Murder in Haste

Chapter Thirteen

Six-thirty came and went. Each time the switchboard buzzed, the operator glanced nervously at Shayne before she threw the switch and took the call. Each time, after listening to the first few words, she shook her head. Rose, at the office desk across the room, was smoking one cigarette after another.

At 6:45 there was another buzz. “Sunset Nursing Home, good evening,” she said, and an instant later she looked at Shayne and nodded excitedly. Shayne picked up the office phone, which was already plugged in. He heard a man’s voice: “John Chadwick again, and good evening to you. A little late tonight, but it couldn’t be helped. Any news?”

The girl was so excited that she stammered “Y-yes, yes, there is Mr. Chadwick, there certainly is. We’re all so glad, I can’t begin to tell you.”

“Good news?” the voice said tensely. “That’s wonderful! The paralysis?”

“Even better than that. Naturally we want him to be perfectly well again, and he’s still having some trouble with his left side. But the wonderful thing is that he’s going to be able to talk!”

“I should say it is wonderful,” the voice said heartily. “Almost too good to be true.”

“That’s what we all think here. Dr. Shoifett is terribly gratified, because he’s been using an experimental treatment, which only works about ten percent of the time. I was hoping you’d call earlier so you could talk to the doctor, but he just left this minute. Mr. Chadwick said his first words about two hours ago. It was pretty fuzzy, but according to Dr. Shoifett that’s not the point. If the throat muscles function at all, eventual recovery is almost certain.”

She looked at Shayne, who gave her an encouraging nod. Rose was leaning forward, fingers laced.

The voice said, “That’s great. I’m having trouble taking it in. His mind was clear? He recognized people?”

“I’d better not try to be definite on that,” she said. “I got the impression from the nurses that — but I’d better let you talk to Dr. Shoifett in the morning. The patient’s been given a strong sedative and he’s sleeping soundly. I probably shouldn’t have said as much as I have, but it’s so nice to be able to give somebody some encouraging news, for a change. Maybe the next time you call you can talk to him yourself.”

“I’m certainly looking forward to that. Was my niece with him when he—”

The girl looked at Shayne, who shook his head.

“No, she wasn’t, Mr. Chadwick. She came over right away, but he was asleep by the time she got here.”

The man on the phone repeated that his brother’s recovery of speech seemed almost a miracle, and thanked the girl several times before he hung up. She closed the switch and blew out her breath in a long sigh.

“Did I say anything wrong?”

“You were perfect,” Shayne said.

Rose had put her clasped hands to her forehead. Her eyes were closed. Shayne touched her shoulder.

“Don’t think about it, Rose. It may still actually happen.”

She shook her head helplessly. “It’s not that. I know he’s no more or less sick than he was before. It’s just that — using him like this—”

“I wouldn’t do it if I could think of any better way,” Shayne said. “He’d agree if we could explain it to him. More than one life is at stake. He won’t be in any danger. He’ll be in another part of town.”

She looked up. “There’s danger to you.”

“That’s what I’m paid for. Now let’s work this out with Wing.”

She touched his sleeve. “Can’t I sleep in one of the third-floor rooms? With you here I’ll be as safe as I would be by myself in some hotel. I’d go out of my mind anywhere else.”

“We can decide that after Joe Wing gets here.”

He asked the switchboard girl for an outside line. He was passed along from one number to another until he reached Joe Wing at a restaurant near the jail.

“Shayne,” the redhead said. “We’ve had some developments, and if you want to take part you’d better rearrange your schedule and come in to the Sunset Nursing Home off West Avenue.”

“I know the place,” Wing said. “Be more specific, can’t you, Mike? I just sat down to dinner. I was going back to the jail to spell the sheriff. He’s asked the same questions so many times he’s getting punchdrunk.”

“Why don’t you do that, Joe?” Shayne said with a grin. “I’ll take care of it, and if I catch the guy I’ll call you right away.”

“All right, all right,” Wing said with resignation. “Tell them to make some coffee. I’ll be right there.”

“We’ll need another man,” Shayne said. “And you might stop at a drugstore and pick up some benzedrine.”

“Oh, it’s going to be one of those nights, is it?” Wing said. “It’s going to take more than benzedrine to keep me awake. I’m so tired I couldn’t even tell you my own name.”

After Shayne hung up he said, “Nothing can happen till after dark. We have time to eat. And we’re going to need lots and lots of coffee.”

“Wait in the dining room,” the switchboard girl said. “I’ll see that they take care of you.”

Wing arrived as Shayne was pouring a second cup of coffee.

“Just black for me, please,” Wing said. “Hello, Mrs. Heminway. Tell me what’s going on, Mike, and it better be interesting.”

“Anytime I start boring you, let me know,” Shayne told him. “Mrs. Heminway’s Uncle John has been calling up every night around six-thirty to find out if Chadwick has been doing any talking, only he’s not really Uncle John. And one of his calls was long distance from Baltimore.”

“Well, well,” Wing said, ignoring his coffee. “You’re not boring me so far.”

“When he called tonight, I had the girl tell him his prayers had been answered. Chadwick had said a couple of words. Just a couple, and then the doctor gave him a sedative. In the morning we’re all pretty sure he’ll be his old self again.”

“That’s taking quite a lot on yourself, Mike,” Wing grumbled. “I wish you’d cleared it with me first.”

“I found out about it at six-twenty-five. I didn’t have time. Of course if you don’t approve of the idea we can always put a sign on his door that it was just a piece of good clean fun.”

“Now Mike. I just wish I’d been told about it. What about the officials here?”

“We have to persuade them. Rather, you have to persuade them. There has to be a certain amount of shifting around of patients, and we’ll need your authority for that. Chadwick ought to be moved to another hospital for the night, and we’ll need his room and the room on each side.”

“What makes you think the guy knows Chadwick’s room number?”

“He’s gone to a lot of trouble. He wouldn’t overlook a thing like that.”

Wing left his coffee half-finished and went to find the director. When he came back he was more enthusiastic.

“How’s the coffee, still hot? I hate to admit it, Mike, but the reason I didn’t jump at this right away was because it wasn’t my idea. I don’t see any reason why it shouldn’t work. That voice on the phone almost has to belong to the same guy who had Fred Milburn stabbed and sent the boys to shoot Mrs. Heminway. Chadwick must know something he was about to spill to Painter. It all comes back to Painter.” He looked soberly at the fresh coffee he had just poured. “And I’ve just about come to the conclusion that we aren’t going to find Painter in one piece.”

“No!” Rose cried.

Wing went on, still looking down into his coffee. “If only the jerk had told somebody what he was doing! It’s bad when a cop as important as Painter gets killed. It’s like losing a battle. The city won’t clamp down for months.”

“He also happens to be a person,” Rose said quietly.

“Well, yes. Technically I suppose you’re right, but that’s never the first thing that comes to mind when you think about Peter Painter.”

“Did you fix things with the doctor?” Shayne said.

“Yeah. He’s sending Chadwick to Jackson Memorial. I’m moving into Chadwick’s room. You can use the room on one side, Mike. I brought Norton with me, and he can use the other.”

“This was my idea,” Shayne said. “I’ll be in Chadwick’s room.”

“Out of the question, Mike.”

Shayne smiled. “You’re in charge. There was something I wanted to tell you — what was it? Oh, yes. Four boys from the St. Albans were seen chasing Petey up Collins last night around nine in a Drive-Urself Chevy. But you’ll be busy here. I’ll work on that angle.”

Wing ran his fingers distractedly through his hair. “I begin to get an idea why Painter felt the way he did about you, Mike. I wish I could end up ahead of you once. Just once, that’s all I ask. Okay, you win. Let’s have it.”

An ambulance arrived for Rose’s father. She had persuaded Lieutenant Wing to let her stay, and she had been assigned to an unoccupied room on the top floor, under the eaves. Shayne drove to the nearest bar for a bottle of cognac, and then put his Buick in the garage where it wouldn’t be seen; beside Wing’s police car. Wing, meanwhile, had been giving orders by phone. There would be nearly as many police covering the Truckers’ convention as there were formal delegates. Names and descriptions of the four men Kincaid had seen had been circulated — one name and one nickname, and not much in the way of descriptions — and Shayne didn’t think there was much hope that they would turn up any sooner than Painter himself.

Gradually the Sunset Nursing Home settled down for the night. The last visitor left. The doctor made his evening rounds, and lights began to blink out.

Rose told Shayne goodnight at the bottom of the stairs to the third floor.

“I know it’s a lot to ask you, but please be careful, Mike. I know it’s your business, I know you wouldn’t be in it if you didn’t enjoy it, but I couldn’t forgive myself if anything happened to you.”

“Get some sleep, Rose.”

“Sleep!”

She started up the stairs, then turned suddenly and came in against him hard. Her arms went around him.

“Mike,” she whispered. “I don’t want to ask you anything, but — the reason I wanted to stay here was so if you — wanted to — I get so lonely, so scared, in bed by myself. Oh, darling.”

She raised her mouth to his and pressed her body against him.

“Mike, can’t you, please? For a little while. He wouldn’t come yet, not till much later.”

“No, Rose,” Shayne said. “Everything has to be set. There can’t be any moving around.”

She looked at him seriously and whispered, “Then tomorrow?” Coloring slightly in the dim light, she turned and ran upstairs.

Shayne went thoughtfully down the long corridor, making a mental note of something else he didn’t expect to tell Lucy Hamilton. As he came abreast of the room next to Chadwick’s, the door opened and Wing looked out. He was in his shirt sleeves, his shoulder holster showing.

“You took your time, Mike,” he said. “I ate enough Bennies to stay awake for three weeks, and let’s just hope they work. I’m going” to sit in a straight chair next to the door, so I can’t fall asleep without falling down. That’s a noisy latch on your door. Let’s wait till the guy opens the door before we grab him.”

“Fine, Joe. I’m going to rig up something that will make a racket when the door opens. And don’t use that gun except to make him stand still. We want to talk to this man.”

“I’m no rookie, for God’s sake.”

In the room on the other side, Norton was prowling around in his stocking feet. Shayne looked in on him, then went into the room he was going to use. He plumped up the covers of the narrow hospital bed to make it seem that someone was sleeping there, and balanced a pair of scissors on the doorknob in such a way that it would be knocked off when the knob was turned. The kitchen had sent up a large pot of coffee and an electric burner. Shayne poured a cup of coffee, added cognac and sipped it slowly. Then he turned out the lamp.

The room was on the second floor, facing south. Not much light came through the single window except when a car, coming along West Avenue, made the turn onto Biscayne Street. There would be a moon, but it was not yet up. Shayne waited until his eyes adjusted to the darkness. Then he began moving about the room, getting used to the position of the furniture. There wasn’t much furniture to worry about — a bureau, a standing lamp and two chairs.

He moved one of the chairs to the wall near the door and sat down. The air-conditioning unit was humming quietly. He decided not to risk a cigarette. The patient who usually occupied this room, being paralyzed, naturally didn’t smoke. There was a smell of coffee, but it couldn’t be helped; Shayne couldn’t get through a second sleepless night without the help of coffee.

The moon rose. It was three-quarters full. Shayne lowered the Venetian blind and tilted the slats, and poured another cup of coffee. He managed to kill fifteen minutes with that one cup. The night was very quiet, and he could hear Norton moving restlessly in the next room. After putting the cup on the bureau beside the pot he took several turns back and forth from the window to the door. He was fully awake, but the instant he sat down again he went into a light doze. The slightest sound at the door would have awakened him, but when there was a faint metallic clink at the window an hour or so later, it didn’t penetrate.

The sound was repeated. Shayne heard it this time, but still half asleep, he didn’t react. He even knew what had made the sound — a chisel being forced between the air-conditioner and the sash. Then the sash came up, and at that moment several things happened at once.

The moon had slipped behind clouds, but a car threw its headlights against the window, and through the tilted slats of the blind Shayne saw an all-black figure, wearing what seemed to be a tight black jersey. Something dropped into the room. Even before the headlights flashed past, the figure was gone.

Shayne sprang to his feet and called, “Joe! Outside!”

He ran to the window and wrenched at the partly-raised sash. But it was jammed. He knew he was overlooking something important, and perhaps a second and a half passed before he realized what it was. Without an instant’s further thought he drew back a step and threw himself at the window.

He had raised his arm as he plunged forward, twisting to protect his eyes and face. His elbow struck the blind with the full force of his powerful body behind it. The blind came loose with a crash, glass and wood splintered. Shayne fell through onto the veranda roof, and at that instant there was a terrific explosion inside the room.

He had brought part of the blind with him. The momentum of his diving fall carried him to the edge of the roof, where he grabbed at the gutter to check himself. He was in precarious balance for a second, but the broken-off section of the blind whipped past him and carried him on over. Snared in the ropes, he landed badly, on his side with one arm beneath him. Each noise had overlapped with the next, and the whole thing had almost seemed to happen at once, as though the shattering of the glass, the clatter of the blind as it came down, his awkward fall, had all been part of the same explosion. For a moment he couldn’t move. He lay amid the wreckage, surrounded by ropes and torn slats and pieces of wood, looking up at the sky and swearing under his breath. Then he came to his feet. “Joe!” he yelled.

He heard the pounding of footsteps inside the building. He crouched, listening. He couldn’t be sure how much time had passed since the bomb had been thrown into the room started for the corner of the house, and one of the Venetian Perhaps he had blacked out for a moment; perhaps not. He blind ropes tightened around his ankle and threw him.

He freed himself, swearing more savagely. The porch-light flashed on. Joe Wing rah out, a gun in his hand.

“Hold it!” Shayne yelled as the gun came up.

“Mike! What are you doing out here?”

“What do you think, catching fireflies? Do you hear anything?”

Wing listened. But by now there was too much noise from the house to hear anything. Norton charged out through the door. Apparently he had reached Shayne’s room in time to run into the blast; his shirt was ripped, his face blackened. He, too, was waving a gun, to Shayne’s disgust.

Lights were coming on all over the building. Suddenly a woman’s voice screamed.

“He’s got some kind of a black sweater on,” Shayne said. “Black pants. Maybe we can still—”

He set off up the driveway at a hard run. The iron gates were open; probably they were never closed. Shayne ran through and looked both ways. Several cars were parked on the drive nearby. When Norton joined him, Shayne said brusquely, “Check those parked cars. Then watch the gate.”

He turned back and met Wing as the lieutenant ran up the driveway toward him. “He can’t be far away,” Shayne said. “I haven’t heard a car.”

“We’ll have a couple of patrols here in a minute,” Wing said. “What kind of a sweater is he wearing?”

“Black jersey, skin-tight.”

“You’re bleeding like a pig, Mike.”

“Too bad,” Shayne said. “Let’s find this son of a bitch and then I’ll get a transfusion.”

They separated. Shayne had no trouble so long as he was out on the lawn, but he had to move cautiously when he went among the shrubs and bushes at the edge of the nursing home property. Reaching the high iron fence, protected at its base by a thick barberry hedge, he turned back toward the water. Off to his left, Wing’s flashlight moved back in the direction of the house. Many of the windows were lighted, and Shayne saw the gaping hole he had left as he crashed through the window ahead of the explosion.

A little crowd of patients and attendants had gathered on the porch under the overhead light. Sirens were wailing. Soon the bushes became too dense to move through without a light, and Shayne went back to the lawn. As he came into the light from the porch, Rose broke from the others and ran toward him.

“Mike! You—”

She stopped, aghast at what she saw. Shayne brushed the blood out of his eyes.

Suddenly, beneath the excited rattle of conversation from the porch, he noticed another sound — the quiet beating of an inboard motor, and then he knew the explanation of the tight black jersey.

“A skin-diver!” he shouted to Wing, who was coming out of the shrubbery on the other side of the lawn. “He swam out to a boat. Call the Coast Guard.”