A Taste for Violence (4 page)

Lucy grabbed Shayne’s arm tightly. He put on the brakes and slowed. His gray eyes were troubled and the trenches in his face were taut. He didn’t say anything.

“Was that… a backfire,” Lucy gasped, “or…?”

“It wasn’t a backfire,” said Shayne harshly. “Get down low and stay there.” He eased around the curve, ready to step on the brake, or the accelerator, as circumstances required.

A heavy car was parked on the gravel shoulder and on the wrong side of the road two hundred yards ahead of them. The left front wheel was not more than a foot from the crumbling edge of a steep cliff. The figure of a man was outlined in the middle of the pavement beside the car. He was waving to two cars approaching from the opposite direction. Shayne watched, surprised, as they sped past him, not offering to stop and give aid at the scene of an accident.

He slowed his car a little more. Lucy was leaning out her window, looking over the edge of the embankment. “There’s a car over the side there, Michael,” she cried. “I can see a man pulling somebody out…”

They were close enough now for Shayne to see a large silver star on the blouse of the man in the middle of the road. He wore a wide hat and riding breeches and puttees, and a cartridge belt supporting an empty holster on his right hip. He was waving a revolver at Shayne, and now the detective saw why the other two cars had not stopped to help. The armed man was waving him on, instead of signalling for help.

Lucy Hamilton saw none of this. She was still leaning out the window, watching the wreckage on the slope below them. She cried out, “Stop, Mike! There’s a man… beating another man over the head with a gun… or a blackjack. It’s horrible! He’ll
kill
him. Aren’t you going to stop and help him?” She jerked around, her face white, her dark eyes frantic.

Shayne, his gaze glued on the sliver star before him, sped up. They were directly opposite the precariously hanging car. Shayne caught a glimpse of a black and white streamer pasted on the windshield as they raced by. It read: “SPECIAL POLICE.”

A scream came through the open windows of the car as they went past. A high-pitched wail of pain and of panicky pleading.

Shayne stepped on the gas. His mouth was tight, his teeth clenched, the muscles in his jaws working in unison with his teeth grinding together.

Lucy collapsed against him, sobbing out her fright and her failure to understand.

“That was an officer in the road,” he said gently. “He didn’t want us to stop. It would have been unhealthy for us to stick our noses into a private affair.”

“You mean… you would’ve stopped if you hadn’t had me along,” Lucy stammered.

“Maybe,” said Shayne harshly. “Maybe not.”

“But that was an officer down there beating that man. He had on a hat just like that one who waved you on. I’ll bet they deliberately rammed his car and forced it off the side.”

“Maybe. This is Centerville.” He didn’t know he was going to say the three words. They sounded ominous.

“But… what kind of a place is this? Where policemen do things like that right out in the open.”

“Maybe some desperate character,” Shayne muttered. “An escaped prisoner… or a murderer.” He knew he was just saying words for Lucy’s benefit. Cops didn’t beat men to death. Not even a murderer or a desperate criminal. Normally, they welcomed an audience to witness their triumphs.

The thing that stuck in Shayne’s mind was the man with the revolver who calmly directed traffic, his gun in his hand, of course… This is Centerville… while his fellow officer went down to capture a man. Not dead or alive, but dead.

Lucy shuddered and shrank back against the seat. “You didn’t see it the way I did,” she moaned. “The one who was being beaten and kicked wasn’t trying to fight back. He just cried out, begging for help. I can still hear him screaming, Michael. It’s terrible… when a man screams like that.”

Shayne reached over to pat her hand. “We’re almost in town,” he said.

The winding side road joined the main highway which stretched out into a level street leading into the heart of Centerville. It was well past sundown in the mountain-shrouded valley, and there were plenty of parking places on the main street.

Shayne stopped in front of a dingy sign that read: “POOL & WHISKEY.” He got out of the car and said, “Sit here, and I’ll see what goes in this joint.”

He went into a narrow room with a strip of a bar occupying the front portion and spreading out beyond with enough room for a pool table. The air was putrid with the smell of liquor. There was no window, and as he passed the half-dozen men standing at the bar, the stench of their unwashed bodies was stifling. They wore grimy overalls, and their faces were smeared with coaldust. All six of them turned sullen faces toward him, but no one said anything.

The bartender was dark-featured and low-browed. He came slowly toward Shayne when he stopped at the end of the bar. “Any tables?” Shayne asked.

“This ain’t no eatin’ place,” he answered in a surly voice.

“Any place for a lady to sit and have a drink?” Shayne persisted.

The bartender wiped the counter with a dirty bar-rag. “Can’t she stand up, Mister?”

One of the men snickered. They were all watching Shayne.

He said, “She could, but I don’t think she’d like the way this place stinks.”

“Maybe you don’t like it either,” the bartender suggested.

There was animosity in the atmosphere about him, an indefinable sense of sinister emotion. Shayne stood rigid and savored it with twitching nostrils. It wasn’t as much directed at him as a person, but at what he stood for. Something alien. A person from outside their own tight orbit.

Shayne grinned suddenly and said, “It suits me fine. I’ll have a drink, anyhow.”

“Beer?”

“Hell, no. A slug of brandy if you’ve got it.”

“No brandy.”

“Whiskey, then,” Shayne said impatiently. “A double shot of Old Granddad.”

“We don’t sell it here, Mister. It ain’t allowed.”

Shayne looked at the row of sealed bottles behind the bar, then down the counter at shot-glasses in front of the customers. He asked, “Are these men drinking beer out of one-ounce glasses?”

“Outta their own bottles,” the bartender explained apathetically. “You wanta buy a bottle, I’ll loan you a glass.”

Shayne’s brow furrowed. “You mean I can’t buy a drink and pay for it and walk out. What is this?”

“This here,” the man beside him said gruffly, “is Centerville. They figure a man drinks more iffen he buys a whole bottle. That a-way they sell more whiskey.” He didn’t sound bitter. He was merely explaining a fact.

Shayne said, “All right. Where’s a place I can go and take a lady to buy a bottle and have a drink?”

“Try the Eustis Restaurant,” the man in the middle of the row said. “That’s about the best…”

“That son-of-a-bitch Hank Bellow and his old woman,” said the man next to Shayne flatly, “is working right with ’em, I’m tellin’ you. They turned in Pete Jonas t’other day.”

“Pete shouldn’t’ve flashed that roll,” the man at the end of the line put in. “Ain’t a place in town won’t phone the cops once a man’s through spendin’ an’ got some left. Hank ain’t no worse’n any t’others.”

There was a general mutter of agreement. Shayne was puzzled as to the exact meaning they were trying to convey, but he did gather that it was the consensus that the Eustis Restaurant was as good as any in Centerville. He got directions for finding it, and went out.

Three uniformed deputies were in a group in front of his car, gawking at the Florida license plate and at Lucy. They all watched him silently as he crossed the sidewalk and got behind the steering wheel.

Lucy said, “You took long enough. Was the cognac good?”

Shayne said, “Fair,” and started the motor. “How long have those monkeys been standing there?” He backed away from the curb.

“They came up right after you went in. Just stood there and stared at the car and the license plate and me. I couldn’t hear what they said. They were talking low.” Lucy put her hand on his arm. “Let’s get out of here, Michael. There’s something terribly wrong about this town. I can feel it all around me. Those men back on the road…”

“They’ve been having a local strike here and have sworn in a bunch of special deputies,” Shayne interrupted soothingly, “that’s all.” But he knew it wasn’t all. He knew it went a great deal deeper than that. There were hatreds of long standing stalking the streets of Centerville, perhaps for a hundred years, handed down from father to son, pent up in their untutored minds, and now, with the new order of things, ready to come to the surface with disastrous explosiveness.

Shayne was not ignorant of the situation. He had kept in touch with the labor crises all over the country. But he had no acquaintance with the people themselves. He had been too busy with thieves and bums and murderers, and the bigoted wealthy men and women whom they murdered and stole from. He knew he had a lot to learn here in the Kentucky mountains.

“I haven’t talked to Roche yet,” he went on quietly to Lucy as he turned onto a roughly paved sidestreet. “Chances are I’ll turn the case down and we can clear out after I do. But I do have to see him. I’ve already cashed his check.”

He stopped near the end of the block in front of the Eustis Restaurant. Here, there was no bar, but an array of bottles on the shelves behind the quick-lunch stand. Square tables occupied the center of the spacious restaurant with a row of booths along the right-hand wall. A dozen slot machines were located strategically near the entrance… and exit… and a brightly lighted jukebox was playing a mournful tune.

Shayne led Lucy toward a vacant table in the rear. When the waiter came Shayne said, “Bring us a bottle of the best brandy you have, two glasses of ice, a bottle of soda, and two glasses of ice water.”

When the waiter went away Shayne said to Lucy, “I’ll try to get Roche again. Must be half an hour since I called.” He strolled to the cigar stand to get change for a dollar by purchasing a copy of the afternoon
Centerville Gazette.

He glanced casually at the front page while waiting for his change. He didn’t look up when the clerk said, “Here you are, suh,” but held his palm out, felt the coins drop into it, put them in his pocket and turned slowly back to the table.

Lucy looked up to see the bleak expression in his eyes. “Michael! What’s the matter? You didn’t even go to the phone booth.”

Shayne shook his red head slowly and sat down. “No, Lucy. I guess I won’t have to bother, about that… now.” He laid the paper on the table and ran a knobby forefinger along the headline sweeping across the page. There were two lines in inch-high type:

PROCOMMUNIST LABOR AGITATOR ARRESTED IN MURDER

They bent their heads together, leaning over the paper, and read:

“Mr. Charles Roche, heir to the Roche Mining Properties was fatally shot early this morning…”

“CHARLES ROCHE… murdered!” Lucy cried out.

Shayne said, “S-h-h.” He looked around, troubled, but the noise appeared to have drowned out her words. Someone had selected a boogy-woogy record and the rasping sound filled the room. He put his mouth close to her ear and said, “I cashed his check for five grand in Miami. I wonder if it had time to clear through his bank?”

“What?”

“The check,” he said impatiently. “If he was killed before it went through, they won’t honor it.”

She looked into his eyes, horrified. “Michael Shayne! You sit here worrying about a check when your client has been
murdered!”

“Somebody has to pay for this trip,” he told her harshly. “A man’s bank account is immediately frozen on his death, and you have to monkey around with court orders to get a clearance.”

“It seems to me,” said Lucy icily, “that you wouldn’t have any right to keep it, since you got here too late to do him any good.”

“But I’ve already cashed it,” he remonstrated in her ear.

She drew away from him, her brown eyes misty. “I want to read about it,” she told him.

Shayne put his arm around her. Her body stiffened.

“Don’t be like that, Angel. Let’s read it together.”

Lucy slowly relaxed, and they bent over the front page spread out on the table. Her left cheek rested lightly against the short sleeve of his polo shirt, and they continued the story:

“Charles Roche’s body was discovered at 6:00 A.M. near the intersection of Twelfth Street and Magnolia Avenue by Raoul J. King, a truck farmer from Lynn Acres, who was driving into Centerville with a load of produce. The body was lying in a clump of weeds on the right-hand side of Magnolia Avenue, about a hundred feet from Twelfth Street where Mr. Roche’s car was parked.

“‘I just happened to notice something lying there as I drove past,’ Mr. King told a
Gazette
reporter. ‘It was good sunup and I thinks to myself, by golly, if that don’t look like a man lying there. I stopped my truck and got out and looked, and sure enough it was. Whole back of his head was blown off and I sure knew he was dead, without touching him. I left him right like that and ran back to my truck and told the first policeman I came to. I didn’t know it was Mr. Roche till later.’

“Officer Harold Dixon turned in the alarm and hurried to investigate. He was soon joined by Police Chief Henry Elwood and other members of Centerville’s efficient force. Chief Elwood assumed personal charge of the investigation into the murder of one of our city’s most respected citizens, and issued the following statement to the press at 10:00 o’clock this morning:

“‘Charles Roche was shot once behind the right ear with a .44 caliber Colt’s revolver. A similar weapon was found on the ground near his body, and we are satisfied it is the death weapon. From the position of the body and evidence found on the scene of the crime, we believe Mr. Roche was walking back toward his parked car along the edge of the pavement when someone came up from behind and fired the fatal shot.

“‘Death was practically instantaneous, states Coroner M. Peter Tombs, and probably occurred between three and five o’clock this morning. His wallet was intact with a fairly large sum of money in it, which would make it appear that robbery was not the motive. We believe we know the identity of the perpetrator of this foul deed, and expect an arrest to follow shortly.’

“The above statement was all Chief Elwood was prepared to give out at the time, and he refused to say more when pressed by representatives of the
Gazette
to name his suspect.

“From sources close to Mr. Roche, we learn that he has received several threatening letters during the past weeks, and that at least one of these communications has been turned over to the authorities by his grief-stricken wife.

“We have also learned that the last person to have seen Mr. Roche alive was his wife. This was a little before 2:00 A.M. when Mr. Roche left his home on Mountaincrest Drive after telling Mrs. Roche he had an appointment to meet the labor agitator, George Brand, at his home at 610 Magnolia Avenue, not more than a hundred feet from the point where Roche’s body was found.

“‘I begged him not to go see that man,’ Mrs. Roche related to a
Gazette
reporter between quiet sobs early this morning. ‘I warned him that it was dangerous and reminded him of the threatening letters he had recently received which I am sure were sent by Brand or some member of the subversive group who are responsible for this terrible strike.

“‘But Charles insisted he had to go, and he scoffed at the idea of any personal danger. He was so fearless, and he had a foolish idea that if he and the labor leader could sit down together quietly, they might be able to settle the strike by compromise.

“‘I could say nothing to dissuade him, though I pleaded with him to think of me if he refused to consider his personal safety. I think, now, that I had an awful premonition of what was to come. I remember I stood in the door and watched his car disappear down the drive until I couldn’t see for the tears. I didn’t go to bed. I stayed up all night waiting for him to come home. Somehow when the telephone rang at six-thirty, I knew before I answered it what the terrible message would be.’

“At this point in her recital, Mrs. Elsa Roche
(nee
Maywell of Boston) became hysterical and her physician forbade further questioning and ordered her to bed with a sedative.

“From another source, your reporter learns that this courageous woman did not sit idly during those long hours of waiting, and that her presentiment of danger upon her husband’s departure must have been very very real, indeed.

“At four o’clock this morning, unable to endure the strain of anxiety longer, she aroused Mr. Seth Gerald, General Manager of Roche Mining Properties, from his sleep by a telephone call which sent him out seeking to avert the tragedy which may or may not have already occurred. Mr. Gerald’s story follows, verbatim, as given in a signed statement in Chief Elwood’s office early this morning:

“‘It was five minutes after four when the telephone wakened me. I am a light sleeper, and I answered it at once. It was Mrs. Roche and she sounded terribly worried and distraught. She told me that Charles had left home almost two hours previously to keep a secret appointment with Brand to seek some compromise settlement of the unauthorized mine strike which George Brand has fomented here, and she begged me to see if everything was all right.

“‘I assured her over the telephone as best I could, and promised to go to Brand’s home immediately and see whether things were all right. Frankly, I was worried myself, and I lost no time dressing and getting in my car, for I certainly wouldn’t trust George Brand any further than I would any other racketeer who seeks to overthrow the American way of life and substitute a Totalitarian rule of force.

“‘In fact I have repeatedly warned Charles that the only way to deal with radicals like Brand is with a machine gun, but he was young and had certain idealistic beliefs which led him to assume that a rat like Brand might respond to reason and logic more quickly than to the mailed fist.

“‘So I must admit I felt he had foolishly taken his life in his hands by going alone and unarmed to meet his most vicious enemy secretly at that hour of the morning, though I could not possibly foresee the tragic result of that unfortunate meeting.

“‘I drove directly from my home at 1812 Hawthorne Road to the shack George Brand is known to be occupying on Magnolia Avenue. It was not yet daylight, and the house was dark. The garage door was closed and there was no automobile in sight. I don’t know what impelled me to go up to the door and knock, since everything appeared to be in order, but I did, leaving my car parked outside with the engine running.

“‘I knocked loudly and received no response, and naturally I assumed that Brand was either absent or in such a drunken stupor that it was impossible to rouse him. There was a light across the street in Mrs. Cornell’s house and I could hear her radio. I went over to ask her if she had observed a light in Brand’s home, and she said she had not.

“‘I then got in my car and drove on to the corner of Twelfth Street, and there I saw an automobile parked under a cypress at the intersection. Ordinarily I wouldn’t have paid any attention to this, but I was still worried about Charles, and I pulled up beside it to investigate. I recognized it at once as Charles’ car. There was no one in it and no key in the ignition. The motor felt cold when I put my hand on the hood, and I assumed that Charles had left it there inconspicuously when he came to keep his appointment with Brand more than two hours previously.

“‘I looked at my watch and it was then exactly four-eighteen. I was more worried than ever, and I didn’t know what to do. I decided that Charles must have walked from his car to Brand’s house to keep his appointment and they had driven away together in Brand’s car so they would be less likely to be seen, since both of them, in a sense, must have wanted to keep their meeting a secret.

“‘I realize now that at the very moment I stood there, undecided, Charles’ body must have been stiffening in the roadside ditch less than a hundred feet away, but I had no intimation of the fact at the time. I did consider whether I should wait for Charles to return, but after carefully studying all the factors involved, came to the conclusion that it would only be embarrassing to both of us were I to do so.

“‘I then drove directly to the Roche home which I found brilliantly lighted and where I was met at the door by Mrs. Roche who was still fully dressed and in a state of nerves bordering on hysteria. To reassure her as much as possible, I lied by saying I had been to the Brand house and there was no sign of her husband in the vicinity, and told her I was sure Charles must have thought better of his foolhardy errand and had probably gone down to the city for a drink and had been inveigled into a late card game by some of the boys.

“‘She was visibly calmer when I left the house a few minutes before five o’clock, and promised me faithfully that she would go to bed and try to get some rest.

“‘I drove straight home and went to bed. At six o’clock I was awakened by the telephone, and was told the dreadful news.

“‘In the death of Charles Roche, Centerville has lost one of its finest young citizens, and the person or persons responsible for this outrage against everything we hold dear to our hearts must be hunted down ruthlessly and exterminated without mercy, as one would grind a rattlesnake under heel. I hereby offer the authorities every facility of the Roche Mining Properties to further this crusade, and a personal reward of one thousand dollars for the arrest and conviction of Charles Roche’s murderer.

“‘I wish to say one thing more. I realize I am under oath and I state with all solemnity and with full knowledge of the possible consequences, that in my personal opinion George Brand murdered Mr. Roche in cold blood after rejecting whatever compromise proposal for settlement of the present strike Charles offered.

“‘I call upon all you right-thinking citizens of Centerville who have followed this man’s subversive leadership to your ruination to cast aside the shackles with which he has enslaved you, and proclaim yourselves free men again. George Brand stands before you with blood streaming from his hands. The blood of one of the kindest and fairest of employers, the son of the beloved John Roche who pioneered to build this community into what it is today, who provided jobs for you that your children might be fed and who led the fight for every labor reform which he felt would better your condition.

“‘Call off this costly and bloody strike
now!
You cannot possibly win. Our company is prepared to remain shut down for years, if forced to do so to win. We will not deal with murderers and those who seek to wreck our American system. Pick up your tools and return to work, and the day our production reaches normal again, you may come to me with your grievances and they will receive my fair and impartial attention as always. Those workers who do not heed this call are openly allying themselves with traitors to our country who are leading you to your own destruction. Roche Workers… Stand up and be counted!
Do you condone coldblooded murder?

“‘If not: Return to work tomorrow.’”

Lucy drew in a deep breath and said, “Whew!” She looked at Shayne when they reached the end of Mr. Gerald’s impassioned plea.

Shayne’s bushy red brows were drawn low and his face was bleak. He nodded slowly and said, “This guy George Brand is drawn and quartered. I feel sorry as hell for him if he didn’t kill Roche.”

The waiter brought their bottle of brandy, glasses, ice and soda. Shayne poured a little brandy in his glass, tasted it straight and puckered his wide mouth. He added more brandy, then ice cubes and a generous dash of soda, and fixed a glass for Lucy.

“That letter you had from Mr. Roche, Michael,” she asked hesitantly, “does it… is there anything in it that gives you a clue?”

“It was pretty vague. The most important thing in it was his indication that he didn’t trust someone… or anyone close to him. Let’s see what they’ve actually got on Brand.”

He took a long sip from his glass, pulled the paper toward them, and they continued to read the story covering the entire front page of the
Centerville Gazette:

“Chief Elwood refused any direct comment at the time when Seth Gerald flatly accused George Brand of the murder. He stated, ‘We are checking up on the fellow, and if enough evidence is produced against him, you may be sure he won’t escape justice. But I intend this to be handled in a legal manner.’

“The investigation was proceeding methodically and with a thoroughness that is characteristic of Chief Elwood. Brand had been awakened at seven o’clock and professed to be surprised at the news of Mr. Roche’s death. He emphatically denied having had an appointment with Roche, and denied having seen him for several days. He admitted, under questioning, that he was the owner of a Colt .44, but when asked to produce it, claimed that it must have been stolen from the bureau drawer where it was usually kept. He stated that he had not seen the revolver for several days, and supposed that anyone might have walked in his unlocked house and stolen it during that period.