Murder Is My Business (6 page)

“Had some sort of accident in New York, didn’t he?”

“They called it an accident. Gershon was murdered. I happen to know the Gestapo got him.”

Shayne shrugged his indifference to the incident and said in a friendly tone, “What are you doing in El Paso, Lance?”

“Gathering material for a new book on Gestapo activities in this country.” Lance’s voice became animated and he looked squarely at Shayne. “It will include the true dope on some of our native Fascists who are either consciously or unconsciously collaborating.”

“Isn’t it dangerous?”

“I’ve lived with danger so much the last few years,” Lance said slowly, “it’s lost its impact.”

Shayne took out a pack of cigarettes and offered them to Lance, who accepted avidly. Thumbnailing a match, Shayne lit both of them, spun the matchstick across the room, and asked, “Did you just drop in here to see me for old times’ sake, or was there something in particular?”

“I wanted to see what kind of man you’d turned into,” Lance told him coolly. “Your championship of Jefferson Towne intrigues me.”

“He’d make El Paso a good mayor.”

Lance Bayliss uttered an angry exclamation, and rose to stride up and down the hotel room. His words came in a rush: “That’s typical of this country’s smug way of thinking. Towne is a menace to the community
and to America. He has the true Leader complex. Damn it, Shayne, don’t you realize he sees himself as the Man-on-Horseback? The mayoralty of El Paso first. That’s a stepping stone. A springboard to launch him into state and national politics. He’s as dangerous as a Hitler. And you’re helping him get elected by clearing him in a lucky accident that might have prevented his election.”

“I don’t think he’s that dangerous,” Shayne argued good-naturedly. “You’re in the habit of looking for bogymen around every corner.”

“That’s the trouble with you here in America.” Lance Bayliss stopped in mid-stride to level a trembling forefinger at Shayne. “You underestimate the danger. You sit back and say blandly, ‘It can’t happen here.’ It can! It happened in Germany. You don’t realize the forces moving us toward Fascism in the United States, with men like Jeff Towne eager to lead the movement.”

Shayne said, “Perhaps,” remaining unperturbed.

“There’s no perhaps about it. Men like Towne have to be stopped before they get started. He
was
stopped until you stepped in with your talk of an autopsy to muddy the issue. You used to stand for something, Shayne. Have you changed so much in ten years?”

“I draw bigger fees than I did ten years ago.”

“Is a fat fee more important to you than the welfare of your country?” Lance’s voice trembled with wrath.

Shayne made a derisive gesture. “I can’t believe the fate of one small city election is so important.” He paused a moment and then added, “What would you have me do?”

“Drop the whole investigation. Get out of El Paso, and let the voters defeat Towne.”

Shayne said, “A lot of different people are eager to have me drop the investigation. I’m beginning to wonder what all of them are afraid of.”

“I’m telling you what I’m afraid of,” Lance assured him angrily. He took time out to choke back his anger, went on in a more reasonable tone: “You’ve got to realize this is something big, and there are people determined to block you. You’ll drop it like a hot brick if you’re smart.”

“And if I’m not?” Shayne’s voice was hard.

“I won’t be responsible for what happens.” Lance Bayliss shrugged his thin shoulders. “Think it over. A fat fee from Towne won’t do you much good in your coffin.”

“That might be construed as a threat,” Shayne mused.

“Construe it any damned way you want,” muttered Lance apathetically. He went toward the closed bathroom door, asking, “This your bathroom?”

Shayne said, “Yes. Help yourself.” He emptied his glass of cognac while Lance tried the door.

“It’s locked.” Lance whirled about suspiciously. “There’s someone in there! By God—”

“It’s a connecting bathroom,” Shayne lied calmly. “Guy in the next room must be using it. Christ, fellow,” he went on good-naturedly, “you need to quiet down and relax. This is the U.S. Remember? We don’t have SS squads concealed in every hotel room.”

“I am jumpy,” Lance conceded with a bitter twist of his lips. “I’m sorry you’re determined to be stubborn
about going to bat for Towne. I guess there isn’t much more to say.”

“I guess there isn’t.” Shayne stayed in his chair. “If you feel like settling down to chew over other things, I’ll see if I can get a fresh bottle sent up.”

Lance said, “Thanks. No.” He was edging toward the door. “Think over what I’ve told you. I’ll be around and—”

The bathroom door swung open, and Carmela Towne was outlined in the doorway. She cried out, “Lance!”

He turned his head very deliberately to look at her. His gaze was impersonal and searching. He drew in his breath, and the small sound was loud in the stillness of the hotel room. He looked back at Shayne and said acidly, “I’m sorry I interrupted your drinking party. I’ll get out and let you finish it.” He went swiftly to the door and jerked it open.

Carmela swayed forward and cried out, “Lance,” again.

He stepped out, and the slamming of the door echoed his name.

Carmela turned numbly toward Shayne. “Did you see his eyes when he looked at me? He hates me, Michael.”

Shayne said evenly, “Ten years have taught him to hate a lot of things, Carmela.”

“I heard everything he said. About Father and all. Do you believe them, Michael? Can they be true?”

Shayne said, “I don’t know.” He sighed. “I’m not even sure that Lance believes them.”

Carmela came toward him slowly. Her features were
haggard and tightly drawn. Her dark eyes glittered insistently. “What do you mean by that?”

“I’m not sure.” Shayne moved restively in his chair. “I’m only sure that Lance is trying to balk a complete investigation into the death of the soldier. Other people are trying to do the same thing for different reasons.” He got up and jerked his head curtly toward the chair. “Sit down and relax. I’ll order up that bottle and we’ll pour ourselves a drink.”

Early in the afternoon Shayne strolled down to police headquarters and went up a corridor toward Chief Dyer’s private office. He was nearing the door when it opened and Dyer came out. He was accompanied by Neil Cochrane of the
Free Press
and a long-legged young man with tousled hair and a solemn face and round, wondering eyes behind a pair of thick-lensed glasses.

Dyer was puffing explosively on his inevitable cigarette in its long holder. When he saw Shayne, he told the two men, “Here he is now, if you want to ask him those questions. You can use my office if you like. You know Cochrane, don’t you, Shayne? And this is Jasper Dodge, on the morning paper.”

Shayne said, yes, he knew Cochrane. He shook hands with the solemn-faced young reporter, who mumbled that he was happy to meet Mr. Shayne. Dyer started to go on by, but Shayne blocked him for a moment. “What’s this all about, Chief?”

“I just gave the boys a statement on the autopsy. They want to ask you a few questions. They want to know on what information you based your request for an autopsy, and who retained you on the case.”

Shayne grinned and said, “The hell they do.”

“And other pertinent questions,” Neil Cochrane shot at him incisively, thrusting his bushy head forward. “My readers will want to know—”

Shayne said, “To hell with your readers, Cochrane. I’m not ready to make a statement yet.” He linked his arm in Chief Dyer’s. “I’ve a couple of things I wanted to talk over with you.”

“Busy right now.” Dyer started down the hall. “Boys have pulled in a couple of suspects on an angle we’ve been working on for some time.”

“I’ll tag along,” Shayne said agreeably.

“Yeah. And we’ll tag along too, Shayne,” Cochrane grated disagreeably. “My paper wants to know who put up the bribe money that caused Doc Thompson to falsify an autopsy.”

Shayne didn’t pay any attention to the little man’s yapping. He went down the hallway with Dyer, and the two reporters trailed behind.

“What sort of an angle?” Shayne asked the chief idly.

“Boys from Fort Bliss have been turning up in Juarez more or less regularly with civilian clothes for an evening’s what-have-you,” Dyer told him. “We’ve been cooperating with the army authorities—” He broke off to stop and open a door into one of the detention rooms just off the booking desk.

Shayne went in with him. There were two uniformed policemen standing in the bare room, and two other occupants were seated.

One of them was a young Mexican girl. She didn’t look over sixteen. She had sultry eyes and a sullen, heavily rouged mouth. She wore a thin white blouse
that showed a pink brassiere beneath, and a very short skirt that came well above her knees as she sprawled on a bench. Her rayon stockings were twisted, and one of them had a run all the way down the inside of her calf.

Her companion was a tall, dapper man. He sat bolt upright beside the Mexican floosie, with his hands folded in his lap. He had fierce eyes and a beaked nose, and a square, aggressive jaw.

“Here they are, Chief,” one of the patrolmen said. “The guy won’t do no talkin’, but the girl says—”

She opened her mouth and spewed out a torrent of Mexican vilification at him. Her companion compressed his lips tightly and did not look at her. She ceased abruptly in the middle of a sentence, and her eyes widened as the two reporters peered through the doorway behind Shayne and Chief Dyer. She jumped up and cried out,
“Señor
Cochrane! You ’ave come for tal them Marquita ees not bad girl. You weel mak’ them let me go, no?”

Neil Cochrane lounged forward with a sickly smile on his ferrety face. He asked, “What have you been up to, Marquita?”

“Nossing. I ’ave done nossing at all. Bot zees mans arrest me, for w’at I do not know.” She shrugged her shoulders defiantly and wriggled her thin hips, then plopped herself down on the bench again, twitching her skirt above her knees and letting her mouth relax into sullen lines.

“How well do you know this girl?” Dyer demanded of the
Free Press
reporter.

“I’ve run into her in Juarez a couple of times. What are the charges against her?”

Chief Dyer turned inquiringly to the patrolman who had first spoken.

“We picked her up taking a couple of young soldiers in uniform into this man’s secondhand clothing store,” the officer said. “We’ve been watching his place for some time on the hunch that he rented civvies to soldiers who want to slip across the border for a good time. Couple of M.P.’s went in with us, and the soldiers said, sure, she’d picked ’em up on the street and offered to show ’em how to get out to Juarez without gettin’ caught,”

“Who are you?” Dyer growled at the dapper man.

“I am Sydney J. Larimer.” He spoke in precise English, forming each word carefully, his tone incisive and superior. “I have a legitimate business and I protest this outrage. I demand the protection of a legal advisor.”

“What kind of a business do you run?”

“I purchase and sell slightly used clothing and luggage.”

“And rent civilian clothes to soldiers who want to slip across the border?”

Larimer glared at the police chief. “I demand to be allowed to call my lawyer.”

Dyer turned his attention to the girl. “How long have you been taking soldiers to his place to get them fixed up so they could cross the border with you?”

Neil Cochrane interrupted to ask reprovingly, “You haven’t ever done that, have you, Marquita?”

Chief Dyer whirled on the reporter and bellowed, “Get out of here! Both of you!”

Cochrane backed toward the door, protesting, “Is this a Star Chamber? I just want to see that—”

Dyer nodded to one of the patrolmen and growled, “Put them out.” He waited until the door was closed behind the two reporters and then ordered the Mexican girl, “Answer my question.”

She was looking down at her lap. She shook her head and said sullenly, “I do not know w’at you mean. Me, I ’ave done nossing. I am theenk eet ees nice eef ze
soldados
can go weeth me to Juarez for ’ave fun, an’ I am theenk maybe they can buy clothes for change from uniform.”

“So you took them to Larimer’s store, where you’ve often been before.”

“Never,” said Larimer tightly. “I have a legitimate business and—”

“How much does he charge to rent clothes to soldiers?” Dyer demanded of the girl.

She lifted her head and widened her eyes at him. “I do not know. I theenk I weel ask—”

Chief Dyer uttered a disgusted exclamation and turned to stride out of the room. To the patrolman at the door he said, “Have Sergeant Lawson get all the dope, and then release them. You made the grab too fast. If you’d waited until the soldiers actually changed clothes in the shop, we’d have something.” Muttering to himself, he strode back to his office.

Cochrane and Jasper Dodge were lounging against
the wall in front of his door. He brushed past them and went inside. Following Chief Dyer, Shayne was intercepted by Cochrane, who stepped in front of him and said, “Look here, Shayne. I want some answers—”

Shayne put a big hand flat against the reporter’s thin face, and shoved. He stepped inside the chief’s office and closed the door. Dyer was seated at his desk fitting a cigarette into his long holder. His naked-appearing face depicted extreme disgust. “That’s the way it is in police work,” he said. “Have to depend on a bunch of incompetents who go off half-cocked and ruin things.”

Shayne eased one hip onto a corner of the chief’s desk. “Speaking of those two back there?”

Dyer nodded. “We haven’t a thing on them now. And they’ll be careful from now on.”

Shayne lit a cigarette and blew smoke into a cloud already rising from a violent puff from Dyer. “Larimer appears to be some kind of a foreigner.”

“He speaks mighty good English,” growled Dyer.

“Too good,” Shayne said. “Too precise and bookish.”

“We’ll have to work up another lead on the racket now.”

“You could hold the girl,” Shayne suggested to the chief.

“On what? Juvenile delinquency? There are hundreds like her in Juarez and El Paso preying on the soldiers.”