Бретт Холлидей - Murder in Haste

“Have you got some for me?” Shayne said, looking past him into the bedroom.

“I’ll always find a spot for a good man. Who’s this friend you’re looking for?”

“Al Cole,” Shayne said.

There was no visible reaction among the four men, but Shayne thought they were being too careful not to look at him. He went on, “But I shouldn’t have said he was a friend. The last I heard, he was lugging a gun around Baltimore. I can see I’ve got the wrong room. See you around, Harry.”

“I’ll be here all week,” Plato said heartily. “Drop in and I’ll buy you a drink. And if I can assist you with anything, anything at all, just say the word, Mike.”

“I’ll do that, Harry,” Shayne said, stepping back. “While I’m here, mind if I use your bathroom?”

Plato moved to intercept him, and his hand closed on Shayne’s arm. “Be my guest. But now I remember something else about you, Mike. You never refused a drink, no matter if it was before breakfast or what. Whizzer,” he said to the bald man who had blocked Shayne when he came into the room. “Get my pal here a little of that hundred-proof medicine in a tall glass without much water.”

“Some other time, Harry,” Shayne said, looking down at the fingers wrapped around his arm. “And if you’re remembering things about me, maybe you remember I don’t like to be handled.”

“Now,” Plato said. “Don’t get offended so easy, Mike. This is one of those habits with me. I see somebody I like, I just sort of naturally grab hold.”

He let go. Shayne went into the empty bedroom. The bathroom was also empty, but there was a door from the bedroom to the corridor, and by now the Cuban had had plenty of time to use it. The redhead returned to the sitting room. Plato came to the door with him.

“Sure you won’t change your mind and have that drink?”

“Yeah,” Shayne growled. “How long have you been down in Miami?”

“Couple of days.” He groaned and clasped his head. “It’s a rat race, Mike, and I’m getting out of it. Did you hear that yet?”

“Out of the union?”

Plato laughed, and barely kept himself from slapping Shayne’s shoulder. “I’m not a rich man, for God’s sake. Can I retire at my age? I’m running for top dog in the Welfare Fund, and I can’t see any reason why I shouldn’t get it. I’ve had enough of this president merry-go-round. The headaches! You wouldn’t believe it if I told you. This is one tough outfit, Mike, and I want to tell you it’s like trying to stay on a pair of waterskis when you’re tied to three different boats. I’ve aged in this office. I don’t know if you noticed?”

He looked at Shayne hopefully, expecting to be told that he looked as young as ever. Shayne said bluntly, “I hardly recognized you, Harry.”

“Oh,” Plato said, disappointed. “Well, is it so surprising? Those newspaper jerks. You’d think I was Al Capone, Jr., or somebody. And those Senators! Who are they, God Almighty? Two years is about all I can take.”

He followed Shayne to the corridor, where he looked around carefully and lowered his voice. “What are you looking for Cole for?” he said in a serious tone, with none of his earlier false joviality. “And how come up here?”

“I thought I saw him,” Shayne said. “He was with a dark-haired guy, a little mustache, maybe a Cuban. He went into one of the rooms along here.”

“Is this — well, frankly, I’d appreciate it a lot if you’d tell me, because the beanballs they keep throwing at me, I’ve got to be ready to bail out. Is it union business?”

“Not as far as I know, Harry. But he belongs to one of your Baltimore locals, and it’s lousy public relations to have people at your convention carrying Lügers. It gives the public the wrong idea.”

“Well, if Cole is carrying a gun,” Plato said carefully, “and I don’t know why the hell he should be, he probably has a permit.”

“Maybe in Baltimore,” Shayne said. “Not in Miami. And they don’t give out permits for silencers, even in Baltimore. But don’t worry about it, Harry. I took it away from him.”

The marks on Plato’s face deepened. “Don’t worry about it! I’m worrying about it, don’t worry. This kind of headline is all we need.” He lowered his voice still further. “Did anybody get shot with it?”

“Luckily, no,” Shayne said. “When you say you’ve been having trouble, have you had any with Peter Painter?”

“With who?”

“Painter, Chief-of-Detectives here on the Beach.”

“Oh, yeah, he’s the guy you keep having those run-ins with. I read about it somewhere. No, I haven’t been bothered by any of the local cops this trip, knock on wood. Do you want to tell me why you ask that question?”

“I don’t think so, Harry. When’s the convention start?”

“We come to order at—” He looked at his big watch, from which, if he wished, he could also learn the day and the date. “Jesus, we came to order fifteen minutes ago. I ought to get down there, not that much happens today. Tomorrow’s our big day, elections. Now I’ve got to operate, Mike. I’ve got a screwy feeling, and I wish I didn’t have it, that you and I are going to be in touch.”

He was about to open the door when Tim Rourke came charging up the corridor, calling, “Harry! Mr. Plato!”

To his friend Michael Shayne, Rourke looked as though he had just crawled out of a compost heap. He was never exactly dapper but today his clothes had a slept-in look, which was probably deserved. His eyes were being held open with difficulty. His long bony fingers trembled. His face was the color of ashes, and his voice came out in a hoarse croak.

Harry Plato looked at him in disgust. “What do you want?”

“Give me a minute, give me a minute,” Rourke said. “Collect my thoughts. And as for you , Mike. That’s kind of a high point, giving a guy as a character reference at four in the morning.”

“Five,” Shayne said, grinning.

Plato looked from the reporter to Shayne. “You know this poison-pen artist, Mike?”

“Don’t call me names,” Rourke begged. “Usually I just shrug it off, but I’m not up to witty repartee this morning. Harry, what’s this about you and Luke Quinn? I hear he’s supporting somebody else for the big money job.”

“Wait till the votes are counted,” Plato said coldly.

“Do you want me to quote you that there’s nothing to it?”

“I don’t want to say a goddam word to you, jerk,” Plato said.

He stalked back into the room and slammed the door. Rourke winced at the sound.

“Why does everybody have to shout?” he said.

“I thought you’d report sick this morning,” Shayne said. “But here you are, bright and cheerful, hard at work as usual.”

“Don’t give me that, you bastard. What about this four-in-the-morning jazz? When somebody calls up and says a friend of mine claims he spent the night at my place, naturally I’ll back him up: I expect him to do the same for me. But what was so goddam urgent it couldn’t wait till a decent hour?”

“Tim,” Shayne said patiently, “nobody was asking you to perjure yourself. I did spend the night at your place, or most of it. We played poker, remember?”

“Sure we played poker. But if you think I can tell you who was there most of the time, you’ve got the wrong idea about the evening, kid. Hold it. Don’t disappear. It’s important.”

He walked away from Shayne, slipping between two knots of Trucker delegates, and cut off a tall, ruddy-faced man of about thirty-five, who was too well dressed to be anything but a union official. He wore dark-rimmed glasses, a preoccupied expression, and a conservative suit with a small stripe, which Shayne guessed had retailed at several hundred dollars. His breast pocket handkerchief was carefully folded.