Murder Is My Business

CHAPTER SIX

Bayliss would have been almost as tall as Shayne had Bayliss stood erect. He didn’t. His shoulders drooped wearily, and his back appeared to be permanently bowed. His head was lowered, and he walked with a curious shuffle as though to balance his body with each step. Tendons stood out on each side of his neck, and he wore a shabby gray suit and a black bow tie about the frayed collar of a dingy white shirt. Ten years had thickened his torso and he looked well-fed, but his eyes held an expression of secretive wariness, and he seemed prepared to cringe should a hand suddenly be lifted against him.

Shayne put out his hand and said heartily, “Lance Bayliss!” After a moment’s hesitation Lance put his hand in Shayne’s. He didn’t lift his head to look directly into the detective’s eyes when he muttered, “Hello, Shayne. I didn’t suppose I’d ever see you again.”

Shayne kept hold of his hand and stepped back, urging him inside the room. “Come on in and have a drink.”

He narrowed his eyes as he noted the manner in which Lance Bayliss entered the hotel room. It told him a lot about what had happened to the man during the past ten years. Lance came in with a sort of furtive stealth, darting his eyes around in all directions suspiciously, behind the door and under the bed, and at the open closet door and the closed bathroom door. He kept moving toward the center of the room, and then stopped to look back slyly over his shoulder while Shayne closed the door. He said, “I guess I could use a drink.”

Shayne went past him and picked up Carmela’s glass and set it beside his own on the bedside table. He split the remainder of the cognac in the two glasses.

When he turned to offer one to Lance, his guest said, “I hope I didn’t interrupt anything by coming up.”

“Nothing important,” Shayne told him pleasantly.

“I couldn’t help noticing the two glasses,” Lance apologized. “You’re not — married?”

Shayne said, “No,” shortly. “Are you?”

Lance Bayliss shook his head. His hand trembled slightly as he lifted the glass to his lips. He murmured sardonically, “To older and happier days.”

Shayne sat down abruptly in the chair Carmela had occupied. He indicated another chair and asked, “What have you been doing with yourself?”

“Nothing important. Bumming around here and there.”

“Writing any poetry?”

“Hardly.” Lance balanced his glass on his knee and watched it carefully, as though he feared it might disappear from his hand if he didn’t keep his eyes fixed on it.

“Too busy writing propaganda for the Third Reich?” Shayne purposely made his voice harsh.

Lance Bayliss wet his lips. He didn’t look up. “So you know about that?”

“Carmela Towne told me.”

He winced at the sound of her name. “It was a dirty business,” he said quietly. “I didn’t think anything mattered during those years. I was being very cynical and disillusioned. The war woke me up.” He lifted his eyes to Shayne’s momentarily. “You’ve got to believe me,” he said strongly. “I pulled out of it when Hitler marched into Poland.”

“Since then?”

Lance shrugged. “Dodging the Gestapo mostly. I got to Mexico finally and ghosted a book there.”

“What sort of a book?”

“Dictators I Have Known.”

Shayne jerked to closer attention. “That was by the war correspondent Douglas Gershon.”

“His name was signed to it,” Lance admitted wryly. “I understand it sold well.”

“It caused a lot of controversy. Half the people who read it found it pro-Fascist.”

“It wasn’t at all,” Lance protested. “People felt that merely because it represented the dictators as human beings. They are human, and all the more despicable because of that. Hell, the book was banned in Germany and all the occupied countries.” His grayish-blue eyes flashed fire at Shayne, then flickered away.

“Which might have been smart propaganda to get it more widely read over here,” Shayne pointed out.

Lance Bayliss sighed and finished his drink. He set the empty glass down and said, “I can’t prove it, but I’m on the Gestapo blacklist for having ghosted the book. I had to get out of Mexico in a hurry. You know what happened to Douglas Gershon,” he ended hoarsely.

“Had some sort of accident in New York, didn’t he?”

“They called it an accident. Gershon was murdered. I happen to know the Gestapo got him.”

Shayne shrugged his indifference to the incident and said in a friendly tone, “What are you doing in El Paso, Lance?”

“Gathering material for a new book on Gestapo activities in this country.” Lance’s voice became animated and he looked squarely at Shayne. “It will include the true dope on some of our native Fascists who are either consciously or unconsciously collaborating.”

“Isn’t it dangerous?”

“I’ve lived with danger so much the last few years,” Lance said slowly, “it’s lost its impact.”

Shayne took out a pack of cigarettes and offered them to Lance, who accepted avidly. Thumbnailing a match, Shayne lit both of them, spun the matchstick across the room, and asked, “Did you just drop in here to see me for old times’ sake, or was there something in particular?”

“I wanted to see what kind of man you’d turned into,” Lance told him coolly. “Your championship of Jefferson Towne intrigues me.”

“He’d make El Paso a good mayor.”

Lance Bayliss uttered an angry exclamation, and rose to stride up and down the hotel room. His words came in a rush: “That’s typical of this country’s smug way of thinking. Towne is a menace to the community and to America. He has the true Leader complex. Damn it, Shayne, don’t you realize he sees himself as the Man-on-Horseback? The mayoralty of El Paso first. That’s a stepping stone. A springboard to launch him into state and national politics. He’s as dangerous as a Hitler. And you’re helping him get elected by clearing him in a lucky accident that might have prevented his election.”

“I don’t think he’s that dangerous,” Shayne argued good-naturedly. “You’re in the habit of looking for bogymen around every corner.”

“That’s the trouble with you here in America.” Lance Bayliss stopped in mid-stride to level a trembling forefinger at Shayne. “You underestimate the danger. You sit back and say blandly, ‘It can’t happen here.’ It can! It happened in Germany. You don’t realize the forces moving us toward Fascism in the United States, with men like Jeff Towne eager to lead the movement.”

Shayne said, “Perhaps,” remaining unperturbed.

“There’s no perhaps about it. Men like Towne have to be stopped before they get started. He was stopped until you stepped in with your talk of an autopsy to muddy the issue. You used to stand for something, Shayne. Have you changed so much in ten years?”

“I draw bigger fees than I did ten years ago.”

“Is a fat fee more important to you than the welfare of your country?” Lance’s voice trembled with wrath.

Shayne made a derisive gesture. “I can’t believe the fate of one small city election is so important.” He paused a moment and then added, “What would you have me do?”

“Drop the whole investigation. Get out of El Paso, and let the voters defeat Towne.”

Shayne said, “A lot of different people are eager to have me drop the investigation. I’m beginning to wonder what all of them are afraid of.”

“I’m telling you what I’m afraid of,” Lance assured him angrily. He took time out to choke back his anger, went on in a more reasonable tone: “You’ve got to realize this is something big, and there are people determined to block you. You’ll drop it like a hot brick if you’re smart.”

“And if I’m not?” Shayne’s voice was hard.

“I won’t be responsible for what happens.” Lance Bayliss shrugged his thin shoulders. “Think it over. A fat fee from Towne won’t do you much good in your coffin.”

“That might be construed as a threat,” Shayne mused.

“Construe it any damned way you want,” muttered Lance apathetically. He went toward the closed bathroom door, asking, “This your bathroom?”

Shayne said, “Yes. Help yourself.” He emptied his glass of cognac while Lance tried the door.

“It’s locked.” Lance whirled about suspiciously. “There’s someone in there! By God-”

“It’s a connecting bathroom,” Shayne lied calmly. “Guy in the next room must be using it. Christ, fellow,” he went on good-naturedly, “you need to quiet down and relax. This is the U.S. Remember? We don’t have SS squads concealed in every hotel room.”

“I am jumpy,” Lance conceded with a bitter twist of his lips. “I’m sorry you’re determined to be stubborn about going to bat for Towne. I guess there isn’t much more to say.”

“I guess there isn’t.” Shayne stayed in his chair. “If you feel like settling down to chew over other things, I’ll see if I can get a fresh bottle sent up.”

Lance said, “Thanks. No.” He was edging toward the door. “Think over what I’ve told you. I’ll be around and-”

The bathroom door swung open, and Carmela Towne was outlined in the doorway. She cried out, “Lance!”

He turned his head very deliberately to look at her. His gaze was impersonal and searching. He drew in his breath, and the small sound was loud in the stillness of the hotel room. He looked back at Shayne and said acidly, “I’m sorry I interrupted your drinking party. I’ll get out and let you finish it.” He went swiftly to the door and jerked it open.

Carmela swayed forward and cried out, “Lance,” again.

He stepped out, and the slamming of the door echoed his name.

Carmela turned numbly toward Shayne. “Did you see his eyes when he looked at me? He hates me, Michael.”

Shayne said evenly, “Ten years have taught him to hate a lot of things, Carmela.”

“I heard everything he said. About Father and all. Do you believe them, Michael? Can they be true?”

Shayne said, “I don’t know.” He sighed. “I’m not even sure that Lance believes them.”

Carmela came toward him slowly. Her features were haggard and tightly drawn. Her dark eyes glittered insistently. “What do you mean by that?”

“I’m not sure.” Shayne moved restively in his chair. “I’m only sure that Lance is trying to balk a complete investigation into the death of the soldier. Other people are trying to do the same thing for different reasons.” He got up and jerked his head curtly toward the chair. “Sit down and relax. I’ll order up that bottle and we’ll pour ourselves a drink.”