A Redhead for Mike Shayne

4

From the point where he had left his car parked the preceding night, Michael Shayne made an illegal U-turn in front of the bridge and headed north on 2nd Avenue. He was frowning, in deep thought, as he drove, and he didn’t turn east on either 4th or 2nd Street to get over to the Boulevard. Instead, he continued on to Flagler and turned right, and moved into the first vacant parking space he found on the right-hand side of the street.

He got out and walked briskly to one of the arcades opening off Flagler, turned in and went halfway down to a ground-floor office opening directly off the arcade.

A neat brass plaque over the door said: “Rufus O’Toole, Gunsmith.”

Shayne opened the door onto a small, unadorned reception room with a glass counter at the end of it and several comfortable chairs and smoking stands ranged along the wall.

A bell sounded in the workshop at the rear of the office when Shayne opened the door, and he strolled up to the counter and waited.

In a moment a small, gnomelike man emerged through the curtained doorway at the rear. Rufus O’Toole had a hunched back, a wrinkled, leathery face, and the brightest blue eyes in the world. His eyes twinkled happily when he saw Shayne waiting at the counter, and he said in a lilting brogue, “The top of the marnin’ to ye, Michael me bye. You’re lookin’ well for an old lecher with the years you do be carryin’.”

Shayne grinned and said, “The same goes double for you, Rufe. I need some information.” He withdrew the pistol from his pocket and laid it on the glass counter in front of O’Toole. “Ever see one of these before?”

The gunsmith’s bright eyes studied the weapon for a long moment, and then he reached out for it with slender, strong fingers and turned it slowly, lifting it in both hands and then sliding the butt of it into his palm and holding it caressingly as he tested the weight and balance.

“No, Mike,” he said soberly, dropping his professional Irishness. “I’ve never laid eyes on the like before. Is it for sale?”

“I’m on my way to turn it over to Peter Painter at Beach Headquarters,” Shayne explained. “I hoped you’d recognize it and be able to tell me exactly what the devil it is.”

“Oh, I recognize it all right, Michael.” O’Toole laid it down carefully and then looked at his fingers and rubbed them together, sniffed them and wrinkled his nose slightly. “I merely said I’d never had the pleasure of seeing or handling one before.”

“Some foreign make?” Shayne asked dubiously.

“Indeed, yes. Our mass production economy would never waste the time and money to produce a beautifully tooled precision instrument like this.” He touched it lovingly again with his fingertips. “Not even Germany ever turned out a gun like this. They might have in the old days… if they’d had the modern alloys to work with… this particular metal has several times the strength of steel… has to in order to withstand a muzzle energy of more than two thousand foot pounds.” He paused, screwing up his face in concentration. “Twenty-one hundred and eighty pounds, I believe, to be exact. Though I would have to check before I made a flat statement.”

He tilted his head on one side and saw from the look on Shayne’s face that the figures meant nothing to the detective, and he added gently: “That, coupled with a muzzle velocity of nineteen hundred eighty feet per second and a caliber of twelve-oh-seven millimeters should give you some idea of the tremendous force embodied in this little fellow which weighs only thirty-seven ounces. That’s two ounces less than a Colt forty-five, Michael. Ten ounces less than a forty-four Magnum.”

Shayne leaned his elbows on the glass counter and gazed down at the gun and said slowly, “Translate those figures for me, Rufe. Your muzzle velocities and energies. Remember, I just carry a thirty-eight Special… and that very seldom.”

“Well, your regular thirty-eight Special has a muzzle velocity of about eight hundred feet per second,” explained O’Toole briskly, “and a muzzle energy of less than three hundred foot pounds.”

“As against two thousand and two thousand on this one,” said Shayne, nodding slowly. “How does it compare, for instance, with a forty-four caliber Magnum? That’s the biggest hunk of hand-gun I’ve ever handled.”

“Throwing a much larger slug than the biggest Magnum,” said O’Toole with relish, “this little fellow develops four or five hundred more feet per second of muzzle velocity, and almost twice the rated muzzle energy of a forty-four Magnum. And this is a fifty caliber gun, Mike. Not a forty-four.”

Shayne drew in his breath slowly, “Sweet Mother! Those slugs that sang over my head last night! As I recall it, a forty-four Magnum has penetration of about a dozen one-inch pine boards.”

O’Toole nodded happily and purred, “Frankly, I don’t know what it would take to stop one of the fifty caliber bullets fired by this baby. But I don’t think they’d be likely to bounce off even your skull.”

“You’ve been throwing a lot of technical data around,” said Shayne, “but you still haven’t given chapter and verse on this thing. What is it?”

“It’s Russian, of course. They’re the only ones with the technical know-how and the sort of police state than can order such a thing produced regardless of cost and the economics involved. It’s known as a Lenski twelve-oh-seven. It was perfected and officially announced as in limited production in the mid-fifties. Fifty-six, I think. I could check on that if you want. And there’s still one small gimmick that I haven’t mentioned, Michael. This is the first truly automatic hand-gun ever invented. It is credited with firing a burst of six rounds in something less than a second. Or, twelve rounds in slightly over a second. That’s comparable with the performance of an automatic rifle.”

Shayne said in an awed voice, “Then I didn’t dream it. The damned thing did make a row of six holes in the wall over my head last night. Each one of them the size of my thumb.”

O’Toole nodded sagely. “They would be close-spaced, Michael. If it was set on first automatic.” He picked the gun up again and studied it reverently, turning it around and around in his hands.

“You mentioned twelve rounds in little more than a second,” said Shayne dubiously. “Do you mean to say it only fired half its load last night?”

O’Toole shrugged his thin, hunched shoulders and hefted the gun in his right hand. “It’s heavy for the weight it’s said to carry. I’d guess it’s still half loaded. It carries a total of twelve rounds, Michael. See these three buttons on the side of the grip?” He turned it to expose the three buttons Shayne had discovered previously. “They control the automatic mechanism. The top button, here, puts it on single shot. Each time you touch the trigger one bullet is fired. The second one gives you a burst of six, and the bottom one empties the chamber of all twelve rounds.”

He leaned over the gun absorbedly and his fingers delicately manipulated it, and all at once the under part of the carriage beneath the barrel swung open revealing an intricate mechanism inside with some of the ugliest and biggest metal-cased cartridges Shayne had ever seen, spaced in a plastic belt which apparently moved on rollers to feed a fresh cartridge into the firing chamber each time a bullet was discharged.

“You see, Michael, how beautifully it is designed. Here is your second burst of six fifty caliber bullets ready and waiting for a second touch of the trigger. It’s a real beauty. We must give the Russians credit where credit is due.”

“What would it be worth in this country?” Shayne asked.

O’Toole shook his head and shrugged his shoulders again, closing up the gun as he did so. “There’s no catalog price. None have ever been imported to my knowledge. Collectors would pay five or six hundred… up to a thousand dollars to possess a clean specimen like this.” He cocked his head on one side and studied the gun speculatively. “’Tis comparable to a newly minted coin, Michael, or an unlicked postage stamp.” He rubbed the tips of his fingers gently over the metal surface again, sniffed them and then touched them to his tongue. He nodded with the rapt look of a wine-taster testing for bouquet and vintage. “It’s been poorly cleaned by an amateur and retains traces of the original fish grease it was packed in at the factory… corresponding to our own cosmoline. And so, Michael. How did it come to Miami and into your hands?”

Shayne said flatly, “I took it off a cheap hood last night… after he tried to liquidate me with it.” He paused and added thoughtfully, “It’s not the only one either, Rufe. Another one exactly like it turned up several days ago. Maybe Russia is shipping them into this country on the sly.”

The gunsmith shook his head and said authoritatively, “It’s an expensive item for export, Michael. They were produced in limited quantities in the late fifties, and production ceased in nineteen fifty-eight, I believe it was. They were not regular issue, you understand, but were designed for the use of special police and saboteurs operating under particular conditions. The possession of one of these, you comprehend, transforms an individual into a one-man army.”

“That,” said Shayne feelingly, “is the impression I got last night when I was on the receiving end of a burst from that baby.” He paused thoughtfully. “I suppose some of them could have made their way into Cuba with the Russian arms build-up there. With refugees and what-not floating back and forth, I suppose we’ve got to expect stuff like this to turn up in Miami now and then.”

“It’s been happening of late,” O’Toole agreed cautiously. “Many queer ones are turning up about town. But this Lenski is in a different category, Michael. This gun has actually never been handled. It’s factory-fresh, you might say. A man with a case of those at his disposal would be in the way of making a fortune.”

“There would be legal formalities about putting them on the market,” Shayne suggested.

The gunsmith shrugged and smiled cynically. “Rare gun collectors are a breed like any other collectors, Michael. Not likely to ask embarrassing questions or stand on legalities.” He hesitated and then said quietly, “I will pay a flat five hundred each for as many as you want to bring me. Pass that word around if you run into the right people.”

Shayne nodded thoughtfully. “I’ll keep it in mind, Rufus. Yours would at least end up in private collections and not in the hands of indiscriminate criminals.”

“There would be that advantage to keep in mind,” O’Toole agreed cheerfully.

Shayne hesitated before picking up the Russian hand-gun again, shuddering a trifle inwardly as he recalled the careless manner in which he had handled it when he innocently assumed that six rounds was all it carried. “I suppose the damned thing is cocked now and ready to start firing,” he said with a frown. “How safe is it to carry around in my pocket?”

“Perfectly safe. It can’t fire unless one of those three buttons is depressed at the same time the trigger is pulled. It’s an automatic locking device that is practically foolproof. But I’ll be happy to unload it for you if you’ll feel better about carrying it.”

“I would feel a little better,” Shayne admitted honestly. “But I’d better leave it as is to turn over to Painter. He’s going to take a very dim view of my walking off with it last night anyhow.”

He picked the weapon up gingerly by the butt and dropped it into his pocket. “I’ll let you know if anything develops, Rufe.”

“You do that. The offer I made was for a quantity, Michael. For just one I will double the ante.”

With a grin, Shayne said, “If Painter gets wind of that he may be around to make a deal with you.” He went out with a farewell wave of his big hand, and Rufus O’Toole watched the door close behind his broad back with a speculative gleam in his bright blue eyes.