Бретт Холлидей - Murder in Haste

Rose and most of the patients had gone back to bed and things were beginning to quiet down. The night had four hours to run and Michael Shayne was feeling the pressure. He was pacing restlessly up and down the porch when a car drove up to the front steps and Tim Rourke piled out. His face was puffy with lack of sleep, and he hadn’t taken the time or trouble to button all the buttons of his shirt His skinny chest could be seen through the gaps. He ran his fingers through his hair, which was all the maintenance he usually gave it.

“Hey, Mike,” he said. “You look grisly. Fighting again?”

“You should see the other guy,” Shayne said sourly. “Not a mark on him.”

“You had an explosion out here, they tell me.”

“Second floor,” the redhead said briefly. “You can’t miss it.”

“Don’t go anywhere, Mike. Any chance of a drink in this place?”

“I had a bottle of cognac upstairs,” Shayne said. “But I don’t think there’s much left of either the cognac or the bottle.”

“There must be a doctor around. This is a nursing home, isn’t it? I’ll hit him for some prescription stuff.”

Shayne went on pacing while Rourke visited the scene of the explosion and phoned his paper. He came out fifteen minutes later, an unlighted cigarette dangling from his lips.

“This quack they have here doesn’t think he’d advise a drink. Let’s go to my place, Mike. I keep a couple of pints in the bottom of the laundry hamper, for emergencies.”

“Later,” Shayne said.

“Later! Two nights in a row is a little too much. I’m an old man. I get tired.”

“Sit down,” Shayne said.

Something in his friend’s tone seemed to surprise Rourke; he sat down obediently in one of the wicker rocking chairs. Shayne planted himself on the broad porch railing.

“I’ve picked up a few things,” Shayne said, “but there’s still a long way to go. You said something this morning — no, hell, yesterday morning — that might ring a loud bell if I could only remember what it was.”

Rourke scowled. “That’s about the vaguest remark I ever heard from you.”

“I know it’s vague!” Shayne said angrily. “But let’s see if we can find it. I think it was when we were talking about the Truckers’ election. Anything new on that?”

“They’ve been wheeling and dealing all day,” Rourke said, lighting his cigarette. “They pulled me off the story to cover a knifing in the county jail. And I understand you were on the premises at the time, far too busy to put in a phone call to your old pal Tim Rourke. I’m not complaining. I’m not asking questions. I’m just touching lightly on one of those areas where the press would like a little explanation.”

“Keep your mind on the union election. Does Plato still look good for the Welfare Fund?”

“The last I heard. There’s a bunch of sub-bosses who’d like to dump him because he’s been getting such lousy publicity, but they don’t have a chance unless they can get Quinn to go along. My informants tell me he’s been getting some handsome offers, but he’s still in Plato’s corner.”

“Baltimore. That’s come up a couple of times now. Are the Baltimore delegates part of any faction?”

“I’d have to ask. It’s part of the Eastern district, and that’s Quinn’s. But Plato’s got strength all over the country. He’s in Washington a lot of the time, which isn’t far from Baltimore.”

“This goon named Al Cole, the boy with the Lüger. Does he fit anywhere?”

“That was attempted murder, Mike. I’ve got a couple of cooperative sources in the union, but they don’t talk to reporters about things like that.”

“The guy who tossed the bomb upstairs was wearing a skin-diver’s outfit. You’ve probably read the biographies of all the top men. Do you remember anybody with that kind of hobby?”

“Not offhand. When these guys relax they usually do it in a nightclub, with a couple of babes to improve the scenery. Of course they all have boats. That’s the big status symbol these days. The bigger the boat, the bigger the status. But when they put to sea they take along a case of liquor and the usual couple of babes, so it’s not much different from going to a nightclub.”

Shayne had been watching the searchlights move across water. Now he swung around on Rourke. “That’s it! When you were telling me about Plato you said he had a boat.”

“It’s no secret. I forget how many she sleeps, enough to keep one man busy, anyway. I can remember the name if I think hard enough. The Panther! He sailed down on her. The Washington reporters all wanted to talk to him about the convention, but Plato, who in some ways is a very smart apple, couldn’t be reached. He was at sea.”

Shayne was snapping his fingers silently. Rourke said, watching him, “An idea?”

“You’re goddam right! That’s where he took Painter!”

Rourke screwed up his eyes. “So that’s who’s got Painter. Thanks for telling me.”

“I don’t know for sure,” Shayne said impatiently. “But Petey was last seen going up Collins last night with four of Plato’s huskies behind him in a rented Chevy.” He stood for a moment looking down at the reporter. “Let’s go find the boat.”

Rourke didn’t answer for a moment. “Taking a few cops with us, of course.”

“Not taking any cops. You know what the rum-runners used to do when they saw a revenue cutter. They dumped their cargo. I wouldn’t want that to happen to Petey, and it’s what will happen if a few carloads of cops show up at dock-side with their sirens going. First we find him. Then we look the situation over. Then we’ll talk about how much help we’ll need, if any.”

“If any,” Rourke said. “That’s what I’m afraid of. And how do we find this needle in the haystack? There are more marinas in town these days than motels. And it is now, unless my watch has stopped because of all the excitement—” he consulted the time — “three o’clock in the morning.”

“He’d use a marina on the Beach or one of the islands, to be handy to the St. Albans. I doubt if they’d let him in a yacht club, so we can skip those. If he owns a luxury boat, he’d tie up at a luxury dock. That cuts it down. If the name is the Panther she’s probably painted black.”

“That’s sound reasoning, old man, except that we ran a picture when he came in, and she’s painted white. A couple of decks amidships, I don’t know what they’re called, plenty of cabin-space and a big mast. And one of those forward platforms over the bow for catching tuna. She’s not as big as the Queens, but in the ordinary marina I admit she’d tend to stick out.”

“Now you’re being helpful, Tim. You start at the south end of the Beach, I’ll start at the north, and we’ll meet in the middle.”

“Tell you what, Mike. This is more your idea than it is mine. I don’t want anything too bad to happen to Painter, but I don’t want anything to happen to me, either. I’ll be home. If you find the boat and decide you need help, call me.”

“Sure,” Shayne said carelessly. “If you want to know how it turns out, buy a Herald in the morning.”

“You’re mixed up, Mike. The News is my paper.”

“I’m not mixed up.”

“Mike! How can you do a thing like this to me?” He struggled up out of the rocking chair. “You mentioned four goons. You and me make two. We’re outnumbered. Couldn’t we take a couple of cops? If they promise to walk tiptoe?”

“No,” Shayne said curtly.

“Do I say goodnight to Wing?”

“He’s busy. Let’s not disturb him.”

They started down the steps. Rourke shook his head. “Mike, did you really dive headfirst out of a second-floor window?”