A Taste for Violence (9 page)

“Michael! I’m frightened. Remember that man on the highway this afternoon. Those were officers… and they murdered him in cold blood just to ruin Brand’s alibi. They might…”

“I’m tougher than these birds they’re used to pushing around,” Shayne growled close to her ear.

“But when the police find out you’re a detective working to free Brand…” She shuddered, leaning close against his arm.

“I’ve fixed that,” he told her. “Among the things I’ll give you will be a piece of paper signed by the man who runs AMOK showing I’ve been retained by the mine operators to look into Brand’s guilt. Keep hold of it, and don’t worry about me.”

“You think you’ll have a chance to see Brand in jail?”

“It looks like a good chance… and the only chance.”

“But if you represent the mine owners, wouldn’t they just let you go in and talk to him?”

“They might. But I want to get to Brand before he finds out I’ve gone over to AMOK.” He patted her cheek and asked loudly, “Any more dimes?”

“Just one.” Lucy put the coin in. Shayne pulled the lever and turned away without waiting for the cylinders to stop. Lucy waited until it stopped on a lemon, and followed him back to their table.

Shayne drew a chair out for her and asked Rexard thickly, “Which way to the li’l boy’s room?”

Rexard chuckled and gave him directions, then watched anxiously as Shayne lurched toward the rear, narrowly avoiding a collision with an elderly couple.

Inside the wash room, Shayne went through his wallet, removing all the money except a hundred and fifty dollars, and all business cards and other identification. He put the agreement signed by Persona with the other things. He withdrew the letter from Charles Roche which was in his hip pocket. After reading it carefully once more, he tore it into tiny pieces and flushed it down the drain.

When he made certain there was nothing left in his pockets or wallet to identify him, he slid the small pack of banknotes and papers in his trousers pocket and went back to the dining room.

Titus Tatum was holding Lucy’s hand and flashing his gold teeth when Shayne approached the table. He dropped her hand hastily, but not quickly enough to prevent Shayne from standing over him with doubled fists and protesting drunkenly, “Thatsh my girl, see? Keep your han’s off her.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Michael!” Lucy sprang up and grabbed his arm. “Sit down and have another drink,” she begged.

Shayne shook her hand from his arm. “Don’ wan’ ’nother drink. Wanna win shome money. Lotsha money.” He caught Lucy’s hand and almost fell as he pulled her to a deserted machine in a corner.

Her handbag was suspended from her left shoulder by a leather strap. The flap was down, but the catch was released. She stayed close behind him, facing the machine, while Shayne turned slightly, slipped the packet from his pocket, turned again and placed them in her purse which she held open with her left hand while her right hand deposited a coin. Shayne pulled the crank and muttered, “Good work, Angel, I’ll see you…”

Shayne glanced up and saw a man coming through the doorway.

Mr. Persona was alone. He stood just inside the door for a moment, a broad smile on his thick mouth and triumphant gleam in his light eyes as though he expected the people to rise and pay him due homage before making an entrance.

Shayne said, “Put a nickel in the slot… quick. And take a look at the short, dark man standing at the door.”

Lucy put the coin in and glanced at the man. “Who…?”

“That’s Persona,” he told her as the machine clattered. “Big-shot in the Mine Owners of Kentucky and the man who’s retained me to convict Brand.” The machine stopped. “Put in another nickel and watch where he goes.”

“He’s going to the rear,” she reported. “Titus is getting up and waving… he’s going to our table,” she went on in a low, excited voice.

Shayne said grimly, “I’m going to stagger out and I’ll keep my back turned. When you go to the table try to keep my name out of the conversation. Is he looking this way?”

“No… his back is turned. They’re all talking together.”

“Good. Listen, Angel. I’m going to ease out. Get back there and turn on your charm. Get him talking about strikes and murders. Get him liquored up if you can. Get the lowdown on Seth Gerald. And… watch your step.” He turned and swayed the few steps to the door, glancing aside to see a look of hostility on the cashier’s face.

Outside, he stood swaying, irresolutely, staggered a few steps in one direction, turned and staggered back, wondering how long he was going to have to wait before a cop arrested him.

The local tipoff service was evidently working perfectly. Two men came toward him purposefully, both in uniform and both swinging nightsticks.

Shayne grinned foolishly, squinting first one eye and then the other, then both, as though straining for focus.

They were big, burly men, fat paunches straining their belts. Each took a firm hold on one of Shayne’s arms. One of them said, “Seems like you don’t know which way to go, fella. Come ’long an’ we’ll show you. Fact is, we’ll give you a little ride.”

Shayne jerked his arms and protested angrily. “Don’ wanna ride. My girl…”

The policeman on his right slapped him across the mouth. “We don’t like drunk bastards in Centerville. Get movin’.”

Shayne licked his lip and tasted blood. He gritted his teeth and let his legs go limp. They caught him up and dragged him to the police car and dumped him in the back on the floor, got in the front seat together and drove away.

THE Centerville police station was only a few blocks from the Eustis Restaurant. It was an ugly stucco building housing the city offices, with the jail on the second floor. An entrance from a side street led directly into a small, drab room with a scarred desk and straight chairs around the walk. There was no one in the room when the officers dragged Shayne in and shoved him into a chair where he pretended complete grogginess.

An open door on the left revealed a large, comfortably furnished room, brightly lighted, and with the sound of an electric fan whirring. One of the officers said, “Gantry must be in with the chief. Wonder what’s goin’ on in there?” He sauntered through the doorway, leaving the other to guard Shayne.

Shayne’s head, lolling against the wall, was turned directly toward the lighted room. He could see only a small segment of it… part of a large desk with a man sitting behind it. He was a big man with heavy jowls bulging from his jawbone, and in the bright overhead light he appeared to have no eyebrows or lashes. A roll of flesh hung over his protuberant eyes which were wide open, unblinking and expressionless as he stared straight before him at someone whom Shayne could not see on the other side of the desk. There was a murmur of voices, but no words were distinguishable to him.

The policeman who stood guard over Shayne got out a plug of tobacco and gnawed off a portion. A narrow wooden stairway led down into the room from the floor above, and there was the shuffle of descending footsteps and the soft whimpering sound of agony or of fear from a human being.

Shayne didn’t turn his head to betray his interest, but by shifting his eyes to the side and slightly upward, he saw three men. Two of them were in their shirtsleeves, but wore uniform trousers and visored caps. They were supporting a man who was bleeding at the nose and mouth and was making a whimpering noise by gasping in short breaths and exhaling between clenched teeth. His shirt was half torn from his torso and soggy with blood. He cringed between the two policemen, staring stupidly with glazed eyes.

Shayne’s guard chewed rhythmically and watched with professional interest as the trio reached the bottom of the stairs and started toward the side office. “You gonna be long, Gantry?” he demanded impatiently. “We got a drunk here to be booked.”

The man on the right of the bleeding prisoner said, “It won’t take long. Dave, here, has decided to make a statement to the chief.” Gantry was a tall, slender, alert young man with a mop of damp and disheveled blond hair. In spite of his wilted appearance, he seemed well pleased with himself. His companion was shorter and heavier, with a flat brutal face and loose, thick lips. He laughed coarsely and jerked the whimpering man forward and said:

“Dave decided he warn’t as tough as he figured.” They went into the brightly lighted room and lined up in front of Chief Henry Elwood’s desk.

The chief looked at the bleeding man with his lidless, naked eyes and asked, “Have you decided to come clean, Burroughs?” His voice was friendly and considerate and his thick lips spread, making a deep trench between his jowls and mouth.

“I’ll say… anything… you say,” Dave Burroughs gasped. “Let… me outta here. I can’t… stand any more.”

“We don’t want you to say anything but the truth,” Elwood said. “What happened to you? Why’re you appearing here in that condition?”

“I… had an… accident,” Burroughs said weakly.

“Too bad. We’ll get a doctor and have you fixed up soon’s you sign this statement.” The chief’s beefy hand reached for a document, pulled it closer, and he read rapidly:

“I, David Burroughs, make the following statement under oath, of my own free will and to clear my conscience of perjury:

“The affidavit I signed and swore to this morning is a lie. I was bribed to make it by George Brand who got me and Jethro Home and Joe Margule all together yesterday and fixed up what he wanted us to say. He paid us each twenty dollars, but we didn’t know why he wanted an alibi for last night, and when we made those affidavits this morning we didn’t know he had murdered Charles Roche.

“All three of us did play poker with him at Home’s last night, but Brand left the game about three o’clock. None of us saw him after that, which I now swear is the truth because we all stayed on together until five-thirty.

“I do not want to get mixed up in a murder. That is why I am telling the truth now. I realize that I perjured myself and that I am liable for the full penalty of the law.

“I have not been mistreated or coerced in any way to induce me to sign this statement, and any marks on my body are the result of my drunkenness and an accident.

“I am filled with remorse because I swore to false testimony.

“This is the truth, so help me God.”

Shayne watched Chief Elwood, fascinated by the monotone of his voice and by the continuous wriggling of a fleshy protuberance in the center of his chin. His lips scarcely moved. When he finished reading, the fat roll covering his eyes raised slowly.

“We want the truth this time, Burroughs,” he said. “This is your last chance. You’ll be taken care of if you sign this. You won’t have to appear at Brand’s trial.”

“I’ll… sign.” Dave Burroughs fell forward, his elbows resting on the desk. The two officers supported his body while he took a pen in his right hand and signed the document. Then they half carried Burroughs through a door at the other end of the room.

Chief Elwood looked at the policeman who had helped bring Shayne in. He asked, “What’s the charge against the man outside?”

“Drunk and disorderly.”

“Let Gantry handle him.” Chief Elwood swiveled in his chair and got up. He went out the door through which Burroughs had been carried.

Gantry returned and joined the waiting policeman. Together they sauntered into the smaller room where Shayne sat, talking in low, pleased tones. Gantry seated himself at the desk and looked bored. He said, “Drunk and disorderly, eh?”

“And creating a public disturbance,” his companion said.

Shayne’s guard hauled him to his feet by his shoulders and thrust him forward.

“Maybe I was drunk,” Shayne said belligerently, “but I didn’t bother anybody.”

Gantry was writing in a ledger and didn’t look up. “Name and address?” he asked. Shayne noted that he had sleeked his blond hair back, and his face looked clean.

“John Smith. New York,” Shayne said.

“Go over him. Find out his real name.” Gantry’s voice was clipped and official, and he still appeared pleased with himself.

One of the men held Shayne’s arms while the other removed his wallet and tossed it on the desk. He felt deeper into that pocket, then in the other, while Gantry searched the wallet.

“John Smith is as good as any,” Gantry said. He counted the money and put it in an envelope. “Throw him in the bull-pen.”

“I want a receipt for that money,” Shayne muttered. “I got a right to…”

The officers hustled him to the stairway and up to a musty, dim-lit corridor, past the iron bars on one side to a heavy, barred door. An old man was asleep in a chair propped against the wall beside the door. He was snoring loudly and stunk of old sweat and beer.

One of the men prodded him with a toe and said, “Wake up, Pop. We got another customer for you.”

The old man snorted and rocked forward, hoisted himself to his feet, squinted at Shayne through bleary eyes and turned to unlock the massive door with an iron key attached to a chain around his waist.

As the door swung open, Shayne heard voices chanting, “Fresh meat coming up,” and the humid sweat of unwashed bodies, the foul odor of urine, the stench of intestinal excretions in clogged toilets mingled with stale cigarette smoke and the sickening smell of some cheap disinfectant caused him to recoil and stagger back.

The two policemen hurled him forward, and the door clanged shut. Shayne found himself in a narrow corridor lined with iron-barred cells on each side. The feeble light in the hall penetrated only a little distance into the darkness. Each cell had two iron bunks, one above the other, with no mattresses or bedding. The first two cells were empty.

Someone struck a match in the third cell and Shayne moved toward the light. Voices were yelling, “Who is it? Has he got any cigarettes? How about a drink? If he’s a punk, send ’im down this way.”

Shayne stopped beside the doorway of the third cell and shouted, “Shut the hell up. I’ve got cigarettes enough for myself, and none of you know me.”

The shouting voices beyond subsided, grumbling and weary and disinterested. A voice inside the cell asked in a low whisper, “How about the butts, if you’re gonna smoke?”

“Sure.” He groped his way inside and sat on the lower iron bunk beside its occupant. He put a cigarette in his mouth, struck a match, and held it until light flickered over his companion’s face, then lit his cigarette. The man was young, with a thin face and defiant eyes.

Shayne asked, “How do you stand this stink?”

“Ain’t you never been in jail?” the youth asked.

“Not one that smelled like this.” Shayne filled his lungs with smoke and exhaled. The fresh smoke relieved the smell of the stale for a moment, then joined it. He passed the cigarette to the boy beside him and said, “Take a draw.”

“Jeez, thanks.” He took a long draw, said, “Jeez,” again, and passed the cigarette to Shayne. He asked, “What they get you for?”

“Drunk. Only I’m not.”

The young man laughed harshly. “Must of showed some cash.”

“A little. What the hell sort of town is this?”

“New hereabouts?” he countered cautiously.

“From New York,” said Shayne. “Just passing through.”

“This is Centerville, Kentucky, Mister. The hellhole of all creation. You got nothin’ to worry about. They’ll let you loose in the mornin’… with enough jack to get out of town on.”

Shayne puffed leisurely, then asked, “What are you in for?”

“Cut a man up at a dance a coupla weeks ago.”

“How bad?”

“Not too bad. Picked the wrong guy… cousin of Titus Tatum’s. He runs the City Hall gang.”

His indifferent, drawling tone amused Shayne. He asked, “How long you in for?”

“Ain’t been tried yet. Don’t reckon I will be. They’ll turn me out in a week or two. I got folks that’ll get riled up if they don’t. What’s new in town?”

Shayne said, “I suppose you know the strike’s broken.”

“First I heard of it.” The youth jumped up and yelled, “Hey… Brand! You hear that?”

Two or three voices shouted, “Shut up in there! Let a man sleep!”

Another voice, heavily timbred and strong called out, “Do I hear what?”

“Fella here says the strike’s broke!”

“What of it? To hell with the strike,” came an answering chorus, but the voice Shayne knew must be George Brand’s broke in with gruff authority, “Shut up, all of you. I want to hear this.”

Shayne stood up and called back, “I could tell you better if I didn’t have to yell.”

“That’s George Brand,” the young man said in a hoarse whisper. “In for murder.”

“I read about it in the paper.” Shayne moved into the corridor and the heavy voice spoke just ahead of him, “Right down here. I’d like to hear about the strike.”

Shayne walked slowly on until he touched the body of a man. Brand put out his hand and took Shayne’s arm, asked fiercely, “Is that the truth? Have those cowardly fools given up the fight?”

“The news is all over town. Any place we can talk quietly?” He spoke in a whisper.

Brand struck a match before replying. He held it up to look at Shayne’s face. The flickering light illumed his own face as well.

Shayne saw a youngish man with rugged features. There was strength in the solid jaw and firm mouth, intelligence in the cool appraisal of his gray eyes and in the smooth, broad brow.

Brand was studying the detective’s face carefully, but his expression gave no hint of what he was thinking. The match burned out and he dropped it to the concrete floor. His fingers tightened on Shayne’s arm. He said, “Down this way,” quietly, and they went down the corridor to a square room with barred windows through which a little light shone. The stench was stronger here, and Brand explained, “The can’s here at this end. Nobody ever comes close to it unless they have to.” They stopped and leaned against the wall between the two windows.

“I don’t know you, do I?” Brand asked.

“No. I hit town this afternoon.” Shayne hesitated, then added, “Drove up from Miami.”

“Passing through and got picked up by one of the local boys?”

“I got picked up outside the Eustis Restaurant after I’d had dinner and a few drinks.”

“You wanted to talk,” Brand reminded him.

“That’s why I got myself thrown in here,” Shayne told him.

“What’s the lay? Give it to me.”

Shayne gave it to him straight. “I’m a private detective in Miami. A few days ago I had a letter from Charles Roche saying his life was threatened and asking me to come up. He was dead when I got here.”

The end of Brand’s cigarette glowed brightly and he blew smoke toward the ceiling before saying, “So you’re out of a job.”

“Not exactly. He mailed a check as a retainer. I like to earn my money.” Shayne’s eyes were now accustomed to the dim light and Brand’s figure and features were clearer. He was nearly as tall as Shayne, a big-boned man with plenty of flesh, but no fat. A voice accustomed to commanding, and expecting his commands to be obeyed the first time. A voice men would instinctively trust, and which women would instinctively thrill to. His body appeared to be completely relaxed, his left shoulder against the wall, his head back, one ankle crossed over the other.

He was evidently thinking over Shayne’s statement. After a brief silence he said, “Then you’re different from most private operators.”

Shayne skipped that. “Since I got here too late to prevent Roche’s murder, I may stick around and find out who killed him.”

“They’ve got me slated for that. Didn’t you know?”

“I read today’s paper,” Shayne admitted. “Did you kill him?”

“No.”

“It was your gun.”

“Maybe. I was playing poker and I can prove it,” he went on evenly. “They might laugh at one affidavit, but they’ll have a tough time laughing off three.” Brand’s tone was carelessly confident.