Бретт Холлидей - Murder in Haste

“That’s the risk you run when you kill people,” Plato said.

The TV cameras had discovered the receiver in front of Rourke. The reporter straightened his tie self-consciously.

Quinn’s gravelly voice went on, “It was an accident. I had to shoot Heminway, Harry. Nobody was supposed to be there that night. He loomed up in front of me, and I had to blast him.”

“Sure, sure,” Plato said. “I forgive you. But will the State of Florida forgive you? What I don’t understand is why you posed for a picture.”

Shayne leaned forward to hear the answer.

“That bastard Ben Chadwick,” Quinn’s voice said. “The bank president. He set it on automatic, with infra-red so I never knew it went off. He wanted to make sure I wouldn’t go light on his end of the split. And when I saw a print of that picture, believe me, I handed over every last buck he deserved.”

Standing up, Shayne motioned to Goddard in the balcony. He pointed toward the exit, and the insurance company president nodded. Shayne gave Rose Heminway the same sign, accompanying it with a hurry-up motion.

Plato said, “We’re wasting time. I’ll tell you what I want you to do — go out and tell your people that Harry Plato’s the man.”

Quinn laughed unpleasantly. “Give up, Harry. So long as you had Painter hanging over me I had to take your advice. But not any more.”

“I’m not forgetting how that happened, either,” Plato said. “I’ll send a diver down to get him, so I can dump him somewhere else, but I’m not forgetting you figured he’d be found on my boat. That was dirty pool, Luke, and you’re” going to pay for it.”

“Tell me how,” Quinn said.

“I’ll be glad to,” Plato answered carelessly. “I’ve got the picture.”

Shayne nodded to Rourke. “They’ll be yelling at each other in a minute. Let’s break it up.”

Quinn, at the other end of the transmission, whispered, “You’ve got the picture?”

“Of you coming out of the vault, just before George Heminway came around the corner. Chadwick had it with him the day he flopped on Painter’s front steps. I got it from Painter.”

“You mean he was carrying it around?”

“That’s Painter,” Plato said. “Brains aren’t his big feature. Naturally I’m not dumb enough to carry it around, so you can put that gun back in your pocket.”

A door came open violently, and Peter Painter’s voice cried over the public address: “So brains aren’t my big feature, are they?”

“Pa-painter!” Quinn said.

“I don’t blame you for stuttering,” Painter said with satisfaction. “You thought you could get the better of me, did you?”

Shayne jerked his head toward the exit. Rourke came with him, hurrying to keep ahead of the other reporters and wire agency men. Rose Heminway and Goddard were waiting in the corridor. Shayne swept them along with him to the open door of the Midwest office. Rourke managed to be last.

“Nobody else,” he told the cop, and closed the door behind him.

Shayne, two strides ahead of his friend, saw Luke Quinn with a big gun in his hand, pointing it at Painter. The barrel wavered as Shayne and the others thrust through the door. Rose gave a small scream.

“Don’t move, goddam it,” Quinn said. “Any of you.”

Painter walked calmly up to him. Quinn swung the gun back, but Painter batted it aside with his left hand and hung a right on Quinn’s jaw. As the blow landed the gun went off. To Shayne’s surprise, Quinn sat down. Harry Plato kicked the gun out of his hand.

Painter turned toward the others. “Big, tough hoodlum,” he sneered.

His eyes were bloodshot He had tried to shave, but his jowls were cross-hatched with small cuts. A strong smell of gin hung in the air. As Shayne approached, the report of the gun registered on Painter’s brain and he sagged into a chair.

“Get up,” Shayne told Quinn.

Quinn’s head lolled. Shayne gripped the front of his shirt. Heaving him erect, Shayne walked him to a leather sofa. Painter began to recover as he saw the effect of his roundhouse punch.

“When I hit them,” he observed, “they stay hit.”

Shayne shook Quinn’s shoulders and slapped him sharply twice. “It’s the end of the trail, Luke. You’ve had three years, but it’s finished.”

He picked up his hat from the desk and pulled out the little sending set. “These are wonderful gadgets. They cost an arm and a leg, but they’re worth it. Everything you and Harry just said went out over the public address. The TV-boys taped it and it’ll go out to the country later, minus some of the profanity. Five hundred people heard you admit you robbed the Beach Trust and shot George Heminway. The Coast Guard picked up the Ophelia, with Grimondi and the rest of your people. Painter’s alive, as you’ve just found out. Rose is alive. So is her father. I think Harry’s going to turn that picture over to us so he’ll win our friendship and we won’t prosecute him for kidnapping. At this point he needs all the friends he can get.”

“Mike—” Plato said weakly.

Shayne said, “Luke wants to clear up a few things for his friends in the ballroom first. Go ahead, Luke.”

Quinn pulled himself together and repeated his earlier obscenity. Shayne made a reproving sound.

“Think about it, Luke. You don’t want to be the only one who gets burned, do you? Of course you don’t. Who had the idea for the robbery, you or Chadwick?”

Quinn looked around the room. Then he made up his mind and said viciously, “It sure as hell wasn’t me. We had this deal going — collecting dough for the Red Cross, and he kept wailing about how he needed cash, he needed cash—”

“No,” Rose breathed.

“Oh, yes,” Quinn said more strongly. “I’m not going to take the jolt and let him hang onto that hundred and forty thousand I counted out in his lap. What I suggested, if he needed cash I suggested robbing the Red Cross, they’d never miss it, but Chadwick, he got up on his high horse. Rob the Red Cross! Who did I think I was talking to? I felt like a bum, and I was about to crawl out on my hands and knees when he said wait, he had a better idea, and this was it.”

“You’re lying!” Rose exclaimed.

Shayne cut her short with a gesture. “What was the split, Luke?”

“Down the middle, after expenses. I paid my debts, and laid out the rest so I got a nice advancement in the union, and everything was going fine till that Harris dame — I’d like to pull her apart!”

“What made you send a couple of gunmen to Rose?” Shayne said. “None of us liked that, Luke.”

“I had to,” he said reasonably. “She walked in on us, on Chadwick and me, when we were going over a layout of the bank. I don’t know what she made of it, but if she ever started thinking about it, I’d be dead.”

“I thought it was a map of the town,” Rose said, appalled. “For the Red Cross campaign. It never entered my head—”

“Just a minute,” Shayne said gently. “Milburn’s stabbing, Luke. How did you arrange that?”

Quinn bared his teeth. “In front of all these people?”

Rourke suggested, “Let’s turn off the radio, Mike. I want some of this exclusive.”

Shayne clicked off the sending switch. “Now do you feel better, Luke?”

Quinn went on sneering. “You’re the big brain here. You know all about it anyway.”

“I can guess,” Shayne said. “When Painter asked to see Milburn, they called him out of the mess-hall. A few hours later the warden put several of the prisoners’ leaders on discipline. Everybody knows how simple it is to bludgeon a two-time loser into turning stool pigeon. I think we’ll find some members of your local in jail. That doesn’t mean any of them did the actual stabbing. Starting a good strong rumor would be enough.”