Бретт Холлидей - Murder in Haste

“Yes, sir. Lieutenant Wing is waiting.”

“Send him in.”

The warden not only stood up for Wing, he shook hands. Wing shot Shayne a glance. The redhead said, “Did Petey say anything about getting out a warrant for somebody named Fred Milburn?”

“Not to me,” Wing said.

“It’s only verbal so far,” the warden said. “He didn’t want to go through all the rigamarole out of writing up a transfer. I gave him the release date, so he could make the arrest as the guy walked out. Sit down. What are you up to, Joe, if it’s not too inquisitive? I never thought I’d see the day when Painter’s lieutenants were going around checking up on him.”

Wing sat down around the corner from Shayne. “We seem to be setting precedents right and left. The fact is — well, we can’t keep it corked very much longer — the son of a bitch has disappeared.”

The warden stared. “Painter?”

“And let’s keep that between these four stone walls for the time being,” Wing said. “I still hope he’ll be at his desk when I get back, raising hell as usual. I hate to think of those headlines.”

“But disappeared?” the warden said. “He’s probably just gone underground. He was being very cloak-and-dagger when he was out here. I just about had to swear a blood oath before he’d even tell me who he wanted to see. A great man for that kind of stuff.”

“Could be,” Wing said. “And if he’s just off somewhere pretending to be Sherlock Holmes, he won’t like this a damn bit. But I’d look pretty dumb if there’s something serious wrong and I just sit back and manicure my fingernails, because I’m scared he’ll bawl me out.”

The warden’s eyes glinted. “I don’t care for Painter any more than the next man, but we don’t want anything serious to happen to him, do we?” He gave a surprising hoot of laughter, which made him seem more human. “I’ll be god-dammed.”

“And this is in confidence, right?”

“Absolutely,” the warden said heartily, but without convincing Shayne. Tim Rourke had probably ferreted out the story by this time anyway. The warden went on, “But when I think of how he ordered my secretary out and just about looked under the rug to be sure I hadn’t planted some pixie there to spy on him—”

“Did he bring a driver?” Shayne said.

“Now that you mention it, he didn’t. He came in a taxi. The city probably paid for it, but still.”

“He was only here once?” Wing said.

The warden nodded. “My secretary might remember what day it was, if it’s important. Last week some time. If he didn’t want people to notice him, he certainly didn’t succeed. He played hell with our routine. The men were eating their dinner, and of course Mr. Bigshot couldn’t wait till they were finished, so we could bring Milburn in without making a special thing of it. We had to haul him out of the mess-hall, and everybody watched him go. He’s got a habitual rap coming to him next, and you know that old prison superstition, that two-time losers are good pigeon material because they have more at stake.

“It’s more than a superstition,” Shayne said.

“That may be. We’ve been having some trouble about the chow lately — the papers haven’t got hold of it, thank God. Taking Milburn out of the mess-hall set off a little racket. Nothing serious, a little rattling of cups and silverware. It quieted down after we grabbed a few of the ringleaders, guys we’ve had our eye on for quite some time. The point I’m making, I didn’t have time to chaperone Painter. I left him with Milburn, and then I had my hands full. I guess he got what he came for, because when I saw him again he was beaming. He looked like the cat who swallowed — what was it, a canary?

“You know Painter. He made arrangements for picking up Milburn on his release date, and delivered some uncalled-for remarks about what would happen to me if I discharged the prisoner before Painter arrived to make the arrest. I’ve been in this business a long time, and nothing like that has ever happened, or ever will happen. So Painter’s in trouble, is he?” He smiled broadly. “Well, well. Excuse me. I’m laughing on the outside and crying on the inside.”

“Painter was beaming,” Shayne said. “What was the prisoner doing?”

“Hell, Shayne — I don’t have my people long enough so I can tell anything by how they look. And Painter was holding forth. I didn’t give Milburn any serious study.”

The door opened abruptly. Looking around, Shayne saw the secretary and a uniformed guard. The guard beckoned the warden outside with a quick twist of the head. The warden got up hurriedly. Shayne and Wing were right behind him.

“Real trouble this time,” the guard said.

Whirling, he set off at a half run. The others pounded after him. At the end of the corridor, they ran through a barred door that was standing open. At the next barred door the warden flung over his shoulder, “Not you, Shayne. Wait here.”

Shayne decided that he hadn’t heard him. The warden was in too much of a hurry to stop and make it stick.

They entered a busy shop. At long benches along one end of the room, a number of men wearing faded blue work clothes, with serial numbers stencilled above their breast pockets, were weaving cane seats for finished chairs. They seemed deeply absorbed in their work, so preoccupied with making the pattern come out right that they didn’t notice the warden’s party. At the lathes and drill-presses, other inmates were turning chair-legs and drilling holes for rungs, with the same seriousness and attention to detail.

The guard, walking rapidly, led the way between two long rows of busy lathes. There was a pleasant smell of sawdust and wood-chips. None of the prisoners looked around. They were as tense as if they had been shooting craps for large stakes. The guard stopped.

One of the workers had slumped against his machine. His head rested in a litter of chips and machine-oil. A chair-leg, mounted between centers, continued to revolve at high speed.

The warden pulled at his shoulder, and he came all the way back, his head rolling. The warden caught him under both arms. The front of his work clothes was soaked with blood, and the handle of one of the turning chisels protruded from his stomach beneath his breastbone. He was alive, but he was breathing harshly and desperately, and Shayne didn’t think he could live much longer.

No one had to identify this man for Shayne. The redhead knew it had to be Fred Milburn. He died on the oily floor before the prison doctor could reach him. He was a small, nondescript-appearing man, with a slight build, a thin face and what in life had probably been an unassuming manner. No doubt his manner changed when he had a gun in his hand.

One of the guards pulled a master switch cutting off the power to the machines. Another ordered the men to come to attention beside their benches. They stood up, one by one, without hurrying. They didn’t look at the guards or the dead man, and in fact didn’t appear to be looking at anything at all. Shayne recognized one or two, but they had pulled back behind an invisible curtain.

A bell clanged, and the prisoners turned at another command and walked off in single file. The warden frowned when he noticed Shayne.

“Goddammit, did I give you permission to come in here? This is great, just great. Nobody pays any attention to what I say in this place.”

The redhead stared down at Milburn, his eyes hooded. After a second he met the warden’s look.

“Fine. I’ve got other things to do.”

He started to turn, but the warden made a quick movement. “Oh, no, you don’t. You barged in here and asked to see one of my people, and before the message could get to him, he was stabbed. Now you think you can walk out without answering any questions? And tell your friends on the newspapers what happened? No, sir. It won’t be as easy to get out as it was to get in.”