Murder in Haste

Chapter Ten

Michael Shayne angrily ground out his cigarette in the nearest ashtray, which was already overflowing. Three of the butts were his. He was wasting too much time. He threw aside the ancient copy of Life, the only magazine in the waiting room, uncrossed his long legs and stood up. The secretary at the desk near the door, a gray-haired woman with a masculine haircut and severe horn-rimmed glasses, continued to type as he approached.

“In confidence,” Shayne said, “is the warden really busy, or is this to make me realize what a big man he is?”

The secretary’s fingers lifted from the keys, and the corner of her mouth moved, “In confidence, Mr. Shayne, I only work here.”

“I’d forgotten how hard it is to get into jail when you want to get in.”

A buzzer sounded. “That may be for you, Mr. Shayne. Excuse me.”

She opened the door to the warden’s office and looked in, then opened it all the way. “You may go in now.”

Shayne gave her a half-wink as he passed. The warden looked up from an open folder, but he didn’t get out of his swivel chair or offer to shake hands. He was a plump man in glasses, and looked like an insurance salesman who hasn’t ever succeeded in selling much insurance.

“So you’re interested in one of my thirty-day men, are you?” he snapped. “Why?”

Shayne sat down without being asked to do so. “I’ve been retained to investigate a series of small stick-ups a few years ago in southern Alabama, among other things. I have information that Milburn may be involved.”

“You’re no novice, Shayne. You surely must know that there isn’t a prison warden in the country who would turn over one of his prisoners for questioning in a police matter. What’s your real angle?”

Shayne said carefully, “I understand his thirty days are about up. I’d like to find out exactly when you’re letting him out, so I won’t miss him. I had a hard time finding him, and I don’t want him to disappear again.”

“He won’t disappear.” He tapped on the desk with the sharp end of a pencil, reversed it and tapped with the eraser. “We’re through with him here at noon tomorrow. But you can save yourself a trip. I’ve got a hold-order on him. He’s being called for.”

Shayne relaxed visibly. “That’s fine. Sooner or later the law of averages catches up with everybody, even Petey Painter, and he does something right. That’s who’s picking him up?”

The warden looked at that question from all angles before deciding to answer. “I think it’s in order for me to give out that information. We’re turning the man over on an armed robbery warrant.”

“I wasn’t sure Petey was that up to date. Did he just have the one session with him?”

The warden threw down his pencil and looked at Shayne from beneath lowered brows. “What is this, a fishing expedition, by any chance?”

The redhead grinned. “You might call it that. You know Lieutenant Wing, don’t you?”

“Sure, I know Joe Wing. Why?”

“I didn’t think you’d make a prisoner available unless I had a cop with me, so I asked Wing to meet me here. You kept me waiting so long he ought to be showing up any minute. He’ll be in a hurry. Could you get Milburn down in the visitors’ room so we won’t have any more delays?”

“Dear God!” the warden exclaimed. “You’d think I had nothing else to do but run errands for the Miami Beach police. Milburn’s working. He owes the county one more day of hard labor. He’ll be delighted to talk to you boys about something that happened a few years ago. Just delighted. He’ll talk to you steadily all day, till he hears the five o’clock quitting whistle. A hell of a way to run a jail, is all I have to say.” He stabbed a button on his desk, and when his secretary put her head in again he said, “Fred Mil-burn. They can probably find him in the chair shop. Have him brought to Interrogation.”

“Yes, sir. Lieutenant Wing is waiting.”

“Send him in.”

The warden not only stood up for Wing, he shook hands. Wing shot Shayne a glance. The redhead said, “Did Petey say anything about getting out a warrant for somebody named Fred Milburn?”

“Not to me,” Wing said.

“It’s only verbal so far,” the warden said. “He didn’t want to go through all the rigamarole out of writing up a transfer. I gave him the release date, so he could make the arrest as the guy walked out. Sit down. What are you up to, Joe, if it’s not too inquisitive? I never thought I’d see the day when Painter’s lieutenants were going around checking up on him.”

Wing sat down around the corner from Shayne. “We seem to be setting precedents right and left. The fact is — well, we can’t keep it corked very much longer — the son of a bitch has disappeared.”

The warden stared. “Painter?”

“And let’s keep that between these four stone walls for the time being,” Wing said. “I still hope he’ll be at his desk when I get back, raising hell as usual. I hate to think of those headlines.”

“But disappeared?” the warden said. “He’s probably just gone underground. He was being very cloak-and-dagger when he was out here. I just about had to swear a blood oath before he’d even tell me who he wanted to see. A great man for that kind of stuff.”

“Could be,” Wing said. “And if he’s just off somewhere pretending to be Sherlock Holmes, he won’t like this a damn bit. But I’d look pretty dumb if there’s something serious wrong and I just sit back and manicure my fingernails, because I’m scared he’ll bawl me out.”

The warden’s eyes glinted. “I don’t care for Painter any more than the next man, but we don’t want anything serious to happen to him, do we?” He gave a surprising hoot of laughter, which made him seem more human. “I’ll be god-dammed.”

“And this is in confidence, right?”

“Absolutely,” the warden said heartily, but without convincing Shayne. Tim Rourke had probably ferreted out the story by this time anyway. The warden went on, “But when I think of how he ordered my secretary out and just about looked under the rug to be sure I hadn’t planted some pixie there to spy on him—”

“Did he bring a driver?” Shayne said.

“Now that you mention it, he didn’t. He came in a taxi. The city probably paid for it, but still.”

“He was only here once?” Wing said.

The warden nodded. “My secretary might remember what day it was, if it’s important. Last week some time. If he didn’t want people to notice him, he certainly didn’t succeed. He played hell with our routine. The men were eating their dinner, and of course Mr. Bigshot couldn’t wait till they were finished, so we could bring Milburn in without making a special thing of it. We had to haul him out of the mess-hall, and everybody watched him go. He’s got a habitual rap coming to him next, and you know that old prison superstition, that two-time losers are good pigeon material because they have more at stake.

“It’s more than a superstition,” Shayne said.

“That may be. We’ve been having some trouble about the chow lately — the papers haven’t got hold of it, thank God. Taking Milburn out of the mess-hall set off a little racket. Nothing serious, a little rattling of cups and silverware. It quieted down after we grabbed a few of the ringleaders, guys we’ve had our eye on for quite some time. The point I’m making, I didn’t have time to chaperone Painter. I left him with Milburn, and then I had my hands full. I guess he got what he came for, because when I saw him again he was beaming. He looked like the cat who swallowed — what was it, a canary?

“You know Painter. He made arrangements for picking up Milburn on his release date, and delivered some uncalled-for remarks about what would happen to me if I discharged the prisoner before Painter arrived to make the arrest. I’ve been in this business a long time, and nothing like that has ever happened, or ever will happen. So Painter’s in trouble, is he?” He smiled broadly. “Well, well. Excuse me. I’m laughing on the outside and crying on the inside.”

“Painter was beaming,” Shayne said. “What was the prisoner doing?”

“Hell, Shayne — I don’t have my people long enough so I can tell anything by how they look. And Painter was holding forth. I didn’t give Milburn any serious study.”

The door opened abruptly. Looking around, Shayne saw the secretary and a uniformed guard. The guard beckoned the warden outside with a quick twist of the head. The warden got up hurriedly. Shayne and Wing were right behind him.

“Real trouble this time,” the guard said.

Whirling, he set off at a half run. The others pounded after him. At the end of the corridor, they ran through a barred door that was standing open. At the next barred door the warden flung over his shoulder, “Not you, Shayne. Wait here.”

Shayne decided that he hadn’t heard him. The warden was in too much of a hurry to stop and make it stick.

They entered a busy shop. At long benches along one end of the room, a number of men wearing faded blue work clothes, with serial numbers stencilled above their breast pockets, were weaving cane seats for finished chairs. They seemed deeply absorbed in their work, so preoccupied with making the pattern come out right that they didn’t notice the warden’s party. At the lathes and drill-presses, other inmates were turning chair-legs and drilling holes for rungs, with the same seriousness and attention to detail.

The guard, walking rapidly, led the way between two long rows of busy lathes. There was a pleasant smell of sawdust and wood-chips. None of the prisoners looked around. They were as tense as if they had been shooting craps for large stakes. The guard stopped.

One of the workers had slumped against his machine. His head rested in a litter of chips and machine-oil. A chair-leg, mounted between centers, continued to revolve at high speed.

The warden pulled at his shoulder, and he came all the way back, his head rolling. The warden caught him under both arms. The front of his work clothes was soaked with blood, and the handle of one of the turning chisels protruded from his stomach beneath his breastbone. He was alive, but he was breathing harshly and desperately, and Shayne didn’t think he could live much longer.