’t let him put pressure on me. He lies in bed and stares at me, willing me to do what he wants, but I can’t.”

“Did he tell you he was going to Painter before he went?”

“No, and it was the last thing in the world I expected him to do. The first thing I knew about it was when they called me. They got his name and address from his driver’s license. Mr. Shayne, you know Peter Painter better than I do. What do you think of Norma’s theory? That to protect his own reputation, he’d suppress evidence that would cost a man his life?”

Shayne shook his head soberly. “No. Painter wouldn’t do that. Is there more coffee?”

“Of course.”

She poured more coffee and added cognac. Shayne went on, “But what he’s perfectly capable of doing is keeping a piece of evidence in the safe until he can bring it out at the most favorable time, in terms of publicity. He doesn’t share your feelings about press conferences. He enjoys them.”

“And while he’s holding onto this evidence, it wouldn’t occur to him that a fellow human being is sitting in a condemned cell, counting the minutes?”

“No, that wouldn’t occur to him. He wouldn’t class an ex-con as a fellow human being, and that might include the ex-con’s wife. On the other hand, maybe the little so-and-so just took it into his head to get stubborn. He doesn’t like to be pushed, even by a good-looking widow.”

“Thank you, sir,” she said.

“You’re welcome. But he may have held off too long. It’s probably time to tell you that he’s missing.”

Her hand flew to her throat. “Oh, my God. Missing! You don’t mean he’s been — that anyone has—”

Shayne shook his head. “Things have to be serious before a cop is deliberately killed, especially when he’s a high cop like Painter. It makes for hard feelings. Of course a quarter of a million bucks is a serious sum of money.”

“You mean from the robbery?” she said, puzzled. “That’s one of Norma’s big points. If Sam has it hidden, why doesn’t he use some of it to hire a better lawyer? But doesn’t this — I know, it’s terrible and I certainly hope that nothing has happened to Mr. Painter, but doesn’t it show that the truth wasn’t brought out at Sam’s trial?”

“It probably shows that,” Shayne said. “It doesn’t mean that he’s innocent. I’ll need Norma Harris’s address, and the name of that lawyer. And while we’re on the subject of money, my secretary keeps telling me to be more businesslike, especially when she’s not around to handle it for me. I’ll charge you a hundred a day and expenses.”

“That’s fair enough.”

“And I have another incentive besides money. Life wouldn’t be the same without Peter Painter.”

“I thought you didn’t like him.”

Shayne’s eyebrows went up. “Did I say I liked him? I said life wouldn’t be the same without him.”

She laughed and offered him the coffee pot. When he shook his head she said, “It makes me feel hoggish, leaving your friends outside. If you still have a minute, why don’t I see if they’d like a cup of coffee and a roll?”

Shayne stopped with his hands on the edge of the table. “What friends?”

“Didn’t you bring two detectives with you?”

“Not that I know of. Don’t look out the window. Look at me. I didn’t spot them coming out, but they knew where they could find me. I can’t operate with cops on my tail, and they ought to know that by now. Can you get me a pocket mirror?”

“I think so.” She reached across to a sideboard and rummaged in a purse. “One of them walked past on the other side of the street a few minutes ago. Nobody out here gets up this early, as a rule, and if they do they don’t go out for an early morning walk. He got into a parked car down the street, and there’s another man in it.”

She found a mirror and passed it to him. He was looking out across the bay, his back to the street. He set the mirror on the table, careful to keep the sun from hitting it, and adjusted its angle so he could see the parked cars outside.

“Behind the yellow convertible,” she said. “Do you see it?”

“Don’t look at the street.”

He tilted the mirror and saw a black four-door sedan, probably a Ford. He smiled grimly. “If they want to find out where I’m going from here, I’m going to Beach headquarters. We’ll see what their boss has to say. Can you write down those addresses for me? And where will you be if I want to reach you later?”

“I’ll be here till the middle of the afternoon, when I go to the nursing home to see Father. I’ll put that phone number down, too.”

“Fine,” Shayne said. “Stay here at the table where they can see you. I’m going to give these boys a fast ride.”

She slid him a piece of paper, which he folded and put in his pocket. “I feel better about things, Mr. Shayne. Thanks.”

“Mike,” he said.

She smiled. “Mike.”

He pushed back his chair, moving slowly until he could no longer be seen from the street. An instant later he was out the front door. Cutting across the grass toward his Buick, he leaped in, hit the starter and went back fast. The crushed shells of the driveway spurted from beneath his rear wheels. He cramped the steering wheel sharply as he felt the pavement, reversed and shot forward. He watched the rear-view mirror. He had caught his two friends flat-footed. He went into the climbing turn to the causeway and the black sedan still hadn’t moved.

On the causeway he built his speed up rapidly. He slowed at the approaches to the toll station; he still hadn’t picked up the sedan in the mirror, and his smile was beginning to fade. He tossed a quarter into the basket, pulled past and stopped in the plaza beyond. When even now the sedan didn’t appear, he got out of the Buick and brushed past the toll-collector.

“Can I use your phone?” he said. “Emergency.”

“This is no phone booth, Jack,” the attendant said.

“It’s a local call. Will that cover it?”

He threw the attendant a dollar, which was promptly whisked out of sight. Shayne dialed a number and asked for Lieutenant Wing.

“Wing speaking,” a voice said a moment later.

“Shayne,” the redhead said abruptly. “You’re doing what I asked you not to, Joe. You’re crowding me.”

“What are you talking about, Mike?”

“Your two boys in the black Ford. I thought at first they were tailing me, but it seems you want somebody to ask Mrs. Heminway the same questions I asked her, to see if you get the same answers. I don’t like to be checked up on.”

“I still don’t know what you’re talking about. What two boys in what black Ford? I didn’t put anybody on you, Mike, and I didn’t send anybody to talk to Mrs. Heminway.”

There was a second’s pause. Wing said alertly, “Are you still on, Mike? Need some help?”

“I think so,” Shayne said slowly, pinching the lobe of his ear. “If we do this right, maybe we can find out something. Get a radio car up to 96th. They’d better hold up at the toll booths. If this black sedan comes through before I’m in position, tell them to grab it. It’s a four-door, I’d say two years old, and the first two numbers of the license are seven-three. A Florida tag. Keep the circuit open so they can shoot down to the Heminway house if I need them. Have you got that?”

“Got it, Mike.”

Shayne broke the connection, flipped through the book until he found Rose Heminway’s number, and dialed it.

“Mrs. Heminway,” he said when she answered. “Lock up all around and don’t let anybody in, no matter who it is. Do you understand that?”