A Taste for Violence (7 page)

“Well… I wouldn’t like…”

“You see, Gerald,” Shayne interrupted in a bantering tone, “This five-grand offer from AMOK is in the nature of insurance. You might call it a bribe to induce me to suppress any evidence of Brand’s innocence if I should run across any such unpleasant thing, to put it crudely, in the course of my investigation. Isn’t that the way you look at it, Persona?”

Mr. Persona’s attitude was that of a man completely satisfied and self-assured. “I prefer to stand behind the offer just as it is written. Not a word has been said about suppressing evidence.”

Seth Gerald turned away and was pacing slowly up and down the room, his brow furrowed, his head bent.

Shayne said with grating harshness, “Naturally not. It’s strictly a business proposition. A nice, gentlemanly deal that will bear the fullest scrutiny if it’s ever made public. Frankly, I hope the guy is guilty as hell and I collect your fee, but I warn you that Charles Roche is still my client, even though he
is
dead. Now if you’ll tell me how to get to Twelfth and Magnolia, I’ll go to work.”

Gerald stopped near them and said, “The police have already gone over Brand’s house with a fine-toothed comb. You won’t find anything there.”

“But I might find Mrs. Cornell at home… just across the street,” said Shayne quietly. “I want to hear her story about last night when a headache kept her from sleeping.”

“What’s that about Mrs. Cornell?” said a hoarse voice behind them. “She hasn’t anything to do with this.”

The three men turned to see Jimmy Roche standing in the doorway, swaying slightly.

Shayne said evenly, “Perhaps not. But I wondered if she might be the attraction that drew your brother to that vicinity… instead of George Brand.” He was trying a shot in the dark.

Jimmy Roche’s face was terrible to look upon. His naked eyes glared drunkenly and his outthrust chin accentuated the puffiness of his cheeks. His hair was tousled, slanting across his forehead. He caught the doorjamb with both hands and leaned against it.

“I hear,” said Shayne, “that Mrs. Cornell is a very attractive woman.”

Elsa Roche pushed past Jimmy. Her gray-green eyes were molten with anger and some super-induced emotion. She screamed, “You lie about Charles. He never looked at that woman. He never looked at any woman but me.” She stood there swaying, her hands tightly clasped.

Gerald was on his way to Elsa. Persona held his half-smoked cigar stiffly in the air and didn’t move. Jimmy Roche let go the doorjamb and fell to his knees, pulled himself up again and hung on.

Shayne said, “If you’ll tell me how to find her house, I’ll run along and pay her a visit.”

Seth Gerald had reached Elsa and was holding her up. He said, “You can get directions from anyone in the village. Turn left at the second intersection and right on the third street. That’s Twelfth. Magnolia Avenue is the second street down. Her house and Brand’s are east of the corner.”

Shayne was standing in the archway. He glanced swiftly at the occupants of the room, said, “Thanks,” and went out to his car.

THERE were only two houses on the block of Magnolia Avenue beyond Twelfth Street. They were near the center of the block, opposite each other. It was impossible to see a house number, but there were lights in the house on the left-hand side as he approached. Shayne drew up before it and stopped.

The cottage was small, the approach darkened by a spreading eucalyptus tree as he went up the planked walk toward a tannish glow from the shaded upper glass of the front door. He could hear loud dance music from a radio inside, through windows that were open with the shades drawn low. He went up four wooden steps and across the narrow porch. He rapped on the door, and it opened almost immediately, swinging far back to outline the woman standing there.

Shayne saw her face first. Her eyes were elongated and blue, her brows and lashes light brown beneath a mass of taffy-colored hair wound in thick braids around her head. She wore a playsuit, blue-striped, with the neck cut round and low. A separate skirt had three buttons buttoned at the top and it flared open to reveal panties of the same material. The skirt reached almost to her knees. She was tall, at least five-feet-nine, slim-waisted and full-breasted. Her legs were firm and extraordinarily long.

Shayne said, “Pardon the intrusion. I’m looking for Mrs. Ann Cornell.”

“I’m Ann Cornell.” She was not perturbed or curious. The corners of her mouth were lifted and there was a hint of amusement in her eyes.

Shayne took off his hat and said, “I’m Michael Shayne. I’d like to talk to you.”

“Talk?” She turned and led the way to a comfortable chair. “Please sit here,” she said, and went over to take a chair opposite him, buttoning the rest of the buttons on her skirt as she went.

“Yes. I’d like to have a talk with you,” he repeated.

“I thought that was what you said. I’ll turn down the radio.”

Shayne looked around the small room. The walls and ceiling were of pine panelling, painted a light gray. The wide rough boards of the floor were stained a dark brown with cotton rugs here and there. The furnishings and drapes were cheap, the colors blending to give the room a pleasant atmosphere.

When the radio was turned low, she said, “I’m sorry if I’m supposed to recognize your name. Michael Shayne?”

“There’s no reason why you should,” he told her. “Unless you’ve heard Roche mention me.”

“Jimmy?” She caught her lower lip between her teeth, frowned and shook her head. “Are you a friend of his? I supposed you were another newspaper reporter.”

There was a moment of silence between them. Then Shayne said, “I may as well begin by telling you I’m a detective… retained by the mine operators to look into Charles Roche’s murder.”

“To help hang it on George Brand,” she said placidly.

“If he’s guilty.”

“They don’t care whether he’s guilty or not,” she said unemotionally. She took a cigarette from a pack on the end table beside her.

Shayne got up and lit it for her, lit one for himself, and said, “Is he?”

She looked up at him, moving her head slowly. “I don’t know. If he killed Charles Roche he’s a bigger fool than I thought.” She sounded convincing, and her eyes were candid.

“You knew Brand well?”

“Quite well. He’s been living alone in that house across the street several months.”

Shayne returned to his chair, sat down, and crossed one knobby knee over the other. “And you were… neighborly?” he resumed.

Ann Cornell smiled. Her whole face lighted when she smiled. A healthy, youthful expression of real mirth. “He liked my corn,” she said. “Would you like to try some?”

“Corn?” Shayne asked, puzzled. Immediately he smiled and said, “I almost forgot this is Kentucky. I could use a whiff after the brandy I sampled at the Eustis Restaurant tonight.”

She lifted her voice to call, “Angus!”

Shayne had been hearing sounds coming from the rear of the cottage, running water and the clatter of dishes. These noises ceased at her call, and there was a shuffling of feet on the bare floor of the rear hall.

The figure of a man appeared in the living room doorway. He was short and slight, with sleek black hair and a thin, peaked face. His sleeves were rolled up on thin arms and his hands were red and dripping. He was enveloped in a long white apron that reached to the tops of carefully polished black shoes. His eyes were small and very bright, a look of hope or of expectancy burning in them. His gaze slid over Shayne and settled on Ann Cornell.

She said, “Bring in the jug, Angus. And two glasses.”

The glow in his eyes died. He wet his thin and colorless lips with the tip of his tongue, nodded, and made an abrupt about-face.

Ann Cornell was watching Shayne. She chuckled at the expression on his face and said, “Angus is a handy little guy to have around.”

“He looks as though he’d be more at home on Third Avenue than in Centerville.”

“He likes it here,” she assured him carelessly. “Don’t you Angus?” she demanded as the little man came back carrying a gallon jug half filled with colorless liquid in one hand and two glasses in the other.

“Don’t I what?”

“Like it in Centerville better than Third Avenue where Mr. Shayne thinks you belong.”

He slanted his eyes at Shayne as he passed him, and venom showed in them. “Sure I like it here.” His voice was dry and low. He set the jug and glasses on the table beside Ann and shuffled out, muttering, “I gotta finish up them dishes now.”

“Angus is a real fancy cook,” she told Shayne complacently, pulling the corncob stopper from the bottle. “And it’s nice to have a man around the house.”

“Must be expensive, though… keeping a hophead happy.”

“How’d you know that?” She looked honestly surprised and puzzled.

“Eyes… skin. Everything.” Shayne waved a big hand. “Old friend of yours?”

“He drifted into town a few months ago. Hitch-hiking home from the Derby.” She poured white liquid into the glasses and said in a matter-of-fact tone, “If you’re one of those damyankees who has to mix gingerale with good liquor, you’ll have to go out and get some.”

“I’ll take it straight.” He got up, went over and picked up one of the glasses, sniffed the pungent odor, and his belly muscles contracted in sharp protest. But he nodded and smiled, resettled himself in his chair and took a preliminary sip. It was like liquid fire in his throat.

Shayne set the glass aside and watched Ann Cornell take a swallow from her glass. She had, he realized, the faculty of making a man feel at peace and at home with her emotional placidity and the absence of affectation. She certainly was not beautiful, and she employed none of the artifices with which so many women try to conceal their lack of beauty. She gave off an aura of sensuality in a healthy, animal sort of way; but she was also able to make a man feel completely at ease with her, just sitting and talking, and perhaps drinking. She could easily become a habit with a man. One that would be difficult to break away from.

She must be about thirty, he decided. Old enough for any man, and young enough for any man.

Angus came to the door. He had taken off his apron and was rolling his sleeves down on moist forearms. He hesitated diffidently in the entrance and looked at Ann Cornell with question marks in his shoe-button eyes.

She said, “Come in and sit awhile, Angus, if you’re done with the dishes.” She took a big gulp of corn and added, as though it were a casual afterthought, “Mr. Shayne is a detective from the city.”

Angus was sidling across the room toward a chair in one corner. His hands hung open and lax at his sides. When she spoke, they closed into tight, quivering fists. His back was toward Shayne, and it stiffened as he hesitated a moment before seating himself. Shayne glanced swiftly from him to Ann and surprised a look of innocent pleasure on her face. The same look with which a two-year-old might contemplate the death throes of a butterfly whose wings have just been pulled off.

“From Miami,” Shayne corrected. “I haven’t been around the Main Stem for fifteen years.”

Ann Cornell laughed softly and emptied her glass. She frowned at Shayne’s glass and asked, “Don’t you like my corn?”

Shayne picked up his glass, drew in a deep breath, and took two long swallows in quick succession. Fire kindled in his stomach and spread over his body. When he could speak, he said, “It’s damn good liquor. George Brand must have been a frequent visitor.”

“He dropped in right often,” she said, indicated the jug of corn and added, “Help yourself.”

Shayne grinned and said, “I’m supposed to be working on a murder case.”

He was watching Angus out of the corner of his eye as he spoke. The little man sat stiffly erect with his hands folded tightly in his lap. His left eyelid was twitching and sweat stood on his forehead, but he looked steadily at the floor and gave no evidence of interest in what was being said.

Ann Cornell asked, “What do you want from me?”

“Everything that happened last night.”

“I told Chief Elwood everything I know. My radio was on loud all night. I keep it loud so I can hear when I have to go to some other room. I didn’t hear any shot. I didn’t see anybody around until Seth Gerald knocked on my door about four o’clock to ask if I’d seen Mr. Roche or Brand. It was about an hour later when I saw Brand drive up to his house… just like he said in the paper.”

“How much did you see and hear, Angus?” Shayne shot the question at the rigid figure.

Angus jerked his head up. His eyelid stopped twitching. He looked shocked and stupid, and had difficulty getting his head turned to look at Ann Cornell.

“He didn’t hear anything,” she said to Shayne, and for the first time he detected emotion in her voice. “He was in his room… asleep.”

“Loaded?” Shayne asked casually.

“To the gills.”

Angus got to his feet unsteadily. His thin face was twisted and his body was trembling violently. Tears streamed from his little black eyes. He jerked out spasmodically, “You don’t hafta… I’m goin’ in an’ lay down.” He relaxed suddenly, and his short thin legs became rubbery as he placed one highly-polished shoe before the other until he disappeared through the door.

Ann Cornell watched him, an amused smile on her full, un-rouged lips. “He gets touchy as hell with strangers. Almost time for him to have a shot,” she added softly, like a young mother announcing that it was nearly time for her baby to have his bottle.

“He’s jealous,” Shayne warned her. He was leaning forward, his gray eyes very bright. “One of these days he’ll blow up higher than a kite.”

“Angus jealous?” She threw her head back and laughed heartily. “Just about like a stray pup. Say, in this hot weather a gal needs somebody to wash dishes and clean up.” She stopped laughing and stared at the strange expression in Shayne’s eyes. “God,” she breathed, “you don’t think I sleep with the guy, do you?”

Shayne settled back, tugging at his left earlobe with right thumb and forefinger. “I guess you can handle him, at that,” he muttered. He picked up the glass of corn and drained it, turned it around in his hand for a moment, set it down with a thump and said:

“About last night. If you did know anything you didn’t tell the police, how much would I have to pay for it.”

“Look, none of this is any good,” she said wearily. “If I swore in court that Brand was in bed with me when it happened, they’d still convict him.”

“Was he?” Shayne asked lazily.

“No.” Her voice was quiet, without emphasis.

“If Brand is telling the truth…”

“No one will ever know what the truth is,” she interrupted casually. “Charles Roche is dead, and whoever killed him isn’t going to talk.”

“You don’t believe it was Brand?” Shayne got up with his glass in his hand, went over and poured a couple of inches into it from the jug.

“Of course it wasn’t. Nobody believes that. But they’ll stretch him for it.” Her voice was getting thick.

“What about the three witnesses who claim they were playing poker with him?” He was standing before her, looking down at her thickly coiled braids.

“Them?” She didn’t look at him. “How long do you think they’ll stick to their stories. Just about this long.” She snapped her fingers contemptuously. “After Elwood gets to work on them.” She lifted her eyes and added, “This is Centerville, Mister.”

Shayne took a couple of steps backward, felt for his chair, and sank into it. “Was Roche making a deal with Brand to end the strike?” he asked.

She nodded. “But no one will ever be able to prove it.”

“You sound very sure.”

The calm, indifferent, and casual manner she had maintained during their conversation left her. Her full upper lip curled back and her blue eyes flashed angrily. “Brand boasted about it to me, and Jimmy suspected his brother was going to give in, too. That worried Jimmy. That horrible old man should have left control in Jimmy’s hands… if he wanted the world kept safe for capitalism.” She spat the words out, leaning tensely forward.

Shayne sat very still, kept his eyes half-closed, his face expressionless. He said, “I take it Jimmy Roche likes your corn, too.”

“That… and other things.”

“But you were in sympathy with the strikers?” Shayne probed.

“Look, Mister… I take care of number one. That’s all I’ve got to worry about. Anybody fool enough to dig coal for a few lousy bucks a day is welcome to do it.”

“Did you know the men are going back to work tomorrow?”

“I hadn’t heard, but it was in the cards. George Brand is the only man with enough guts to come in here and stir ’em up. With him out of the picture, what else would they do?” Ann Cornell tipped her glass and drank from it as though it contained only water, then lolled back in her chair.

“So, Roche’s death actually broke the strike?” mused Shayne.

“In more ways than one, brother. Hanging it on Brand was the way to speed things up. Charles Roche was their only chance to win, and Brand knew it. That’s why he’s the last man on earth to’ve killed Charles.” She spoke slowly. The natural up-curve of her full mouth drooped and her deep blue eyes were dull.

Shayne said, “You’re a smart woman, Mrs. Cornell.”

Her mouth twisted ironically and her gaze brooded across the room, then she twitched her shoulders impatiently, emptied her glass and said, “I’ve lived in Centerville all my life. I’ve seen other labor organizers come… and go. This time they had a chance. George Brand had the guts, and he had Charles Roche convinced.”