Brett Halliday - I Come to Kill You

“Consider yourself warned. You have a right to remain silent, and I have a right to develop a roll of film. This may take a little time, so everybody sit down. Carl, you stand at the foot of the bed where Tim can check your reactions. He’s one hell of an interrogator when he gets going.”

Sarah came in with a typewriter and a few sheets of ruled paper. Shayne set the machine on Rourke’s lap, cranking a sheet of paper into position under the keys.

“Go ahead. Say something.”

Rourke’s two fingers came up and typed rapidly, “Get the hell out of my room, turd.”

“I thought you might want to ask Carl to elaborate. I’ll start him off. How much personal capital do you have, Carl?”

“You know the answer to that. Zero.”

“One thing I didn’t explain,” Shayne said. “Carl murdered a man this morning.”

Carl smiled. “I know enough law to know I can beat that.”

“Without a corpus and a gun, even with me testifying against you, you’re probably right. Any comments, Hugh?”

MacDougall said, “Shayne wrapped the gun in with the body, and he did it carefully, in plastic. And then he anchored the whole thing to a bundle of life jackets and marked it with a yellow stain. It was the most conspicuous thing in that part of the ocean. You could see it for miles. Will Gentry and I went out and hauled it in. The body and the gun are locked in Will’s car.”

This was bad news for Carl. “I don’t believe it. What yellow stain?”

“You were feeling seasick, don’t you remember?” Shayne said. “If I hadn’t found the yellow powder, I would have rigged up something else. I went into this hoping to take you. Why would I get rid of a corpse when there was a chance I could use it to get the Don’s son cold on a murder charge? That would make history. Any questions, Tim?”

The typewriter remained silent.

“But from Carl’s point of view,” Shayne said, “this isn’t too bad. It’s in the tradition. Something else has come up. I’ve promised not to talk about that. If you’ve been wondering, that’s why Carl has agreed to be interviewed.”

Suddenly Rourke tapped out a word. “Queer?” Shayne read it. “All right, I’ll ask him. Rourke wants you to tell us what you know about Sherman Meister’s murder.”

“Just what I read in the papers,” Carl said. “Rourke wrote most of the stories.”

Now Rourke leaned forward and typed: “You goddamn bastard! You don’t think CARL KILLED MEISTER? Out of your mind.”

Shayne said, “Rourke wants to know who had the idea for that, you or Mrs. Meister?”

MacDougall sprang to his feet. “Mike, that’s enough. If you’re implying—”

“I’m just passing on Tim’s questions. What did you mean by that one, kid?”

Rourke typed: “Go ahead. Fireworks time.”

“He wants to know…” Shayne said, reading. “Now, wait a minute, Tim. Are you sure that’s what you wanted to ask?”

Rourke’s expression, the little that could be seen of it, changed slightly. He tapped: “Beginning to get it. She stood to gain.”

“Yeah,” Shayne said. “Tim is pointing out that the big unanswered question in that killing was motive. Everybody ducked it. A TV man campaigned against the Mafia and got himself killed, in a Mafia way. But what a stupid move for De Blasio. He had to know what would happen — pure trouble. But look at it from Jo’s point of view…”

“Jo, don’t say anything,” MacDougall warned her.

“I have no intention of saying anything,” she assured him coldly.

Rourke was typing: “Station losing money.”

“You’re damn right it was losing money,” Shayne said. “I got stuck with some of the stock, on a tip from a friend who has a broken jaw and is in no position to defend himself. There was a boycott on, and it was hurting. De Blasio thinks another month would have done it.”

“I argued with Sherman about those silly editorials,” Jo said. “That’s no secret. I thought he was being foolish and quixotic.”

“He was also being foolish and quixotic about Sarah Percival,” Shayne said. “There was nothing ahead for you but bankruptcy and divorce. No alimony. Whereas with your husband out of the way, you could fire the public-service department and save the property. And yet it’s obvious that you couldn’t organize that kind of killing by yourself.”

Rourke typed excitedly, “Car. Gun.”

“Right. Somebody had to steal the car and provide an untraceable gun. And I don’t suppose Jo would want to do the actual killing herself. Were you about to say something, Carl?”

“She didn’t want to, but she did,” he said.

She snapped, “Liar.”

“Up to a point I was willing, you know?” Carl said. “It was an investment for her. When they went public, they cleared a nice piece of change, and she still had some of it. She gave it to me. She said it was all she had, and I think that’s true. After all, I may be a citrool in some ways, but I know how to steal cars. We keep a supply of that kind of gun. But you know damn well I wasn’t going to point it at another human being and end his life. Frankly, until this morning I didn’t think I was up to it. And we didn’t want to bring in anybody else. So she called him at the station and told him she was in touch with somebody who had a hot story. She met him at the airport and drove him to where the other car was parked. She shot him and came home in her own car. I wasn’t within ten miles.”

Rourke typed: “Will he testify?”

“Rourke wants to know if you’ll repeat that in court.”

“I’ll talk to the lawyers about that. But I’m beginning to think you’ve got me, Shayne. What’s the difference?”

Rourke’s typewriter was working again. “Carl brought in Burns?”

Shayne relayed this, and Carl answered, “I knew Burns was looking for something, and with our outfit under wraps, it was the perfect time. I was just able to swing it with Jo’s cash.”

“We all knew Bobby wouldn’t try anything like this without inside connections,” Shayne said. “Because, of course, the Don would have to go.”

“Not necessarily!” Carl said. “Not necessarily! With Siracusa out of the way…”

“He wasn’t out of the way when you and Bobby made the deal. You agreed to set up the old man for the hit.”

“Well, it’s kind of academic now, isn’t it?” Carl said wearily.

Rourke typed: “I want it exclusive for twelve hours.”

“I was going to suggest the same thing,” Shayne said, “and I think Gentry and the county attorney will go along. The only case we’re going to bring against Carl is for killing Siracusa. No mention of any private matters, or any private understandings with rookies from out of town. That will keep him straight with the family. In return, he’s going to tell us all he knows about Sherman Meister’s murder.”

Jo Meister screamed, “It’s immoral! Immoral! It’s dirty and immoral!”

She sprang at Carl. He didn’t defend himself, and Shayne didn’t come to his assistance. Hugh MacDougall subdued her.

“I must say I think I agree,” he said, staring at Shayne. “Immoral is one word for it.”

“When you hired me,” Shayne said coldly, “that’s what you bought. You wanted a murder case solved and a Mafia family dispersed. If you don’t pay off on the contract, I’ll see you in court. Any more questions, Tim?”

Rourke thought a moment, his fingers poised. “They were going to kill me,” he typed. “You beat me up as the lesser of two evils.”

“They wouldn’t have killed you,” Shayne said evenly. “They weren’t even talking about pushing you around. I had to do what I did. It’s known that you’re a friend of mine. That was the key to the whole thing. They wouldn’t have believed me without it. Do you understand?”