Murder in Haste

Chapter Eight

They went back to the corridor. Rourke went looking for a friendly delegate who would fill his glass. Shayne took the elevator to the lobby, where he shut himself in a phone booth and dialed Beach headquarters. Joe Wing seemed to be glad to hear from him.

“Have you got him, Mike?”

“No, he slipped me,” Shayne said. “His Ford’s in front of a drugstore just off the causeway on Collins.”

“Not any more. We just towed it in. It was stolen last night at International Airport, and one of the boys spotted the tags. We’re trying to raise fingerprints, but everything’s pretty smudged.”

“He took a cab to the St. Albans from there,” Shayne said, “and he got away from me on the twelfth floor. The place is running over with truckers in for the big convention, if that means anything.”

“Uh-oh,” Wing said, and went on slowly, “Al Cole, the boy you gift-wrapped for us, pays dues in that union. I’ve been talking to Baltimore. He has a medium-long sheet. Five or six arrests, a couple of small convictions. What did you hit him with, Mike?”

“I didn’t like the looks of that silencer,” Shayne said. “It surprised the hell out of me, and I nearly lost a client. That’s something I hate to do. I was afraid for a minute I’d broken my hand. But it seems to be okay.”

“Maybe your hand is okay,” Wing said dryly, “but he’s going to be eating through a straw for the next few weeks. He also won’t be doing much talking. Did you get anything more on Painter? You may not believe this, but I’m beginning to worry about the twerp.”

“I get an impression, for what it’s worth, that he was onto something and he tried to squeeze it too hard. I want to see Norma Harris. She’s probably not talking to the Beach police these days, but there’s no reason she wouldn’t talk to me. Outside of that, I can’t see anything to do but try to retrace Petey’s footsteps the last couple of weeks.”

Wing sighed. “I was hoping this would turn out to be something simple. How are you going to trace his footsteps if he didn’t leave any? He must have been afraid of a leak in the department. That’s the only way I can explain it. I’ve been checking his schedule, starting with the day Norma Harris came to see him. It’s full of gaps. He was out of the office a lot, but he didn’t tell anybody where he was going or why. He did His phoning from a booth, and that’s not like Painter — he’s a man who liked to hang onto his dimes.”

“How about after what’s-his-name started driving him? Heinemann?”

“Well, he’s a little dim, Mike, if you didn’t notice. A perfectly good cop, but he doesn’t do any more thinking than he has to. We’ve been talking about it. I was tired to begin with, and a lot tireder when I finished. I’ll go through my notes on what he told me and see if anything points to the Truckers. Do you want to call me back?”

“No, I’ll hold on.”

Shayne waited, drumming impatiently on the wall of the booth.

Wing exclaimed, “Here’s something. I knew the St. Albans rang a bell. Painter went there the day before yesterday. He talked to somebody on the house phone and went up in the elevator. He was gone a half hour.”

“Did Heinemann notice what floor?”

“That’s just the sort of thing he doesn’t think he’s being paid to notice. I know there’s something else here, if I can find it.”

Again Shayne waited. He put down the phone and started a cigarette.

“Yeah,” Wing said finally. “Not that it’s much. Heinemann’s not sure when this was, sometime last week. He drove Painter to a very crummy bowling alley, somewhere in the neighborhood of Eighth, called the Three Hundred Club. Painter checked his .38 before they went in. It’s that kind of joint. Heinemann stuck with him to the manager’s office, and then he stayed outside and watched the door. The name is Horvath, Sticky Horvath. I looked up his record, and it’s not good. He served two jolts for receiving stolen goods, and he was mentioned in that loan shark investigation a few years back. Remember, Mike? Nothing came of it in the way of prosecution, but Horvath was supposed to have a corner on the loan-sharking in the Truckers local.”

“Painter didn’t tell anybody why he wanted to talk to him?”

“Not a word. That might be something for you, Mike. A guy like Horvath doesn’t talk to us unless we have something to hit him with. But you better let us backstop you.”

“No, that might queer it,” Shayne said. “I’ll see what happens. How’s Mrs. Heminway?”

“Pretty shaky. She thinks you’re hot stuff, incidentally. Everything’s quiet over there, and I left a man with her to be sure it stays quiet.”

“One other thing,” Shayne said. “Tim Rourke’s going to be calling you. His paper knows that something’s up, and you can’t sit on the story much longer. He might be willing to hold off if you give him an exclusive deal, but not for long.”

“Thanks, Mike. I’ll see if I can stall him. Keep moving in. I’ve got a hunch we might be on the edge of something.”

Shayne hung up. He had a surprising feeling of let-down, of incompleteness, as though something important was missing. It took him a moment to put his finger on what it was. It was Painter. Given a choice between a hard-working, hard-driving, intelligent cop like Joe Wing, and an irrational, infuriating bundle of contradictions like Peter Painter, only a total fool would choose Painter. But without Painter to rail at and out-maneuver, there was no doubt that some of the keen enjoyment Shayne usually got from an intricate case like this was simply not there. He smiled ruefully, but the smile left his deeply lined face as he threaded his way through the crowded lobby. What had happened to the little son of a bitch?

The doorman whistled up Shayne’s car. The redhead threw away his cigarette and stuck another in his mouth. He left it unlighted. It was still there some ten minutes later when he cruised slowly up and down the streets in the honky-tonk section at the southern end of the Beach, until he found the Three Hundred Club, an establishment which compared unfavorably with the luxury hotel he had just left.

Cars left unattended in this part of town had a way of losing hubcaps, radio aerials and sometimes wheels. Shayne continued till he found a garage and walked back. At this hour the neighborhood had a dejected air, with the strip-joints and bars still padlocked and most of the neon lights turned off. The front door of the Three Hundred Club was open, but there didn’t seem to be much activity inside.

The unwashed windows didn’t allow much sunlight to enter, and the lights were on. Five or six loungers were reading the morning paper, studying scratch sheets, and waiting for the morning to pass. They were all male, all under twenty. They were wearing the uniform of their age-group, T-shirts and blue jeans, and one had a leather cap with union dues-buttons on its broken peak.

Shayne paused inside the door to light his cigarette and give everyone a chance to get adjusted to a new arrival.

“No school today, boys?” he said.

One of the youths sneered. That was the only response. They went on with what they were doing, but Shayne knew that he had their attention. He addressed the one in the leather cap.

“Sticky in yet?”

“What do you want to see him for?”

“Guess,” Shayne said, and walked into the alleys, none of which were being used. The youth in the leather cap came along with him, walking fast.

“He’s busy. Who do I say wants to see him?”

Looking around, Shayne saw a door marked PRIVATE, NO Admittance. He sauntered toward it. The youth scrambled around in front of him.

“Cool it,” he said warningly. “He always wants to know who somebody is. That’s the way we do it around here.”

Shayne grinned and kept coming. The boy held his ground until Shayne was only a stride away, but he didn’t seem to care for what he saw in the redhead’s face. He began to fall back. “Listen—”

Shayne grazed him as he went by. He tapped on the door with the private label.

“You see?” he said. “Nothing to get excited about. I’m being polite.”

“Come in,” a voice called.

Shayne opened the door. The man behind the cluttered desk was nearly as grubby as his place of business, and that was very grubby. He was wearing a full beard, and he had a real loan shark’s eyes. He was sipping coffee from a thick crockery cup without a handle. He looked at the youth in the leather cap.

“Who do we have here, lame-brain, and why?”

Shayne came on into the room. There was a small battered safe on the floor, its door ajar.

“I want to go on being polite,” he said, “but I don’t like to be the only one. This is no way to do business. Maybe I want to borrow some money.”

“This ain’t a bank,” Horvath said.

“That’s not what I heard.”

Shayne reached toward his hip for his wallet. Horvath froze, his hands below the level of the desk. The redhead laughed.

“If you’re that nervous about your assets, close your goddam safe.”

He held out his open wallet and let Horvath see his private investigator’s license. Horvath lifted his hands into sight again.

“This is an honor,” he said sarcastically. “If you want to bowl, you can have the first game on the house.”

“That’s not the side of your business I’m interested in,” Shayne said. “Let’s have the kid wait outside.”

After a moment Horvath moved his head, and the boy faded back out of the doorway and closed the door.

“Now what?” Horvath said.

Shayne cleared off a corner of the desk and sat down. “I’m trying to get a line on a cop here in town. His name’s Peter Painter, one of our leading citizens. I’ve had him on my back for years. I made him look bad on a case once, and he’s been trying to ruin me ever since. He’s come close a few times, and I’ve been looking for a way to put him out of circulation.”

“I’m supposed to get worked up about this?”

“A scandal would do it,” Shayne went on calmly. “I got a tip from a friend in the neighborhood that he came to see you last week. I hope none of your boys tried to steal the hubcaps off his Caddy, because that kind of thing makes Painter sore. Now let’s take a hypothetical case. Say he’s in a jam and he has to raise money in a hurry. He doesn’t want to bother his friends, such as they are. It’s not the kind of jam he can explain to a bank. What would be more natural than to visit his friendly neighborhood loan shark?”

“And how awful for him if anybody found out,” Horvath said with mock sympathy.

“Exactly,” Shayne said. “If I knew how much he had to raise, maybe I could find out why he had to raise it. I’m still trying to be polite, but he wouldn’t come here unless it was something he wouldn’t want to get out.”

“What was that name, Painter?” Horvath said, pretending to consider.

“I don’t expect you to recognize it for nothing. I’ll go as high as a hundred.”

Horvath caressed his beard. “A hundred wouldn’t even begin to—”

Shayne interrupted. “A hundred’s the price for this information. That’s high, as you know as well as I do. Come on, Sticky. I’ve got other calls.”

“Let’s see the hundred.”

Shayne took two fifties out of that compartment of his wallet and showed them to him. It was clear that Horvath wished they were his.

“He didn’t want a loan,” he said reluctantly. “The subject didn’t come up.”

“What did he want?”

Horvath forced his eyes away from the bills, giving them up with a sigh. “If he came here at all, and remember I’m not admitting a damn thing, he probably wanted to sell me a ticket to a cop’s benefit or something. I gave him a quick brush.”

Shayne returned the bills to his wallet. “You don’t want to think twice about that answer?”

“I already thought three times. I’m in business. I want to go on being in business at this location. Hell, I told you he didn’t try to borrow any dough, didn’t I? That ought to be worth fifty.”

Shayne put out his cigarette on the surface on the desk. It wasn’t the first cigarette that had been put out there.

“It’s not even worth a beer,” he said. “Let’s back away and try something else. I hear you’ve been slammed a few times for receiving. Do you ever take a chance on big denomination bills or negotiable securities?”

“Be serious, Shayne,” he said uneasily. “Do I look it?”

“I guess not. How about your exclusive with the Truckers? Did Petey go into that?”

His eyes jumped. The corner of his mouth may have twitched, but it was hidden by the big beard. “That’s all, Shayne. Out.”

“Did you ever loan Sam Harris any money?”

Immediately the loan-shark eyes were alert and watchful. “The guy who gets the charge this week? Is that why you want to know about hot bills?” He touched his beard thoughtfully. “They never found all that loot, did they?”

Shayne grinned down at him wolfishly. “Only about twenty grand. Does that give you any ideas?”

Horvath waited for another instant, then made up his mind. “Out. I happen to have work to do.”

“I’ll say it once more,” Shayne said easily. “I’m not asking you to blow the whistle on anybody. I just want to know what questions Painter asked you. You don’t have to tell me the answers, just the questions, for an easy hundred bucks.”

“O-u-t,” Horvath said, his voice climbing.

Reaching out, he stabbed a button on his desk. A bell clanged outside in the bowling alleys. The door opened but Shayne didn’t look around.

“Throw him out,” Horvath said curtly.

The redhead went on looking down at him, then stooped, took hold of the legs of the heavy desk and heaved it up and over. It landed in Horvath’s lap.

“Grab the son of a bitch!” Horvath yelled hysterically. “Grab him.”

The boy in the leather cap had been joined by two others. Shayne went toward them at a leisurely walk. A path opened for him. Horvath screamed, “Crack his skull! Knock the goddam teeth out of his head!” Then more frantically: “Get this goddam thing off me!”

Shayne went through the door and closed it behind him. The three boys kept a pace away, shuffling uneasily.

The youth in the leather cap said, “Hurry it up, will you?”

“Aren’t you going to throw me out?” Shayne said.

“Well, you’re going anyway, why make a production out of it? When you first came in, I didn’t know you were Mike Shayne.”

Shayne went through the waiting room. Behind him, one of the boys took a bowling ball out of the rack and began slamming it against the cinderblock wall. Another boy groaned.

Shayne returned to the garage and paid for his car.