Бретт Холлидей - Murder in Haste

Kincaid thought a moment. “I remember the guys were saying it looked like a stand-in. But it’s stale by now. You couldn’t prove it by me.”

“You mean set up from the inside?”

“You know, Mike — where the inside man guarantees no trouble and takes the large end of the cut. I do remember we thought it was kind of fantastic that there wasn’t any hints around about who maybe did it. I don’t mean who actually, who maybe. Usually you run into all kinds of rumors, and the conclusion we came to was that this wasn’t a pro job at all, but some do-it-yourself guy with ambitions. Then they picked up Sam Harris, who didn’t go with that picture.”

“There wasn’t any mention of somebody named Fred Mil-burn?”

“Milburn?” Kincaid said, puzzled. “The one Milburn I know is very smalltime. A delicatessen man. He wouldn’t be robbing no banks.”

“Did he ever do any work for the Truckers?”

“I don’t follow, Mike. The guy’s an ordinary heister, in and out. I think I did hear, though, that he did a few stickups with Sam Harris. Are you trying to tell me that Painter and that carload of goons last night and a bank job three years ago are part of one and the same thing? Harry Plato’s no angel, and that’s putting it mildly, but he’s got sense enough to steer clear of robbing banks, for God’s sake. He makes a pretty good living out of robbing the union.” He added hastily, “Don’t quote me on that, either.”

“Nobody knows I even know you, Kinky, so stop shaking. Think about it, and see what you can turn up. Can you give me a description of the other two guys in the Chevy?”

Kinkaid thought for a moment. “Can’t help you there, Mike. Klipstone was the one I was trying to get hold of, and I only got this fast blur of the others. Sports shirts, no ties. But they gave you the impression you wouldn’t want to disagree with them because it wouldn’t be good for your teeth. I could probably pick them out of a line-up, but you know as well as I do that I’m not going to do any damn-fool thing like that.”

“You don’t think one of them was a Cuban? Or a husky kid, about a hundred and seventy, thick jowls, thick neck?”

“Sorry, Mike. No cigar.”

“You’ve given me something to think about, Kinky,” Shayne said slowly, “and I’ll make that a hundred instead of seventy-five. If you go out, leave word where I can reach you.”

“I’m sure as hell not going out till I get that hundred.”

Shayne laughed and hung up.

He waited a moment, thinking, his hand on the phone. It was too soon to ask Joe Wing to walk into the St. Albans ballroom and pick out Klipstone and the others. The identification was too shaky. One big trouble with this kind of information was that the source couldn’t be mentioned, if he wanted to go on getting information like it. If asked a direct question by someone in uniform, Kincaid would cheerfully swear on the Bible that he hadn’t been near the St. Albans lobby in weeks, and had never set eyes on Jack Klipstone in his life. Shayne still had some work to do before he could pass this on to the cops.

He found a Western Union office, where he put a hundred dollar bill in an envelope, addressed it to Kincaid at his hotel, and paid the messenger fee. Then he drove to the nursing home on the Beach, where he had arranged to meet Rose Heminway.

It was a rambling three-story building inside a tall spiked fence. It looked out over the lower bay, and was reached by a narrow shell road off West Avenue. Squire, the Beach detective who had been assigned to look after Mrs. Heminway, was rocking gently in a glider on the wide porch, half asleep.

He started to his feet as Shayne came up the steps. “Oh, you, Mike,” he said. “It’s been a long day. Do you think I could go home?”

“Why not ask Wing for relief?”

“What do you think I’ve been doing? I’ve been asking for relief all afternoon. But it seems we’re on emergency shifts, and if I fall asleep it’s just too damn bad.”

“Keep your eyes open,” Shayne said. “You want to find Painter, don’t you?”

“Oh, sure,” Squire said dryly.

Hearing voices, Rose came out from inside. She was wearing a simple pink dress with large buttons, and in spite of the dark shadows beneath her eyes, Shayne thought she looked as fresh as if she had just stepped out of a shower. He corrected himself hastily, remembering that morning. For one thing, she had more clothes on.

She put her hand on his arm. “Mike, you’re a comfortable sight. Detective Squire has been wonderful, but he’s getting a little drowsy. He was up all night, he tells me.”

“He’s not the only one,” Shayne said. Squire was looking at him hopefully, and Shayne said, “I’ll see what Wing thinks. I’m going to be with Mrs. Heminway for a while, and there’s no point in doubling up.”

Rose showed him a phone booth inside, and Shayne called Wing, who grudgingly gave permission for Squire to quit for the day. The detective left in a hurry before they could change their minds.

Rose indicated the glider. “Or we could walk down to the water, Mike.”

“Let’s walk,” Shayne said.

They started down the steps, and Shayne said, “Can your father move in any way? If you asked him a question, could he react enough to say yes or no?”

“Not now,” she said hopelessly. “I tried just that, as soon as he was able to move his right arm. But he can’t seem to communicate between his brain and his muscles. I’m convinced there’s no brain damage, no matter what the doctors say. I think he knows me part of the time. It’s terrible to see how he looks at me, as though he’s struggling to say something. What did you want to ask him?”

Shayne didn’t answer. They were walking down the long lawn toward a sandy beach. “Apparently you didn’t have any trouble with the Lüger this morning.”

“What do you mean, I didn’t have any trouble?” she said indignantly. “I finally worked myself up to pulling the trigger, and the wretched thing jumped right out of my hand. I mean it, that’s exactly what happened. It leaped up and went sailing over my shoulder. I only managed to fire the one shot, but you were right, the man outside was as nervous as I was. He didn’t wait to find out what had happened to his friend. The police must have passed him on the causeway. Did you find out where he went?”

“Yeah. I’ll get to that in a minute.”

“Mike, I thought I’d better say — I’ve been feeling embarrassed about the way I acted when you climbed in through the window.” She touched her face, which had reddened, and looked resolutely out across the water. “I thought you were — I know it was silly, and I don’t even know exactly what I’m trying to say now except that I hope you don’t think—” She broke off, flushing.

Shayne grinned. “You were very cute, as a matter of fact, and that’s enough of that, if we’re going to get anything done.”

She gave him a sidelong glance. “Yes, Mr. Shayne,” she murmured.

They came to a wooden bench at the edge of the grass and sat down.

“Quite a few things have happened since I saw you,” Shayne said. He offered her a cigarette and took one himself. “But first I’d like to ask you some questions. Don’t try to figure out why I’m asking. Just answer them as they come, and then we’ll see how they add up.”

His lighter flared between them. “That sounds sensible,” she said, breathing out smoke.

“To start with the robbery. Did you or your husband ever have anything to do, at any time, with either Sam Harris or Fred Milburn?”

She shook her head. “I can’t be positive about George, but I certainly never heard either name.”