The Private Practice of Michael Shayne (4 page)

PETER PAINTER, dynamic chief of the Miami Beach detective bureau, led the squad of uniformed men.

Painter was a head shorter than Shayne. His wiry, compact body was garbed in a double-breasted Palm Beach suit, and, with a turned-down creamy Panama covering his sleek black hair, he looked, as always, as though he had just been turned out by a competent valet.

His black eyes flashed in the headlights when he recognized Shayne. He peered past the redheaded detective at the other car and asked brusquely, “What’s going on here?”

“Murder.”

Shayne shrugged and jerked his thumb back over his shoulder, then took a deep drag on his cigarette.

Two motorcycle cops and a
Miami Herald
press car roared up, swayed into the dead-end street.

Painter contrived to give the appearance of strutting even while his gray sports shoes bogged through the deep sand on his way to the car. He peered in at the body of Harry Grange.

Shayne stood full in the headlights while Painter issued crisp orders behind him, and an ambulance sped up with the Miami Beach medical examiner.

Painter bogged back to stand in front of Shayne. Painter’s breathing was audible. He twitched a tan-bordered handkerchief from his breast pocket and touched it to his lips. He had small hands and feet, thin, mobile lips with a black, threadlike mustache running straight across the upper one.

He replaced his handkerchief so that the edges peeked out of his pocket before saying, “All right, Shayne. Why did you kill Grange?” His voice was metallic, biting.

“Sorry to disappoint you. I didn’t.”

Painter nodded to uniformed men on each side of Shayne.

“Shake him down.”

Shayne obligingly lifted his elbows out while they went over him thoroughly for a weapon.

After a time they stepped back and announced, “He’s clean, Chief.”

“Let’s have your story, Shayne,” Painter grated. “And it had better be good.”

A
Herald
reporter with flaring nostrils and popping eyes was standing close by, scribbling down notes as Shayne told the precise truth. Painter waited until he ended, then asked in a tone which would have been ominous from a bigger man, “Do you expect me to believe that?”

“I don’t give a goddamn what you believe,” Shayne whipped out.

Painter’s black eyes snapped past Shayne to the medical examiner who had completed his examination.

“What do you find, Doc?”

“Not much. The bullet ranged upward through the brain. Small caliber—probably a thirty-two. Within the last half hour is the best I can do on the time.”

“It took me exactly nineteen minutes to get here,” Shayne said quietly.

“Look, Chief, can’t you give me a statement,” the pop-eyed reporter exclaimed. “I’ve got to phone my story in to catch the early edition.”

Painter rubbed the tip of his right forefinger slowly back and forth along his beautifully trimmed mustache. With chin lowered and eyes raised to Shayne, he asked curtly, “You’re positive it was Grange who called you?”

“That’s the name he gave me when I insisted—but he didn’t sound like Grange.”

Painter said gravely to his men, “Put the cuffs on him. I’m holding him on suspicion of murder.”

The reporter’s nostrils quivered. “Can I quote you on that, Painter?”

“Yes,” the chief snapped.

“Hey, hold it a minute, willya!” the reporter appealed to the burly cop who reached for Shayne’s wrist with handcuffs ready. He yelled at his photographer who was snapping shots of the death car and body. “C’mere, Joe, and get a shot of the cops snapping bracelets on Mike Shayne.”

Shayne lit another cigarette and asked grimly, “Wouldn’t you rather have one of me groveling on my knees to Painter?”

“Naw. This’ll be swell, just reach the cuffs out toward his arm—and you on the other side there! Grab him like you’re afraid he’s gonna make a break for it.”

Shayne submitted mildly while the cops demonstrated their lack of histrionic ability and the reporter got a pose which satisfied his sense of dramatic values. Photographer and reporter then fled to the press car, to find it stuck in the deep sand when the motor roared. Wheels spun and sand flew until two burly policemen and the two newsmen lifted it easily onto the pavement.

Shayne laughed.

Painter whirled around to order him into the back seat of the squad car, handcuffed to one of the cops, and they waited until the body was loaded into the ambulance. While they waited, Shayne said quietly:

“I suppose you know you’re making a damned ass out of yourself, Painter.”

Painter, in the front seat of the squad car, deigned to turn his head. He snapped back, “I’ll worry about that. You’ve had plenty of warning not to pull any rough stuff on my side of the bay.”

“What brought you to the scene Johnny-on-the-spot?”

“An anonymous phone call. Said a man was being murdered.”

“And by God you can’t see it was a frame?” Shayne asked incredulously. “Hell, Painter, while you’re satisfying a personal grudge against me, the murderer is getting away.”

“I’ll hold you until a better suspect pops up,” Painter told him complacently. “You’ll have a chance to prove your story about the telephone call, of course.”

The ambulance was backing out, and the driver put the police car in reverse, rocked it to get traction in the deep sand.

Shayne didn’t say anything more. He was quiet all the way to police headquarters where they took him out and created a mild sensation among a couple of lounging reporters in the outer office by leading him through, handcuffed, to Painter’s private office in the rear.

Both reporters knew Shayne, and they trotted back in loose-jawed amazement, but Painter turned them away at the door of his office, ordered the cuffs removed from Shayne, and went in with him alone, closing the door.

“Why didn’t you let the boys come in?” Shayne grinned at his captor.

Painter stiffened and didn’t answer. He sat officiously erect in a swivel chair behind his desk.

Shayne dropped into a chair opposite the tidy, polished oak desk and said cheerfully, “You’re laying yourself wide open, Painter. I’m warning you.”

“I’m not at all convinced of that.”

Painter looked pleased. He brushed his mustache with the tip of his forefinger.

“Your reputation for pulling fast ones isn’t going to help you any.”

“If I was going to kill a man,” said Shayne with deep disgust, “I wouldn’t stand there and wait for you flat-feet to come and pick me up.”

Peter Painter lit a cigarette. His black eyes were cold and unblinking. He said, “Maybe you want to play ball with me, then. Tell me who killed Grange, and I’ll see what I can do.”

Shayne grinned, lolled back in his chair.

“I’ve told you all I know.”

Painter shook his head.

“I’ve had you dumb up on me before, Shayne. I won’t stand for any goddamn nonsense!”

His small fist pounded the desk top and a gust of passion shook his voice.

“I know your record. You’re out after the cash and to hell with the regular law enforcement agencies. You don’t care how many murders are committed if you see a way to cash in on them.”

“Like—the Brighton case?” Shayne asked softly.

“Yes, damn it! I’m thinking of the Brighton case—for one. I stood the gaff of newspaper persecution while you pulled strings and angled for a payoff. This isn’t going to be played that way.”

Shayne went pale with anger. A pulse throbbed in his neck. Big fists clenched involuntarily.

“You little bastard!” he spat out. “You cheap little bastard!” The words dripped out sibilantly from set teeth. “After I handed you that case on a silver platter.” He stood up, eyes suddenly gone mad, big hands bunched into clublike fists.

Peter Painter pushed his chair back two inches. The muzzle of a blued .38 special appeared over the edge of his desk. It was pointed unwaveringly at Shayne’s belly.

“Just take one step,” he said hopefully. “You’ve been in my hair long enough, Shayne. I’d rather gut-shoot you than any man I’ve ever met.”

Shayne stood balanced on the balls of his feet, leaning slightly forward from the waist. His eyes cleared and he laughed, a short morose laugh.

“You hold all the aces this time,” he admitted. He sank back into his chair and crossed his legs. “Why don’t you break out the rubber hose?”

Painter shook his head. His lips were drawn back from sharp white teeth.

“I’ve got enough to keep you locked up until you rot—or the case is solved.”

“Which would mean the same thing. I’d be stinking like hell in your jail before you solved it,” Shayne pointed out sardonically.

“All right.”

Painter slid his .38 back in an open drawer. He sighed and pressed a button on his desk.

Neither of them said anything until the door opened and a cop stuck his head in.

“Bring the newspaper boys in,” Painter ordered.

There was another silence until the reporters trooped in. Five of them now. They all knew Shayne and nodded to him casually. He nodded back, unsmiling.

“Sit down, boys.”

Peter Painter leaned back in his swivel chair and addressed them gravely.

“I called you in as unbiased witnesses to the fact that Michael Shayne refuses to give any information whatsoever concerning his presence at the scene of murder. We all know he’s tricky, and that he has wriggled out of tight places before. I’m perfectly willing to check any portion of a story he gives, but he persists in his absurd statement that someone who said his name was Harry Grange called him in the middle of the night and lured him over to the scene of murder just in time to get caught red-handed. I’ll leave you to handle that in your stories as you see fit. You’re all at perfect liberty to ask the prisoner any questions you wish.”

“Is that right, Mike?” Timothy Rourke asked. “It puts you pretty much on the spot.”

Rourke was a seasoned veteran of the
Miami News,
lean as a hound, shoulders bent slightly forward, and with eyes that invited confidence.

“That’s right,” Shayne told him. He hesitated, then added in a tone that was somewhat apologetic to his old friend, “I’ve got an idea who called me for the frame. But it’s just an idea, Tim. You know how hard it is to identify a telephone voice. Especially if it is being disguised. And—suppose I am right? Hell, the guy will just deny it. Then where’ll I be?”

“That’s just a stall,” Painter crackled. “If he’s got any clue to the caller—if there
was
a caller—let him tell us. I want you boys to witness that I’m giving him every chance to come clean and clear himself.”

“Yeh, it can’t hurt to tell what you’re thinking, Mike,” Rourke urged. “I’ll see that it’s damn sure given a thorough investigation,” he ended with a belligerent glance toward Peter Painter.

“But—if it’s who I think it was,” Shayne explained hesitantly, avoiding Rourke’s stalking eyes, “I’ll only be worse in Dutch when he denies it. I’d be better off to pretend I don’t recognize the voice than to tell what I think and be called a liar.”

The telephone on Painter’s desk b-r-r’d discreetly. He unpronged the receiver and said, “Yes… Painter speaking.”

He listened a moment and his black eyes glistened.

“Yes,” he purred. “I understand, Mr. Marco. Yes, indeed, I think it’s extremely important. No, I don’t think it will he necessary for you to come down tonight. Drop in tomorrow morning and sign an affidavit. Thank you, Mr. Marco.”

Triumph snapped in his eyes. He made an expansive gesture toward the reporters.

“I’m going to lay all my cards on the table, boys. That was John Marco. City councilman here on the beach. He just heard a newscast on his radio saying that Shayne had been taken into custody for the murder of Harry Grange. He thought I might be interested to know that Shayne had a run-in with Grange in Marco’s private office tonight. It seems that Mr. Shayne threatened to break Grange’s neck if he didn’t stay away from a certain girl in whom Shayne has taken an—er—paternal interest. Phyllis Brighton by name. There were witnesses to the threat.”

Painter held his manicured hand out and closed the fingers slowly.

“There’s your motive, boys.”

An electric silence followed. The five newspaper men stared at Shayne.

Shayne’s wide mouth twitched into an ironic smile.

“And I say that makes a swell motive for a frame-up. Hell, I’m not going to deny I threatened to break Grange’s neck.” He opened his big hands and closed them in front of their eyes. “I might have done it, too—if somebody else hadn’t beaten me to the pleasure.”

“Mike’s right,” Tim Rourke declared. “His run-in with Grange earlier in the evening gives meaning to his story about the frame over the phone. For God’s sake, tell us who you think it was, Mike. I’ll run it down into its rathole if you’ll give me an inkle.”

Shayne shook his head slowly, carefully avoiding Rourke’s eyes.

“I might be wrong,” he protested. He turned to Painter with a frown creasing his forehead. “You can see how tough it is. Take you and the anonymous tip that you say sent you racing out to the beach almost before Grange’s heart had stopped beating—and just in time to conveniently catch me. You didn’t recognize
that
voice either.” A sardonic smile spread his wide mouth.

“No,” Peter Painter admitted stiffly. “But it was likely someone I didn’t know.”

“So you say,” Shayne snapped. “What proof have you? Who overheard the conversation and can swear there even
was
such a call?”

Shayne’s hands rested on the chair arms, his body tensed forward from the waist, his eyes inscrutable between lowered lids.

“By God! I don’t need any proof. I’m not charged with murder.” Painter’s face was red with wrath. “If you’ve got anything to say before I lock you up—start talking.” Shayne spread out his bony hands, palms upward, and settled back in the chair.

“There you are. He doesn’t need proof. I do. What chance have I got against that sort of a set-up?”

Timothy Rourke was studying Shayne’s face closely. A muscle wriggled in his lean jaw. In an oddly choked voice he said, “Spring it, Mike,” and bent a compelling gaze on the detective.