The Violent World of Michael Shayne (15 page)

“Hell, I don’t know,” Shayne said irritably.

“You’ll want to know how much I had to do with Manners’ success. I spent several hours at the White House, an afternoon at the Pentagon. I made four phone calls, I wrote one letter, I introduced Manners’ chief engineer to a brigadier general. I kept a log of these activities, which were actually fairly routine. I did one other thing which I didn’t record. I occasionally play golf with one of the Joint Chiefs. One afternoon I remarked that I hoped Manners would get the contract. That may sound innocuous enough, but I make it a habit never to intervene with the military except in matters of extreme importance. I believe he got the message. He has to come before the Senate Finance Committee for his appropriation, and as you may know, my views carry some weight on that committee.”

“OK,” Shayne said. “If I told you that Senator Wall stole your wife’s diary and organized this whole thing, what would you say?”

The Senator took his cigar out of his mouth in surprise. “I’d say you’re out of your mind. He’s National’s man.”

“Do you know that for a fact?”

“Three companies, closely linked to National, contributed to his campaign fund in the last election. Contributed heavily. I would also guess that he has the promise of an executive position in the company after he leaves the Senate. He identifies with their interests, and always has. There is absolutely no question about that.”

“I want to ask him a few questions, just the same. I’d like to have you along as a referee. Can you get Hitchcock to call a recess?”

“Easily.” As he looked at Shayne, the detective saw a faint flicker of worry in his cold eyes. “Do you think there’s a chance of wiping this damned diary out of existence?”

“We can sure as hell try. We’d better not leave together. Where’s the hearing being held?”

“Second floor of the new office building.” He got up heavily. “Shayne.”

“Yeah?”

Looking at the oil paintings on the wall as though he was noticing them for the first time, he said, “I mentioned Adelle’s participation in my last campaign so I wouldn’t seem like a fool for marrying her. I also happen to—love her very much. She’s a thoroughly captivating woman. If you can get this incubus off our backs, send me a bill. You’ll have my check in the return mail.”

He looked at Shayne with a return of his usual manner. “But how you expect to accomplish it by flinging wild charges at Tom Wall, I fail to see.”

Shayne grinned. “You never know, do you?”

10:35 A.M.

FROM THE RAILED BALCONY AROUND THE ROTUNDA, SHAYNE spotted Henry Clark, the National Aviation lobbyist, on the paved floor below, in a sparse crowd of early tourists who were consulting guidebooks and peering up at the frescoes in the eye of the dome. Shayne was fifteen minutes late and Clark was noticeably impatient. He kept checking his watch and mopping his forehead with a white handkerchief.

Shayne made his way toward him through the crowd. Clark didn’t look out of place among the tourists. He was gray-haired and overweight, in a seersucker suit that fitted him badly and needed pressing. His hat was pushed far back on his head. As his eyes met Shayne’s he put the handkerchief away.

“Mike Shayne, right?”

Shayne nodded curtly.

“I couldn’t have gone on wiping my forehead much longer,” Clark said. “One of my few eccentricities is that I don’t sweat.” He took an unsealed envelope out of his inside coat pocket and gave it to Shayne. “Here’s the list you wanted—people who rented safe-deposit boxes in seven banks, the last week in June. I have more coming. Some we won’t be able to get without a court order.”

“How about the terms, are they OK?”

Clark winced. “I don’t object to your terms. I object to putting them in writing. I typed up an agreement, confining it to one point—if our out-of-pocket expenses are reimbursed, we will be liable to you for a fee of one-half of one percent. That would amount to fifty thousand on a reimbursement of ten million, but I think it sounds better to put it that way. Even so, it’s a lot of money to commit without authorization, and I ought to talk to you fairly soon.”

“I have something underway. It may not pan out.”

“You were right about Wall, it seems. Toby’s testifying now, and Wall is sitting there woolgathering. There were several questions he was supposed to ask, but he seems to have his mind on other things. Money, possibly.”

“I’m on my way over there now. Are you—”

He stopped abruptly.

Two men came in on him from both sides. One, a solid youth with his hair cropped extremely short, said in a friendly drawl, “You’d be Mike Shayne, the well-known Shamus? Tall, redheaded—yeah, you fit the description.”

Clark skittered a few steps, his eyes jumping to the envelope in Shayne’s hand. The second man, a seamed, leathery individual with heavy-lidded eyes, showed Shayne a police shield.

“Lieutenant wants to talk to you.”

Shayne swore viciously. It had taken them less time to identify Bixler than he had expected. After that, an easy sequence had brought them to Shayne. As soon as the news became known in Bixler’s office, the girl he had had champagne with the night before, Margaret something, would volunteer the information that somebody named Mike Shayne had dropped in on Bixler at three A.M., an hour or so before he died. Shayne wasn’t ready to be questioned, but he had to concede that as police work it had been fast and efficient.

“Lieutenant who?” he said mildly. “And what does he want to talk to me about?”

“This and that,” the older man said. “Come on, Shayne, you’re no baby. Are you licensed as a private detective in the District of Columbia? That ought to do for openers.”

“OK, you deserve an explanation. I’m busy now, but I’ll stop in and see you before noon.”

He put Clark’s envelope casually in his pocket. The first man’s hand snaked out and got it.

“Who’re you trying to kid? Before noon, hell. Now.”

“Henry,” Shayne said to Clark. The lobbyist turned reluctantly, hating to admit they were together. “These clowns can tie me up most of the day. You must have a little influence in town. See if you can get it postponed for half an hour. They can come with me. Hell, they can handcuff me if they’re afraid I’ll make a break.”

“I can make a few phone calls,” Clark said. “I don’t know how much good it’ll do. They tend to be a little touchy.”

“You go right ahead, brother,” the older man said. “And if I get new orders on the way in, I’ll turn around and come back.” He took Shayne’s arm above the elbow. “But when I get told to pick up somebody, that’s what I try to do. And I try to do it right away, not in half an hour. I’m too close to a pension.”

He turned Shayne toward the great bronze doors onto the eastern portico.

“Well, it’s bad luck,” Shayne said to Clark, “but I guess it can’t be helped. Make those phone calls anyway. What precinct are you boys from?”

“I’ve been patient!” the older cop snarled. “But that’s all the talking we’re going to do. You’ll find out when we get there.”

Shayne resisted the pull on his arm. He said gently, “Are you refusing to tell me your precinct number and who wants to see me? Is that the way you do things in this town?”

“You’re goddamn well told that’s the way we do things! No more of this crap, Shayne, or your ass is really gonna be in a high sling.”

His accent had thickened, and Shayne caught an inflection that reminded him suddenly of the group of Texans Manners had brought to town. And how would the Washington cops know they could find him here at this exact moment? He ran quickly through the list of people who knew where he was—Maggie Smith, Adelle Redpath, Senator Redpath, Henry Clark, the Szep brothers. Unless he was completely wrong about everything, none of them wanted him out of action.

“I think I’ll take a closer look at that shield,” he said.

“I said
that’s enough!”
the cop said, suddenly sounding close to hysteria.

They had Shayne by both arms, in a professional grip. He couldn’t see Oskar, but Pete was just ahead in the crowd of tourists, who had lost interest in the statues and oil paintings, and were watching avidly as a big unshaven redhead resisted arrest for some unknown but certainly interesting crime.

Shayne clenched one fist, with a slight sideward movement of his head toward the man on his left. Pete gulped and nodded. He edged away and began to work back in at an angle.

“I don’t like to be pushed,” Shayne said. “You want to watch yourself. You’re on Federal property.”

“I declare,” the younger man said sarcastically, “In a minute he’s going to be yapping about his constitutional rights.”

His face twisted abruptly and his mouth opened wide, in a lopsided O, as Pete hit him from the side, just above the pelvis. Shayne felt his grip loosen. Pivoting, the redhead stamped down on one of the other man’s feet, and at the same instant wrenched his arm free and started a left. It landed high. He got in two fast, damaging rights while the man was on the way down. He was unconscious before his face hit the marble.

Going down on one knee, Shayne pulled out the police shield. The unconscious man was a cop, all right, but he was a cop from a town called Fletcher, Texas. Shayne thought he had heard that Manners had his main plant there.

As the younger man fell, Pete grabbed the envelope out of his hand and thrust it at Shayne. A powerful kick in the fallen man’s lower ribs made it unlikely that he would bother anybody for the next few days.

“Let’s get out of here, Mike,” Pete said hoarsely.

The same detachment of Girl Scouts who had watched Shayne drink from the whiskey bottle stared at him now with real awe.

“Excuse me, girls,” he said, pushing through. “Lots to do.”

The crowd opened up for him; he realized that he looked dangerous and out of control. Henry Clark was nowhere in sight. Striding toward the stairs to the basement, Shayne saw one of the uniformed Capitol guards walking just as rapidly toward him, unfastening the flap of his pistol holster. The redhead didn’t want any of that kind of trouble. He slowed his pace to a saunter, and Pete overtook him.

“While you’re here,” Shayne said, pointing to one of the paintings, “that’s the Signing of the Declaration of Independence. Pay attention. Maybe you’ll learn something.”

“Like what?” Pete said, trying to get him to hurry. “Like it’s not such a smart idea to sock cops?”

“Those guys weren’t local cops.”

Shayne’s eyes were on the move, looking for familiar faces. Somebody must be backstopping the fake arrest, in case it went sour. And as they reached the exit between two big Revolutionary War paintings, he caught a glimpse of Stevens, Manners’ huge houseman.

Shayne propelled Pete through the door. “Now we hurry.”

They raced to the stairs and down to the basement. Oskar materialized behind them. An open subway car was waiting for passengers for the short underground trip to the Senate Office Building. Grabbing one of the metal hoops between the seats, Shayne swung in beside the motorman.

“Let’s go.”

The motorman, a portly elder statesman as dignified and imposing as many Senators he transported, said loftily, “In due time, sir.”

Shayne lifted him bodily out of the way. Pete climbed over and took charge of him while Shayne studied the controls. A simple rheostat governed the flow of power from the monorail on the ceiling. He advanced the lever. They had just begun to move when Stevens burst around the corner from the stairs.

Without a second’s hesitation, the big man set off along the pedestrian ramp, running at a clumsy gallop and coming surprisingly fast. Oskar yelled at Shayne, but the rheostat was already all the way over. Gradually the car picked up speed and began to pull away.

“Are you crazy?” the motorman shouted. “Slower!”

People on the ramp looked about, startled, as the car shot past. Stevens yanked out a gun and snapped off a fast shot. He was too badly winded to hold his hand steady, The slug glanced from the big sign over Shayne’s head: “CAUTION: Keep Arms and Feet inside Car,” and went shrieking away.

Pete said angrily, “You didn’t say anything about bringing a gun.”

The wheels bit into the curve. Shayne was trying to find the brake. He turned off the power as he saw the brightly lighted basement lobby of the office building, and located the brake just in time. They slid into the station with wheels locked, shooting sparks.

He leaped out. Two MP’s were idling in front of the elevators. One shouted, “That’s him!”

They advanced, two tough-looking soldiers in white helmets. Shayne retreated toward the mouth of the tunnel, the back of his neck prickling. Stevens would come pounding around the curve in another minute. Oskar and Pete turned back suddenly into harmless visitors from out of town. The MP’s called to Shayne to halt.

“I didn’t do anything!” he said.

“Oh, no,” the motorman cried. “You didn’t manhandle me and hijack government property!”

Shayne came forward, moving carefully. The soldiers had .45’s, and unlike Stevens they hadn’t been breathing hard and he couldn’t expect them to miss. The Szep brothers passed them, wheeled into position as though this was a maneuver they had practiced many times, and grabbed them from behind. The MP Pete was grappling with seemed to be the beefier of the pair. Shayne pumped a right into his unprotected midsection and then knocked him cold with a hard shot to the jaw. Shayne felt a searing pain all the way to his shoulder. Pete let him fall and whirled to help his brother.

The elevator arrived and discharged a load of passengers for the subway. Somebody shouted from the stairs. It was Curt Rebman, and just above him Shayne saw the National Aviation lobbyist, Henry Clark. Clark couldn’t make up his mind. His face was working. But as Rebman started for Shayne, Clark whipped off his hat, reached around the Texan and pulled the hat hard against his face. While Rebman clawed at it, trying to turn, Shayne pushed into the elevator and slammed the door.

The operator, an elderly Negro, had his hand on the control handle. Shayne closed his hand over the operator’s and pulled the handle over. The Negro was breathing shallowly, his eyes tightly closed. Shayne let him go after they passed the main floor.