Бретт Холлидей - Murder in Haste

He went down into a crouch. “Who are you?” he demanded.

The man breathed in and out with great effort. “Painter?” he whispered.

“What about it?”

“I’m — Gray. McNarney Committee.”

His voice was so faint that Painter was barely able to catch the words. He rocked back on his heels. The McNarney Committee! At the moment the McNarney Committee was making headlines with an investigation of labor racketeering, but how in God’s name had they got wind of this? Apparently they could smell a front-page story all the way from Washington, D. C. Now Painter really had to hurry, or it would get away from him. He knew his limitations. He couldn’t compete with a standing committee of the United States Senate, with its access to the newspapers, unlimited funds, its staff of investigators and lawyers.

“Who slugged you?” he said hoarsely.

The man gestured with one hand. “Big. Rugged. Red hair.”

“A redhead?” Painter exclaimed.

Gray made a small hurt sound. He touched his temple, then looked at the blood on his fingers. He moaned again and tried to come to his elbows, but the effort was too much for him and he fell back.

Painter gripped his shirtfront with both hands.

“Now take your time,” he said urgently. “Tell me what happened.”

Gray gathered himself to speak. “Door open.”

“Yes?” Painter said impatiently when the injured man stopped to breathe heavily. “The door was open. Somebody was inside?”

Gray gave an almost imperceptible nod. “Went in. Dumb, no gun. Man — behind door. Just one punch. Like kick of a mule. Fell. Hit my head.”

“Now listen to me,” Painter said, tightening his grip. “I’ll get you an ambulance in a minute, but before I go off half-cocked I have to be a hundred percent sure. Was this guy six feet and a couple of inches, big shoulders—” He stopped. He had a vivid picture of Mike Shayne in his mind’s eye — he probably thought about the rangy private detective more than was good for his mental health — but describing him in a hurry was a hard thing to do. “Solid, all bone and muscle. Deep lines on his face. There’s a little gray in that red hair now. I don’t know, damn it — he’s the kind of man the girls go for, for some strange reason.”

The man on the floor nodded, and the nod turned into a tremor that he couldn’t control. “Who is he?”

“Who is he?” Painter cried triumphantly. “That’s Michael Shayne, man, and this is one time he’s going to wish he’d never tangled with me. Don’t die, please, Gray. Get well. I’m going to need your testimony.” He gave a happy little chortle. “When I’m done with the son of a bitch, he’ll be selling live bait to the tourists in Bay Front Park.”

He seized the phone and began to dial, but in his excitement his finger slipped and he had to start over. This time he did it right, and in a moment he was connected with Beach headquarters.

“Painter,” he snapped. “I’m at home. I want Joe Wing and two men up here right away. And get out a pick-up call on Mike Shayne to all cars.”

“Who, Chief?” the sergeant asked. “Shayne?”

“What do you want me to do, spell it for you? Breaking and entering, and assault with intent to kill. I don’t want them to park outside his hotel and hope he’ll show up. I want them to look for him. He drives a black Buick. License number—” He thought for a moment and dictated a number, which was another of the numerous facts about Shayne that he kept in his head, in the hope that sometime they would prove useful. “I don’t want a single car to stay in the garage. Put it strong when you tell the boys across the Bay, because those bastards have been known to get forgetful all of a sudden where Mike Shayne is concerned.”

“Ambulance,” Gray said weakly.

“Yeah, and I want an ambulance,” Painter said.

Suddenly he heard a heavy hammering noise from the street below. He exclaimed, “Was that a shot?”

Gray’s head had lifted. Painter thrust his hand inside his coat. Before either of them could speak, there were two more sharp pistol shots and Painter threw the phone back on its cradle. Gray tried to fight forward, but he fell back and his eyes closed.

“Shayne?” he whispered.

“We’ll find out,” Painter said grimly, drawing his gun.

He ran into the other room, hearing Gray call weakly, “Good — hunting.”

He sprinted to the elevator. As always happened when he wanted it in a hurry, it was being used by somebody else. He kept his thumb on the button, hearing the soft, patient whir of the machinery. It rose to the top floor, stayed there for what seemed to Painter an incredibly long time, and started down at last, moving slowly and unhurriedly.

When it finally arrived, one of his fellow-tenants was inside, an elderly maiden lady who gasped excitedly when she saw the bared gun.

“Mr. Painter! Is anything wrong?”

“Possible, madam,” he snarled. “Very possible.”

The elevator resumed its calm descent. She wet her lips.

“Perhaps you’d better let me off?”

He exclaimed in annoyance, and his hand started toward the control panel. She said quickly, “No, on second thoughts. I wouldn’t ever forgive myself. Certain people I could mention are going to have a fit when I tell them about it. Who are you after, if I may ask?”

“That’s neither here nor there,” Painter said gruffly. “Stand back, please. And don’t leave the elevator under any circumstances.”

“Goodness!”

The door opened. As Painter burst out into the lobby he crashed into an old man who was waiting. He untangled himself with difficulty. The old lady called out, “He’s chasing somebody, Henry! Did you ever expect a thing like that to happen right here in the Royal Palms?”

“He’s being damned clumsy about it, I must say,” the old man said.

Painter ran out to the street. Heinemann was nowhere in sight.

“Heinemann!” Painter yelled.

He was answered by another quick shot, coming from the direction of Collins Avenue. He dashed toward the corner, but checked himself abruptly and was careful going around it. He ducked into a store entrance.

This was usually a busy part of town, but there was nothing moving on the sidewalk now but a solitary cat. Several people cowered behind benches on the surfside. On the road itself the usual night-time traffic continued to roll. Painter was about to leave his shelter when a tall, hatless figure ran toward a parked car with a gun in his hand. As he passed beneath a street light Painter saw the set of the broad shoulders and the red hair. Nobody, he thought, but Mike Shayne had shoulders like that, combined with hair that particular shade.

Painter darted after him, but he realized almost at once that he couldn’t make it. His quarry jumped into the car. The motor came to life. It was a black Buick, and as it shot away from the curb, Painter saw the familiar license number. He levelled his gun, aiming at a tire. But before he could fire the Buick slid smoothly into the line of traffic. Painter swore and raced back around the corner toward his unattended Cadillac.

“Heinemann!” he shouted again. “Goddam it, where the hell are you?”

There was no answer. As he ran, he sorted out the duplicate ignition key from the others in his pocket. Giving one last frantic look around for his driver, he leaped in and fumbled the key into the ignition. The powerful motor responded with a full-throated roar. Painter wrenched at the wheel, hitting the gas hard. He touched the knob controlling the siren, but didn’t activate it. Not yet. If Shayne was held up at the next red light, Painter might be able to get on his tail and find out where he was going. If not, using the siren and the blinkers, he would run him off the road.