A Taste for Violence (20 page)

A car had stopped outside and a tall, distinguished appearing man got out. He came up the steps spryly and entered the room.

“Looka here, Mayor,” Gar said, “can you tell me what’s goin’ on around here?”

The mayor looked over at Elwood. He was slumped in a straight chair, his head lolling on his shoulder. Turning to the gaping members of the police force who had gathered for day duty, he quietly explained the new order of things in Centerville, appealed to them for co-operation.

When he finished his brief speech he held out his hand to Shayne and said, “Good luck to you. If there is any insubordination, just call on me.”

When the mayor went out Shayne waved his hand negligently and said, “Lock him up,” to the two men guarding Elwood. “Then get some hot water and plenty of lye and a scrub brush and put him to work scrubbing that stinking hole up there. Kick him in the rump every time he slows up, and keep him at it until the job’s finished.”

Shayne said to Gar, “Bring the records on every prisoner to my office at once. No one is to go out on assignment until I talk to them,” he added, looking at the day officers who immediately snapped to attention.

He turned and strode into the large office previously occupied by Elwood, picked up the telephone and called Lucy Hamilton at the Moderne Hotel to tell her it was time his secretary got on the job.

SHAYNE worked straight through the day, forgetting the lunch hour. Twice during the morning he sent out for containers of black coffee, and surprised Lucy Hamilton by drinking cupfuls without the addition of cognac. At two o’clock he had sandwiches and more coffee sent in while he dug into past records of the men under him. He suspended some, shifted the assignments of others, calling them in one by one to size them up and get an idea of their personalities and inquire into their particular duties.

He then attacked with enthusiasm the charges on file against the thirty-five prisoners and ordered eighteen of them released immediately. Each of the released prisoners had been brought into his office where he explained privately why they were being released and the sort of new deal he was inaugurating in Centerville. Of the remaining seventeen prisoners, he ordered that twelve should be brought to trial at once and faced by their accusers and either sentenced or released.

Only five of the entire number were charged with crimes serious enough to require grand jury action. After a long conference with the city attorney, it was agreed that a special jury should be called within one week to consider those cases.

By four o’clock he had completed most of the preliminaries necessary to a complete reorganization of the department, and he settled back to dictate a memorandum to each officer remaining on active duty.

Lucy Hamilton sat across from him with her stenographer’s pad, glancing up at his face each time he hesitated. Overnight, he had become a new sort of man. There was a ruthless, driving efficiency about him which she had never known the easy-going detective to manifest before. He was displaying an amazing talent for grasping details and organizing them, for making rapid and definite decisions that sounded right. He appeared happier than she had ever seen him.

As for herself, Lucy was still befuddled. After recovering from her anxiety upon receiving his telephone message to hurry to the police station, she was immediately confounded to find him directing the affairs of the department. She hadn’t asked questions, for there hadn’t been time. She knew Henry Elwood was locked in his own jail charged with murder, but she didn’t know any of the circumstances. She didn’t know what had been done about George Brand or any of the other persons involved in the Roche murder. All she knew was that Shayne was in the driver’s seat and was getting as much accomplished as possible while he remained there. She had a queer feeling that none of this was real and that she would wake up after a time and find herself back in Miami, but in the meantime Shayne kept on dictating his blunt memorandums and she continued to take shorthand notes.

There was a discreet knock on the door. Shayne stopped dictating to call, “Yeh?”

A patrolman stuck his head in and said, “There’s a man here who insists on seeing you, Chief. Says it’s important.”

“Send him in,” said Shayne.

A quietly dressed man with hard features entered. His pinstriped blue suit was well cut, his shoes highly polished, his manner that of a self-assured and aggressive person. He wore a stiff straw hat with a red and white band. He removed it when he saw Lucy.

He said to Shayne, “Your stupid man outside says I’ll have to get permission from you to see my client.”

“Who is your client?”

The stranger pulled up a straight chair and sat down. “George Brand. You can’t deny an attorney access to his client.” He took a card from his breast pocket and flipped it in front of Shayne.

Shayne read aloud, “Myron J. Stanger, Washington, D. C. Chief Counsel representing NUWJ. What do the initials stand for?”

“National Union for Workers’ Justice. I imagine you’ve heard of us.”

Shayne leaned back, studying the card. He asked, “Are you from Washington?”

“Our headquarters are there. I travel a great deal, but I happened to be in the office yesterday morning when we read of this outrageous affair in the morning paper. I came at once.”

“Do you know your client personally?”

“It happens that I do know George Brand. Most favorably, I assure you. I’ve represented him on other occasions when his zeal got him into difficulties with the law.”

Shayne said affably, “I’m glad Brand has a competent attorney. Lucy, will you get that bottle out of the top drawer of the file? Did you drive down, Mr. Stanger?”

The attorney showed mild surprise at this display of cordiality. It was evident that he had come to Centerville with a far different concept of the reception he would receive from the authorities. He thawed visibly and produced a pipe and tobacco pouch. “Yes, I drove. Left Washington before noon and went straight through to Lexington last night.”

Lucy brought the bottle of whiskey and set it on the desk, went to the water cooler and brought two drinking cups. Shayne stripped the foil from the top of the bottle and twisted the cork.

“You must have gotten a late start this morning,” he suggested as he poured liquor into the two cups.

“I had business in Lexington that held me up until ten-thirty.” Stanger accepted a cup and lifted it gravely. He still appeared a little puzzled and slightly on the defensive, but he wasn’t to be outdone in politeness.

Shayne said, “Bottoms up,” and they both drank.

“That’s good whiskey,” said Stanger. He set the cup down and tamped tobacco in his pipe.

“Are you staying in town?” Shayne asked.

“For a few days. As long as it takes to get this absurd charge against Brand quashed. I’m staying at the Central Hotel.”

“I doubt that you’ll have to be here long. I’ve been getting together what evidence I could, and right now I don’t mind admitting to you frankly that I hardly feel there’s enough evidence to justify our holding Brand.”

Stanger brightened perceptibly, lit his pipe, and relaxed. “I had a feeling,” he said cautiously, “that it was a put-up job to railroad Brand from the beginning. From what I know of the situation here in Centerville I had the impression…” He paused, looking hard into Shayne’s twinkling gray eyes.

“We’re not as bad as a lot of people think. Let’s have another snort and then I’ll send you up to talk with Brand.”

Stanger pulled on his pipe, exuded a cloud of smoke, smiled and said, “Another one never does any harm.”

Shayne poured the drinks and shoved the bottle toward Lucy. “Put it away, please.” He got up and went to the water cooler saying, “Think I’ll have a chaser with this one.” He emptied the whiskey in the drain, took a drink of water, and went back to his chair.

Stanger had downed his drink and was smacking his lips. He said, “Thanks. I’ll go up and see Brand now.”

Shayne went to the door and opened it. “Andrews!” he roared at the newly installed desk sergeant.

Andrews came trotting. Shayne stepped back and pointed at Stanger’s back and said. “This drunken bum has an idea he wants to talk with George Brand. Book him for drunkenness and lock him up so they can talk as long as they like.”

Stanger sprang up and faced them, an unpleasant smile on his face. “I wondered what the catch was. I can prove I’m not drunk, you know, and…”

“Smell his breath, Andrews,” Shayne ordered, “and get him out of here.”

The labor attorney shrugged phlegmatically as though this was all in a day’s work to him, and followed Andrews out.

Lucy was standing at one of the windows looking out when Shayne closed the door and turned toward her. Her back was stiff and her hands clenched into tight fists. Two spots of color flamed in her cheeks when she whirled around and said:

“I wondered what was happening. I wondered and wondered how you got yourself appointed chief of police.” She spat the words out as though they tasted bad. “Now it’s all clear. You’re in it with them to frame George Brand for a murder he didn’t commit. I hate you, Mike Shayne. I loathe you.” Tears were rolling down her cheeks.

Shayne went over and caught her elbows in his palms. “Save it for later,” he said gently. “Right now, I need you.”

“Why do you do things like that, Michael?” She leaned against him. “Why do you pretend to be something else and make me l-love you and then… suddenly… ruin everything?”

“In this case,” he told her, “Stanger gets a good long talk with his client without any interference. Wipe away your tears and come on. We’ve got things to do while they’re conferring.” He kissed both her cheeks and pushed her toward the door, grabbed his hat and followed her.

WHEN they were seated in Shayne’s car, he delayed starting the motor while he explained briefly how he had bluffed Seth Gerald into forcing his appointment as chief of police.

“But you haven’t got those letters threatening Charles Roche’s life,” she protested. “You haven’t even seen them.”

Shayne grinned and turned on the ignition. “Gerald doesn’t know that. That’s why I’m working fast. I’ll hold my job just so long as George Brand stays in jail charged with murder. If I released him the whole thing would blow up in my face. The more I get done before that happens, the better it’ll be for Centerville.”

“Do you think Gerald did kill Roche?”

“Right now it looks more like Jimmy. But as long as Gerald thinks I have those threatening letters to spring on him, he’s going to be well satisfied to have all the suspicion rest on Brand.”

“What does Jimmy say?”

“I’ve avoided pushing him into a corner where he’ll have to say anything. Unless Gerald has spilled it, he doesn’t even know I have any idea he was at Brand’s place that night. That’s one of the reasons I wanted to get Ann Cornell and her hophead out of town quietly. Jimmy doesn’t know whether they’ve talked or not. I don’t want him to know. As long as I keep everything quiet and appear to be building up the case against Brand, I’ll have a free hand with the police department.” He was driving slowly, and as he reached the main street he turned to the right.

“I’ve never known you to be like this, Michael. You’ve always accepted police corruption with a shrug. Won’t the whole thing just go right back into the same old groove when you leave?”

Shayne stopped in front of the Central Hotel. His gaunt face was serious and his eyes bleak when he said, “Something happened to me, Lucy, about the third time I was told, “This is Centerville.’ As though this was Germany, or Turkey. Not Centerville, U.S.A. Not the United States at all. Those three words answer every question here. They say there isn’t any justice, there isn’t any hope, there isn’t any future. No one tries to do anything because they accept the fact that nothing
can
be done.”

His doubled fist struck the steering wheel in a surge of anger. “Maybe something
can
be done. George Brand pointed the way. For a little while these people began to believe in something.”

He gritted his teeth and was silent for a while. “I’ve always liked things tough,” he resumed. “This is the toughest setup I ever walked into. It’s not that I’m burning up to reform the world, but I’ll be goddamned if I’ll admit this thing is bigger than I am. Let’s go,” he ended abruptly.

Lucy followed him into the hotel lobby, away from groups of people huddled on the sidewalks talking together and turning to stare at Shayne’s tall, lanky figure. The hotel management was glad to cooperate when he asked for a key to Myron J. Stanger’s room. Every eye in the lobby followed them to the elevator, and they saw the idlers get up from their chairs and converge upon the manager’s desk just before they got in the elevator to go up.

It was evident that the Washington attorney had stopped at the hotel only long enough to deposit his things before hurrying to seek an interview with his client. There was a Gladstone and a worn pigskin bag on the floor, and a strapped briefcase on the bed.

Shayne went straight to the briefcase and unstrapped it, found it locked, and got out his keyring. The lock came open easily and he dumped the contents on the bed. He said to Lucy, “See if his bags are locked.”

He went swiftly through the documents from the briefcase while Lucy tried the locks on the bags and told him they were locked. Shayne turned from the bed, unlocked both bags with practiced ease, opened the Gladstone and said to Lucy, “You go to work on that one. Don’t worry about messing his stuff up. If we find what we want he won’t have any kick coming. If we don’t, we’re sunk anyhow.”

“What do you want?” Lucy asked helplessly as she knelt beside the pigskin bag and began lifting out underwear and socks.

“Money,” Shayne told her. “A wad of cash… and an agreement signed by Charles Roche setting forth the terms on which the strike was to have been settled if he’d lived.”

“Oh! Do you think it will be here?”

“I want it if it is,” he said impatiently. He had finished one side of the Gladstone and turned to the other. “Stanger and I have different ideas about the use for that document,” he went on, exactly as though Lucy knew all about everything. “I don’t… hold it!” he exclaimed. “I think this is what we want.”