A Taste for Violence

9

The Centerville police station was only a few blocks from the Eustis Restaurant. It was an ugly stucco building housing the city offices, with the jail on the second floor. An entrance from a side street led directly into a small, drab room with a scarred desk and straight chairs around the walk. There was no one in the room when the officers dragged Shayne in and shoved him into a chair where he pretended complete grogginess.

An open door on the left revealed a large, comfortably furnished room, brightly lighted, and with the sound of an electric fan whirring. One of the officers said, “Gantry must be in with the chief. Wonder what’s goin’ on in there?” He sauntered through the doorway, leaving the other to guard Shayne.

Shayne’s head, lolling against the wall, was turned directly toward the lighted room. He could see only a small segment of it… part of a large desk with a man sitting behind it. He was a big man with heavy jowls bulging from his jawbone, and in the bright overhead light he appeared to have no eyebrows or lashes. A roll of flesh hung over his protuberant eyes which were wide open, unblinking and expressionless as he stared straight before him at someone whom Shayne could not see on the other side of the desk. There was a murmur of voices, but no words were distinguishable to him.

The policeman who stood guard over Shayne got out a plug of tobacco and gnawed off a portion. A narrow wooden stairway led down into the room from the floor above, and there was the shuffle of descending footsteps and the soft whimpering sound of agony or of fear from a human being.

Shayne didn’t turn his head to betray his interest, but by shifting his eyes to the side and slightly upward, he saw three men. Two of them were in their shirtsleeves, but wore uniform trousers and visored caps. They were supporting a man who was bleeding at the nose and mouth and was making a whimpering noise by gasping in short breaths and exhaling between clenched teeth. His shirt was half torn from his torso and soggy with blood. He cringed between the two policemen, staring stupidly with glazed eyes.

Shayne’s guard chewed rhythmically and watched with professional interest as the trio reached the bottom of the stairs and started toward the side office. “You gonna be long, Gantry?” he demanded impatiently. “We got a drunk here to be booked.”

The man on the right of the bleeding prisoner said, “It won’t take long. Dave, here, has decided to make a statement to the chief.” Gantry was a tall, slender, alert young man with a mop of damp and disheveled blond hair. In spite of his wilted appearance, he seemed well pleased with himself. His companion was shorter and heavier, with a flat brutal face and loose, thick lips. He laughed coarsely and jerked the whimpering man forward and said:

“Dave decided he warn’t as tough as he figured.” They went into the brightly lighted room and lined up in front of Chief Henry Elwood’s desk.

The chief looked at the bleeding man with his lidless, naked eyes and asked, “Have you decided to come clean, Burroughs?” His voice was friendly and considerate and his thick lips spread, making a deep trench between his jowls and mouth.

“I’ll say… anything… you say,” Dave Burroughs gasped. “Let… me outta here. I can’t… stand any more.”

“We don’t want you to say anything but the truth,” Elwood said. “What happened to you? Why’re you appearing here in that condition?”

“I… had an… accident,” Burroughs said weakly.

“Too bad. We’ll get a doctor and have you fixed up soon’s you sign this statement.” The chief’s beefy hand reached for a document, pulled it closer, and he read rapidly:

“I, David Burroughs, make the following statement under oath, of my own free will and to clear my conscience of perjury:

“The affidavit I signed and swore to this morning is a lie. I was bribed to make it by George Brand who got me and Jethro Home and Joe Margule all together yesterday and fixed up what he wanted us to say. He paid us each twenty dollars, but we didn’t know why he wanted an alibi for last night, and when we made those affidavits this morning we didn’t know he had murdered Charles Roche.

“All three of us did play poker with him at Home’s last night, but Brand left the game about three o’clock. None of us saw him after that, which I now swear is the truth because we all stayed on together until five-thirty.

“I do not want to get mixed up in a murder. That is why I am telling the truth now. I realize that I perjured myself and that I am liable for the full penalty of the law.

“I have not been mistreated or coerced in any way to induce me to sign this statement, and any marks on my body are the result of my drunkenness and an accident.

“I am filled with remorse because I swore to false testimony.

“This is the truth, so help me God.”

Shayne watched Chief Elwood, fascinated by the monotone of his voice and by the continuous wriggling of a fleshy protuberance in the center of his chin. His lips scarcely moved. When he finished reading, the fat roll covering his eyes raised slowly.

“We want the truth this time, Burroughs,” he said. “This is your last chance. You’ll be taken care of if you sign this. You won’t have to appear at Brand’s trial.”

“I’ll… sign.” Dave Burroughs fell forward, his elbows resting on the desk. The two officers supported his body while he took a pen in his right hand and signed the document. Then they half carried Burroughs through a door at the other end of the room.

Chief Elwood looked at the policeman who had helped bring Shayne in. He asked, “What’s the charge against the man outside?”

“Drunk and disorderly.”

“Let Gantry handle him.” Chief Elwood swiveled in his chair and got up. He went out the door through which Burroughs had been carried.

Gantry returned and joined the waiting policeman. Together they sauntered into the smaller room where Shayne sat, talking in low, pleased tones. Gantry seated himself at the desk and looked bored. He said, “Drunk and disorderly, eh?”

“And creating a public disturbance,” his companion said.

Shayne’s guard hauled him to his feet by his shoulders and thrust him forward.

“Maybe I was drunk,” Shayne said belligerently, “but I didn’t bother anybody.”

Gantry was writing in a ledger and didn’t look up. “Name and address?” he asked. Shayne noted that he had sleeked his blond hair back, and his face looked clean.

“John Smith. New York,” Shayne said.

“Go over him. Find out his real name.” Gantry’s voice was clipped and official, and he still appeared pleased with himself.

One of the men held Shayne’s arms while the other removed his wallet and tossed it on the desk. He felt deeper into that pocket, then in the other, while Gantry searched the wallet.

“John Smith is as good as any,” Gantry said. He counted the money and put it in an envelope. “Throw him in the bull-pen.”

“I want a receipt for that money,” Shayne muttered. “I got a right to…”

The officers hustled him to the stairway and up to a musty, dim-lit corridor, past the iron bars on one side to a heavy, barred door. An old man was asleep in a chair propped against the wall beside the door. He was snoring loudly and stunk of old sweat and beer.

One of the men prodded him with a toe and said, “Wake up, Pop. We got another customer for you.”

The old man snorted and rocked forward, hoisted himself to his feet, squinted at Shayne through bleary eyes and turned to unlock the massive door with an iron key attached to a chain around his waist.

As the door swung open, Shayne heard voices chanting, “Fresh meat coming up,” and the humid sweat of unwashed bodies, the foul odor of urine, the stench of intestinal excretions in clogged toilets mingled with stale cigarette smoke and the sickening smell of some cheap disinfectant caused him to recoil and stagger back.

The two policemen hurled him forward, and the door clanged shut. Shayne found himself in a narrow corridor lined with iron-barred cells on each side. The feeble light in the hall penetrated only a little distance into the darkness. Each cell had two iron bunks, one above the other, with no mattresses or bedding. The first two cells were empty.

Someone struck a match in the third cell and Shayne moved toward the light. Voices were yelling, “Who is it? Has he got any cigarettes? How about a drink? If he’s a punk, send ’im down this way.”

Shayne stopped beside the doorway of the third cell and shouted, “Shut the hell up. I’ve got cigarettes enough for myself, and none of you know me.”

The shouting voices beyond subsided, grumbling and weary and disinterested. A voice inside the cell asked in a low whisper, “How about the butts, if you’re gonna smoke?”

“Sure.” He groped his way inside and sat on the lower iron bunk beside its occupant. He put a cigarette in his mouth, struck a match, and held it until light flickered over his companion’s face, then lit his cigarette. The man was young, with a thin face and defiant eyes.

Shayne asked, “How do you stand this stink?”

“Ain’t you never been in jail?” the youth asked.

“Not one that smelled like this.” Shayne filled his lungs with smoke and exhaled. The fresh smoke relieved the smell of the stale for a moment, then joined it. He passed the cigarette to the boy beside him and said, “Take a draw.”

“Jeez, thanks.” He took a long draw, said, “Jeez,” again, and passed the cigarette to Shayne. He asked, “What they get you for?”

“Drunk. Only I’m not.”

The young man laughed harshly. “Must of showed some cash.”

“A little. What the hell sort of town is this?”

“New hereabouts?” he countered cautiously.

“From New York,” said Shayne. “Just passing through.”

“This is Centerville, Kentucky, Mister. The hellhole of all creation. You got nothin’ to worry about. They’ll let you loose in the mornin’… with enough jack to get out of town on.”

Shayne puffed leisurely, then asked, “What are you in for?”

“Cut a man up at a dance a coupla weeks ago.”

“How bad?”

“Not too bad. Picked the wrong guy… cousin of Titus Tatum’s. He runs the City Hall gang.”

His indifferent, drawling tone amused Shayne. He asked, “How long you in for?”

“Ain’t been tried yet. Don’t reckon I will be. They’ll turn me out in a week or two. I got folks that’ll get riled up if they don’t. What’s new in town?”

Shayne said, “I suppose you know the strike’s broken.”

“First I heard of it.” The youth jumped up and yelled, “Hey… Brand! You hear that?”

Two or three voices shouted, “Shut up in there! Let a man sleep!”

Another voice, heavily timbred and strong called out, “Do I hear what?”

“Fella here says the strike’s broke!”

“What of it? To hell with the strike,” came an answering chorus, but the voice Shayne knew must be George Brand’s broke in with gruff authority, “Shut up, all of you. I want to hear this.”

Shayne stood up and called back, “I could tell you better if I didn’t have to yell.”

“That’s George Brand,” the young man said in a hoarse whisper. “In for murder.”

“I read about it in the paper.” Shayne moved into the corridor and the heavy voice spoke just ahead of him, “Right down here. I’d like to hear about the strike.”

Shayne walked slowly on until he touched the body of a man. Brand put out his hand and took Shayne’s arm, asked fiercely, “Is that the truth? Have those cowardly fools given up the fight?”

“The news is all over town. Any place we can talk quietly?” He spoke in a whisper.

Brand struck a match before replying. He held it up to look at Shayne’s face. The flickering light illumed his own face as well.

Shayne saw a youngish man with rugged features. There was strength in the solid jaw and firm mouth, intelligence in the cool appraisal of his gray eyes and in the smooth, broad brow.

Brand was studying the detective’s face carefully, but his expression gave no hint of what he was thinking. The match burned out and he dropped it to the concrete floor. His fingers tightened on Shayne’s arm. He said, “Down this way,” quietly, and they went down the corridor to a square room with barred windows through which a little light shone. The stench was stronger here, and Brand explained, “The can’s here at this end. Nobody ever comes close to it unless they have to.” They stopped and leaned against the wall between the two windows.

“I don’t know you, do I?” Brand asked.

“No. I hit town this afternoon.” Shayne hesitated, then added, “Drove up from Miami.”

“Passing through and got picked up by one of the local boys?”

“I got picked up outside the Eustis Restaurant after I’d had dinner and a few drinks.”

“You wanted to talk,” Brand reminded him.

“That’s why I got myself thrown in here,” Shayne told him.

“What’s the lay? Give it to me.”

Shayne gave it to him straight. “I’m a private detective in Miami. A few days ago I had a letter from Charles Roche saying his life was threatened and asking me to come up. He was dead when I got here.”

The end of Brand’s cigarette glowed brightly and he blew smoke toward the ceiling before saying, “So you’re out of a job.”

“Not exactly. He mailed a check as a retainer. I like to earn my money.” Shayne’s eyes were now accustomed to the dim light and Brand’s figure and features were clearer. He was nearly as tall as Shayne, a big-boned man with plenty of flesh, but no fat. A voice accustomed to commanding, and expecting his commands to be obeyed the first time. A voice men would instinctively trust, and which women would instinctively thrill to. His body appeared to be completely relaxed, his left shoulder against the wall, his head back, one ankle crossed over the other.

He was evidently thinking over Shayne’s statement. After a brief silence he said, “Then you’re different from most private operators.”

Shayne skipped that. “Since I got here too late to prevent Roche’s murder, I may stick around and find out who killed him.”

“They’ve got me slated for that. Didn’t you know?”

“I read today’s paper,” Shayne admitted. “Did you kill him?”

“No.”

“It was your gun.”

“Maybe. I was playing poker and I can prove it,” he went on evenly. “They might laugh at one affidavit, but they’ll have a tough time laughing off three.” Brand’s tone was carelessly confident.

The man’s complacency jarred on Shayne. He said angrily, “The way you look at it then… you’re not interested in any help I might be able to give you.”

“What did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t say. It’s John Smith on the police blotter.”

“All right, John Smith. I’ve been around a good many years and I’ve stayed healthy by knowing what the score is. These punks can’t fry me. Maybe you’re on the level and maybe you were

sent here by AMOK.”

“What’s AMOK?” Shayne asked through set teeth.

Brand laughed softly. Too softly. “That’s exactly what you’d say if you’re a stinking fink.” His tone was unchanged.

“And that’s what I’d say if I weren’t.”

“That’s right, too,” Brand conceded. “I’ve not nothing to hide and I’m not playing games. My arrest broke the strike and that’s what they wanted. I lose, and that’s that. Whoever bumped Roche was playing a cinch.”

“You’re a cinch to hang,” Shayne told him quietly, “unless you’ve got a card up your sleeve you haven’t shown.”

Brand didn’t answer at once. He got out a cigarette and struck a match. Shayne studied his face closely by the match-glow as he held it to the cigarette. In his brief judgment, he could see no hint of recklessness, but there was audacity in the upcurve of his mouth and two round depressions in his cheeks that showed when he drew on the cigarette, then disappeared. A gambler, perhaps, who would play for high stakes and enjoy it… but only if the odds were weighted in his favor.

Brand tossed the match away, leaned his head against the wall and smoked.

Shayne said quietly, “I got myself thrown into this goddam jail just to talk to you… size you up.”

“You did?” said Brand politely. He lifted his head from the wall and turned toward Shayne. “I’m not worried.”

“Joe Margule had an accident this evening,” Shayne told him in a conversational tone.

“Bad?” Brand lifted his shoulder from the wall.

“Dead,” said Shayne. He lit a fresh cigarette.

Brand had his feet uncrossed. He took a few steps toward one of the windows, whirled and came back to stand stiffly before the detective.

“Jethro Home has vanished,” Shayne went on slowly. “Skipped town, so the rumor goes.”

The silence was as thick as the stench in the room. Brand puffed rapidly on his cigarette, then went back to lean against the wall again, closer to Shayne this time.

“I was afraid of Jeth,” he said evenly, almost confidentially. “If they showed him a lot of money… but I couldn’t pick the men I’d be with when somebody blew a hole in Roche’s head.”

“But it knocks hell out of your alibi,” Shayne reminded him. He matched Brand’s casualness in both action and tone.

“I don’t know,” Brand said. “They all signed affidavits. They’ll stand up, even with Home and Margule out of the picture.”

“Not now,” Shayne said.

Brand let the back of his head roll along the wall and turned his eyes toward Shayne. The muscles in the detective’s gaunt face were working and his eyes were bleak in the dim light as he looked levelly at Brand. “Maybe… until about ten minutes ago. Now, you haven’t got an alibi left. I just heard Dave Burroughs swear he perjured himself in that affidavit. I heard Elwood read the statement he signed. Burroughs was half dead from… from an accident of some kind.” Shayne was lolling with his right shoulder against the wall, half-facing Brand. He watched narrowly in the dim light for some reaction.

Brand didn’t move for a time, but the deep drags he took on the cigarette lighted his face now and again. He appeared to be thinking hard. Presently he said, “I’ve got friends up north. The NUWJ will have a lawyer down here tomorrow. They can’t get away with… with murder and torture.”

“This,” said Shayne harshly, “is Centerville.” He stopped, feeling a sense of shock at the three words from his own lips. All of a sudden they had a fatalistic sound. Heretofore, he had only thought them strange, somewhat fascinating, ominous or dangerous, perhaps, but for the first time he realized their real meaning. He swiftly went over his experiences since arriving in the village, added them to the information Lucy Hamilton had told him, and he felt sorry as hell for George Brand.

He put a hand on Brand’s arm and said, “I don’t think a Yankee lawyer will get very far in this town… even with a habeas corpus, or anything else. My bet is that this is the only chance you’ll have to do any talking. To me. Right now.”

“Maybe you’re right.” Brand’s voice was heavy, thick.

“Maybe the name Michael Shayne means more to you than John Smith,” he said.

“Maybe… it… does.” Brand was standing erect, his arms folded across his chest, his head high, his chin jutting.

Shayne straightened his long lanky body and looked down a couple of inches into Brand’s eyes. He said, “If you didn’t kill Roche you’re a fool not to give me anything that will help prove it.”

Brand met his gaze levelly in the dim light. “I’ve got the proof when the right time comes. I’ll talk to my lawyer. You understand how it is,” he went on strongly, swiftly, completely sure of himself. “With my alibi shot, I’ve got one ace in the hole. Maybe you’re all right, but I’m not taking any chance with my life.”

Shayne turned away abruptly and said, “I’ve wasted a night in this stinking jail for nothing,” and was making his way toward the cell block when he heard the outer door opening.

“John Smith. Front and center,” a voice called out.

“Coming,” Shayne said gruffly, and went toward the rectangle of light.

Gantry stood in the doorway. He looked fresh and clean and ready for a night of excitement in Centerville. The hunchbacked jailor, dirty and smelling of fresh beer, stood aside, the big key hanging on the chain around his waist.

Shayne’s rugged red brows lifted quizzically when Gantry said in a curiously servile voice, “This way. There’s a lady waiting to see you.”

Shayne followed him. He tried to stir up a feeling of animosity toward Lucy Hamilton for interfering when he had specifically told her not to try to get him out of jail until tomorrow.

He followed Gantry’s youthful and springy steps, and wished he could be thirty again, but he forgot Gantry when they entered the room and Elsa Roche was standing there, holding out both her hands to greet him.