Бретт Холлидей - Murder in Haste

“Get that man!” Painter yelled. “Confiscate his camera!”

Then his eye fell on Shayne. “I thought you’d be a couple of miles from here by now. Arrest this man. If he gives you any trouble, put the cuffs on him.”

“Arrest me for what?” Shayne said quietly. “Assaulting an investigator for a Senate Committee?”

“No,” Painter said “For— for—” he looked around. For—”

“Petey, don’t you think you better put out a call for that boat? Her name’s Ophelia, and her home port’s Baltimore, in case you were under water at the time and didn’t notice. We’ll be in better shape if we can pick them up before they get to a phone.”

“I’m capable of giving the orders around here, thank you. Get out a call for the Ophelia,” he said sternly. “From—” He looked at Shayne.

“Baltimore,” Shayne said. “Heading down the bay.”

One of the cops ran toward his radio, and Painter looked down at the Cuban, who was conscious but not yet active. “Let me see, which one is this?”

“His name’s Juan Grimondi,” Shayne told him. “He works for Luke Quinn. He was driving for the guy who tried to shoot Rose Heminway yesterday morning. He killed one of Plato’s thugs, named Gray. On top of that, he’s just committed piracy.”

Painter’s mouth was open. “He did? Yeah. Okay, book him.”

He started away, managing a good imitation of his usual cocky strut, in spite of the flapping garter. Rourke said in a low voice to Shayne, “I didn’t believe it at first. The son of a bitch is loaded.”

As though to prove it, Painter veered toward the edge of the dock. One of the cops grabbed him to keep him from falling in.

“I feel dizzy all of a sudden,” Painter said, and sneezed so hard he almost jolted himself out of the cop’s hands.

“What you need is a shot, Chief,” the cop said solicitously. “You’re catching cold. I always carry a pint in the car, for emergencies.”

Shayne and Rourke exchanged a look and hurried after them, leaving the third cop to bring the Cuban. In front of the clubhouse, the cop pulled open the door of the prowl sedan, and produced a pint of blended whiskey. Painter took it in both hands and drank eagerly.

“None for you,” he said, noticing Shayne. “Not after the way you hogged the liquor on the boat.” He sneezed again. “I’ve got to get into some dry clothes, and then we’re going to raise a little hell in a certain union.”

“Petey!” Shayne said brusquely, holding the door so it wouldn’t close. “I know it’s asking a lot, but think. As far as they know, you’re at the bottom of the bay. Let’s use it. You’re behind the times. Things have happened since the night before last.”

“I’ll catch up,” Painter said.

“How did you get on Quinn’s trail in the first place? You found something in Benjamin Chadwick’s wallet, isn’t that right? Okay, where is it now?”

“Take off,” Painter told the cop at the wheel. “If you have to run over any private detectives, don’t hesitate.” He swivelled back to Shayne, and made an anguished stab at his breast pocket. “It’s—”

“You’re damn right it’s gone,” Shayne grated. “The people who picked you up weren’t working for Quinn, but for Plato. Naturally they searched you. Naturally they’d be glad to find something they could use to hold over Quinn. Is your mind finally working? Go ahead and walk in and arrest Quinn, in front of the TV cameras. How long do you think you can hold him?”

“I can hold him,” Painter said unconvincingly. “I’ve got a very strong case, and I have no intention of giving it away to you.”

“What’s this strong case consist of? Chadwick can’t talk. Milburn’s dead. You’ve got one thing, and that’s all. Just before the robbery, Quinn was in hock to a loan shark. Just after the robbery he was able to pay off the loan shark and buy enough votes to move up in the union. That could be the cincher if you had anything else, but it’s not enough by itself.”

Painter sank back in the seat, seeming suddenly much smaller than usual. “I went through all this for nothing. I damn near drowned—”

“It’s not as bad as that. They’re fighting among themselves, and to take advantage of it we’ve got to work together. This can be a big thing for you, Petey. You can have the TV screen all to yourself. I’ll be satisfied with a small check from the insurance company.”

“As usual,” Painter said bitterly.

“As usual, and I think I deserve it. What time are they holding the election?” Shayne asked Rourke, who was standing beside him listening avidly.

“That’s their first order of business,” Rourke said, “and they’ve got the Honest Ballot Association to make the count. We’d better get moving, Mike,” he added nervously. “The Herald’s going to have a man here any minute.”

“It’s your story, Tim,” Shayne said. “Painter and I would probably both be dead now if you hadn’t called the cops.”

He looked at his watch. It was supposed to be waterproof, but it had been through too much violent activity in the last half hour, and was no longer running.

Rourke said, “Just before seven, Mike.”

“That gives us time enough, if it doesn’t take Petey more than an hour to tell us what he found in Benjamin Chadwick’s wallet.”

Painter sighed heavily. “How did you know—”

Looking down at him, Shayne said, “That’s when you put on a bodyguard. When somebody collapses on your doorstep, you look in his wallet for his name and address. You found that, and you also found something else.”

“A picture,” Painter said. “A 35 mm negative. I had it developed, and there was Luke Quinn, looking straight at the camera. He had a suitcase in one hand, and he was coming out of a vault.”

“Great detective work,” Shayne said sarcastically. “I knew it had to be something simple. No, I take that back, Petey,” he added quickly. “Now that we’re working together I’ve got to start being polite.”

“Maybe I should have turned it over to the FBI and let them make the arrest,” Painter said. “But why let somebody else in on it when I’m the one who — And there’s no reason to look at me like that. Not everybody would have thought of developing that picture. I dug up the loan shark, I found Fred Milburn and I did a good job of worming the truth out of him, if I say it myself. Quinn was coming down to Miami for the convention, so why shouldn’t I make the arrest myself? It was just a matter of a few days, a week at the most Meanwhile, I could make it airtight. Well, I guess we all make mistakes.”

Rourke and Shayne looked at each other in astonishment. Neither had ever heard the little chief of detectives make any such admission before.

“That’s all right, Petey,” Rourke said soothingly. “You go home. You’ll feel more like yourself when you’ve had some sleep.”

“Sleep? This is no time for sleep.”

He glanced at the driver, who was as surprised as the others at the turn the conversation was taking. Coming out of the car, Painter took Shayne’s arm and drew him to the dock, where they wouldn’t be overheard.

“What did you have in mind, Shayne? I’m not saying I’ll do it, you understand. But it’s perfectly true I’ve been out of circulation for a day. If you want to make a suggestion, I’ll be glad to consider it.”

Rourke followed Shayne’s Buick to the redhead’s apartment hotel. He phoned his paper while Shayne showered and shaved. Soon afterward a copy boy arrived to pick up his exposed film. The coffee was ready by the time Shayne was dressed. Shayne took a cup to the phone, where he made several calls. Meanwhile, Rourke was using his razor.