Бретт Холлидей - Murder in Haste

He stirred uneasily. “I keep telling you I’m working on it.”

“I accepted that at first, but it’s just too vague, Peter. Never mind Norma. Never mind me. Think about Sam Harris in his condemned cell. Surely that same date is marked in red on his calendar, and every day it comes one day nearer.”

Painter half-emptied his glass and balanced it on his knee while he fished for his cigarette-holder and cigarettes. “I have other things to worry about besides how a condemned murderer is passing his time.”

She shook her head as he offered her the cigarettes. “But what if he’s innocent? What if something turns up six days from now to prove that Norma is right and the jury and everybody else was wrong? It won’t help Sam Harris, will it? And I testified against him. How do you think I’ll feel?”

“I’ve been in this business a good many years, Rose,” Painter said. “Why not accept the fact that I know what I’m doing?”

She shook her head. “I just can’t. Norma didn’t think we should give you even this long, but I talked her into it. Now she’s talked me into doing it her way.”

Painter fitted a cigarette into his holder and struck a match. “When are you staging this spectacular press conference?”

“She wanted to call it for tomorrow. I persuaded her to put it off a day, on one condition.”

“And what condition is that?” Painter said with a slight smile.

She smoothed the tight green material over her knee. “I can’t see why you could possibly object to this, but maybe you’ll think I ought to have consulted you first. I’m hiring a private detective.”

“You’re what?’

“And then if he hasn’t turned up anything in twenty-four hours, we’ll go ahead with the press conference and try to get a stay of execution on the grounds of new evidence. It may not work, but it can’t conceivably do any harm. Everybody says that Michael Shayne is the best man we could—”

“Shayne!” Painter cried in horror, and his knee jerked violently. His highball glass flew into the air and came down in his lap.

Rose leaped up. She gathered a handful of small cocktail napkins and thrust them at him. “That drink has been making me nervous. I knew something like that would happen.”

He mopped at his pants angrily. “Well, how did I know you were going to mention that bum?”

“I guess I should have asked your advice before I called him,” she said. “I take it you know him?”

“I know him, all right,” Painter said grimly.

“Give me your glass. I’ll make another drink.”

“No, never mind.” He picked up the spilled ice cubes, put them in his empty glass and set it back on the table. “How far has this gone? Have you paid him any money?”

“Not yet. He hasn’t agreed he’ll take the case, actually. I have a date to talk to him about it in the morning.”

“Good,” Painter said with relief. “Then it’s not too late to call it off. Take my advice, Rose. Don’t waste your money. You might as well drop it in a sewer, for all the good it’ll do you. I really have been working, no matter what Norma Harris thinks. Why hire somebody to go over the same ground?”

“But we don’t know what you’ve been doing, don’t you see? We can’t take it on faith any longer.”

“Well, you have to take it on faith.”

“Then I’m sorry,” she said stubbornly. “I made an agreement with Norma, and I’ll have to stick to it.”

Painter ran his fingers through his hair. “Go ahead. It’s your money. But if you won’t be happy unless you hire a private detective, for the love of God stay away from Michael Shayne. I’ll give you the name of a good man on the Beach. He has some competent people working for him, and what’s more important, he has the cooperation and confidence of the police authorities. Unlike Shayne, he keeps out of the headlines.”

“But what do you have against Michael Shayne, Peter?” she said, puzzled. “I checked quite carefully, I thought. All the people I talked to said he’s done some amazing things.”

“What have I got against—” Painter sputtered. “Oh, he’s done amazing things, all right. Nobody’s more amazed at the things he gets away with than I am. He’s made himself a career out of cutting corners, out of skating on thin ice, using extra-legal methods and flouting authority, undermining the public’s confidence in dedicated, hard-working officials who don’t do anything glamorous but simply plug away at their jobs year in, year out, for a coolie’s wage, not looking for glory or romance — and the bastard’s luck!” Painter exclaimed, almost incoherently. “The bastard’s blind, dumb luck is beyond belief! I’m asking you as a special favor — don’t go to Shayne. He’ll crucify me!”

“Crucify you, Peter? I don’t see what you’re getting so excited about. He hasn’t said he’ll do it.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Painter said bitterly. “Thanks to that fool luck of his, he’s got enough money so he doesn’t have to take on any new cases unless he wants to, but I think I can predict that he’ll fake this one! When he finds out that I’m involved, he’ll jump at it. Don’t you see? We’ve been carrying on a running battle over the years. I don’t maintain that this has been entirely Shayne’s fault.

“I’ll admit that where that son of a bitch is concerned, I have trouble controlling my temper. Excuse the language, Rose, but I can’t speak about that big red-headed slob in ordinary English. He hates my guts. I hate his. If he thinks he sees a chance to discredit me, to prove I’m trying to railroad an innocent man to his death, he won’t eat, he won’t sleep. Wait and see.”

“I’m sure he’s intelligent enough to know there’s no question of that , Peter.”

“Maybe. But in this day and age you don’t have to prove something if you repeat it often enough. Shayne has some close friends on the papers, and they’ll give him all the breaks. I know that man. He’ll throw mud at me with both hands, and maybe in the end he’ll succeed in convincing a few morons that the police work in the Harris case left something to be desired, and I’m trying to cover it up. Believe me, Rose, if you’re thinking about Harris, this is the worst possible thing you can do. Shayne would be so busy trying to build a case against me that he wouldn’t have time for anything else.”

“But — wouldn’t it amount to the same thing, Peter? I’m not trying to be sarcastic — I’d really like to know. If he actually has this terrific hostility against you, wouldn’t he try to show that Harris is innocent?”

Painter made a move to stand up. “It’s no use talking to you. Sam Harris is no damn good, and that’s all there is to it. Neither is his wife, and why a person like you should get so wrought up over that precious couple, I’ll never understand. You aren’t committed to Shayne. Let me give you this other name.”

She frowned. “No, Norma would never agree to that. She was dead set against the whole idea until I happened to mention Michael Shayne. Maybe she’s heard about this antipathy between you.”

Painter removed his carefully folded handkerchief and patted his mouth. “You’re forcing my hand, and I wish you’d have a little confidence in me and let me set my own schedule, but if you won’t, you won’t. Will you at least do this? Postpone your meeting with Shayne until the afternoon?”

She studied him. “But why?”

“I can’t tell you that. But I can promise you one thing. By noon tomorrow the whole question will be academic, and you can save yourself some money. You won’t need a private detective.”

“I don’t know why you have to make such a mystery of this,” she said. “But if you think it’s that important...”