Бретт Холлидей - Murder in Haste

He turned the corner on the outside of his tires, leaving a smear behind him on the pavement. A line of cars was waiting for the light. For a moment he thought the Buick wasn’t among them. He closed the gap very fast, and by edging over the double line down the middle of the street he saw the car he wanted, first in line.

Painter chuckled to himself, leaning tensely over the wheel. Shayne had got away with some pretty tricky operations over the years, many of them at Painter’s expense. But not this time, Painter promised himself. Not this time. He was going to make the big redhead wish he had taken up some different line of work, and had never had the bad luck to run afoul of Chief-of-Detectives Peter Painter.

A few minutes after five the next morning, Michael Shayne wheeled his Buick into a parking slot near his apartment hotel on the north bank of the Miami River. He looked at his watch and gave a relaxed snort of laughter. Five a.m. This had been a night!

He switched off his lights, noticing that he hadn’t really needed the full beam for the last ten minutes. The sun was about due. He took the key out of the ignition and cranked up the windows. As he stepped out onto the street, slamming the door, a thin young man moved up against him swiftly and hit him in the lower ribs with the muzzle of a pistol.

“Stand still!” he said almost eagerly.

Shayne froze, his hands out in the dim light. From that position he could chop upward with his elbow at his assailant’s throat, but he could feel the young man’s tension, and he did what he had been ordered to do: he held still.

Another man appeared around the front of the car. Shayne knew this one.

“Joe Wing,” he said, and let himself relax slightly. “It’s nice to see a familiar face. I thought this was a stick-up.”

“Don’t say anything, Mike,” Wing said.

He was a lean lieutenant with a nervous manner and an emaciated-looking face, a good cop who in Shayne’s opinion deserved a better fate than having to work under Peter Painter. He went over Shayne carefully for weapons.

“What’s the theory, Joe?” Shayne said. “I’ve gone to work for the Mafia?”

Joe Wing stepped back. “When I said not to say anything, that’s what I meant. I want you to answer some questions. I don’t want you to ask any. Where have you been all night?”

Shayne lowered his big hands. “Around,” he said. “But I’m not very good at answering questions when somebody’s pointing a gun at me. It makes me restless.”

After a moment’s thought Wing nodded, and the gun went back in its holster. “Now I’ll say it again,” he said. “Where have you been all night?”

“Playing poker,” Shayne told him.

“Playing poker,” Wing repeated. “That’s a nice sociable activity. When did the game get underway?”

“Come on, now,” Shayne said brusquely. “You’ve been working out of Painter’s office so long you’re beginning to sound like him. You’ve got the look of a man who’s been awake all night. I’ve been on all-night stakeouts myself, and I know they don’t improve the disposition. But it doesn’t improve mine to have a gun shoved in my ribs, either, especially when it’s a rookie who’s doing the shoving, and he’s a little tense. If the police department’s in trouble I’ll be glad to cooperate, but I’d like to be asked politely. Take me in, if that’s the way you want to handle it. You might be able to hold me as long as twenty-four hours, if you’re lucky, and you can ask a lot of questions in that time. I doubt if you’d get any answers. That’s one way. The other way is to come upstairs and have a drink and start fresh.”

Wing pushed his hat off his forehead. He stared at Shayne for a long moment.

“All right, Mike,” he said wearily. “I could argue about it, but we’d probably end up doing it your way, as usual. I Want those answers, and if the only way I can get them is by sitting down in a comfortable chair and drinking your liquor, I guess I’ll just have to force myself. Call in, Thompson,” he told the other detective. “The big manhunt is over. Tell them to locate Heinemann and have him report here.”

“Manhunt, eh?” Shayne said. “Have I been keeping you up?”

Wing didn’t answer.

Another detective, a veteran named LaBanca, came out of a City of Miami radio cruiser parked across the street. Lieutenant Wing and the other Beach detectives were outside their jurisdiction here. They could only operate on this side of the bay with the approval of the Miami department. Will Gentry, the Miami chief of police, was a friend of Shayne’s, and the redhead knew that Gentry wouldn’t have given his approval unless it was something serious. His eyes narrowed.

“Hello, Mike,” LaBanca said. “Nice to have you show up. Now maybe we can all go home and get some sleep.”

Joe Wing said, “I wouldn’t count on that. First we’re going upstairs to Shayne’s room and see what he has to offer in the way of schnapps. I mean that’s what I’m going to do. I’d appreciate it if you’ll keep your hands free. If Shayne makes any wrong moves, I want you to hit him with something hard.”

“What’s the matter with you, Joe?” Shayne said, smiling. “Don’t you trust me?”

Wing blinked. “It’s five in the morning and I don’t trust anybody.”

They went into the lobby together. Still another Beach detective was inside, looked as tired and irritable as the others. As the little party approached the desk, Pete, the night man snapped out of a light doze.

“Oh, Mr. Shayne. There you are, finally. I don’t know if you want me to—”

“What have I told you other times?” Shayne said mildly.

“Yeah, that’s perfectly true,” Pete said, sitting back. “Maybe some day I’ll learn.”

“You’ve got a message for Shayne, is that it?” Wing said.

He reached across the desk and pulled several memo-pad sheets from a corner of the blotter. He read the top one aloud: “11:45 p.m. Shayne — call Mrs. Heminway when you come in.” The same message had been recorded earlier, at 10:20 and 8:15.

“You’re a big help, Pete,” Shayne said.

“Well, I’m sorry but she seemed so anxious to get in touch with you that I thought—”

“That’s always a mistake,” Shayne said.

“I guess so. Waking up out of a sound sleep like that, and I had it on my mind — that’s my only excuse.”

Wing put the memo slips in his pocket. He said nothing in the elevator or going down the corridor to Shayne’s room. The big private detective unlocked the door and let them in, and then turned on one lamp beside the big leather sofa before he began getting out the liquor.

“Two drinks or three?” he said.

“Three,” LaBanca said promptly.

“Two,” Joe Wing said. “What are we having?”

“I’m having cognac,” Shayne said. “I’ve got Scotch, if you’d rather have that.”

“Yeah, give me some Scotch. Go easy on the soda.”

Shayne put ice cubes in a tall glass, covered them with Scotch and splashed in a small ration of soda. Then he poured cognac in a wine glass and made up a glass of ice-water for a chaser. The lieutenant sat on the sofa and Shayne took the chair facing him. LaBanca sat on the arm of the sofa and eyed the drinks thirstily.

Wing drank half his Scotch in one pull, and gave a long sigh. “That’s better. It’ll never take the place of a good night’s sleep, but it helps. Now we’ll start over, Mike. I’ve accepted your hospitality, so I’ll say please. Please will you tell us in your own words just exactly where the hell you’ve been all night?”

Shayne grinned. “Where do you want me to start?”

“Let’s say at five yesterday afternoon.”