A Taste for Violence Read online

  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.

  The man’s complacency jarred on Shayne. He said angrily, “The way you look at it then… you’re not interested in any help I might be able to give you.”

  “What did you say your name was?”

  “I didn’t say. It’s John Smith on the police blotter.”

  “All right, John Smith. I’ve been around a good many years and I’ve stayed healthy by knowing what the score is. These punks can’t fry me. Maybe you’re on the level and maybe you were sent here by AMOK.”

  “What’s AMOK?” Shayne asked through set teeth.

  Brand laughed softly. Too softly. “That’s exactly what you’d say if you’re a stinking fink.” His tone was unchanged.

  “And that’s what I’d say if I weren’t.”

  “That’s right, too,” Brand conceded. “I’ve not nothing to hide and I’m not playing games. My arrest broke the strike and that’s what they wanted. I lose, and that’s that. Whoever bumped Roche was playing a cinch.”

  “You’re a cinch to hang,” Shayne told him quietly, “unless you’ve got a card up your sleeve you haven’t shown.”

  Brand didn’t answer at once. He got out a cigarette and struck a match. Shayne studied his face closely by the match-glow as he held it to the cigarette. In his brief judgment, he could see no hint of recklessness, but there was audacity in the upcurve of his mouth and two round depressions in his cheeks that showed when he drew on the cigarette, then disappeared. A gambler, perhaps, who would play for high stakes and enjoy it… but only if the odds were weighted in his favor.

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sp; Brand tossed the match away, leaned his head against the wall and smoked.

  Shayne said quietly, “I got myself thrown into this goddam jail just to talk to you… size you up.”

  “You did?” said Brand politely. He lifted his head from the wall and turned toward Shayne. “I’m not worried.”

  “Joe Margule had an accident this evening,” Shayne told him in a conversational tone.

  “Bad?” Brand lifted his shoulder from the wall.

  “Dead,” said Shayne. He lit a fresh cigarette.

  Brand had his feet uncrossed. He took a few steps toward one of the windows, whirled and came back to stand stiffly before the detective.

  “Jethro Home has vanished,” Shayne went on slowly. “Skipped town, so the rumor goes.”

  The silence was as thick as the stench in the room. Brand puffed rapidly on his cigarette, then went back to lean against the wall again, closer to Shayne this time.

  “I was afraid of Jeth,” he said evenly, almost confidentially. “If they showed him a lot of money… but I couldn’t pick the men I’d be with when somebody blew a hole in Roche’s head.”

  “But it knocks hell out of your alibi,” Shayne reminded him. He matched Brand’s casualness in both action and tone.

  “I don’t know,” Brand said. “They all signed affidavits. They’ll stand up, even with Home and Margule out of the picture.”

  “Not now,” Shayne said.

  Brand let the back of his head roll along the wall and turned his eyes toward Shayne. The muscles in the detective’s gaunt face were working and his eyes were bleak in the dim light as he looked levelly at Brand. “Maybe… until about ten minutes ago. Now, you haven’t got an alibi left. I just heard Dave Burroughs swear he perjured himself in that affidavit. I heard Elwood read the statement he signed. Burroughs was half dead from… from an accident of some kind.” Shayne was lolling with his right shoulder against the wall, half-facing Brand. He watched narrowly in the dim light for some reaction.

  Brand didn’t move for a time, but the deep drags he took on the cigarette lighted his face now and again. He appeared to be thinking hard. Presently he said, “I’ve got friends up north. The NUWJ will have a lawyer down here tomorrow. They can’t get away with… with murder and torture.”

  “This,” said Shayne harshly, “is Centerville.” He stopped, feeling a sense of shock at the three words from his own lips. All of a sudden they had a fatalistic sound. Heretofore, he had only thought them strange, somewhat fascinating, ominous or dangerous, perhaps, but for the first time he realized their real meaning. He swiftly went over his experiences since arriving in the village, added them to the information Lucy Hamilton had told him, and he felt sorry as hell for George Brand.

  He put a hand on Brand’s arm and said, “I don’t think a Yankee lawyer will get very far in this town… even with a habeas corpus, or anything else. My bet is that this is the only chance you’ll have to do any talking. To me. Right now.”

  “Maybe you’re right.” Brand’s voice was heavy, thick.

  “Maybe the name Michael Shayne means more to you than John Smith,” he said.

  “Maybe… it… does.” Brand was standing erect, his arms folded across his chest, his head high, his chin jutting.

  Shayne straightened his long lanky body and looked down a couple of inches into Brand’s eyes. He said, “If you didn’t kill Roche you’re a fool not to give me anything that will help prove it.”

  Brand met his gaze levelly in the dim light. “I’ve got the proof when the right time comes. I’ll talk to my lawyer. You understand how it is,” he went on strongly, swiftly, completely sure of himself. “With my alibi shot, I’ve got one ace in the hole. Maybe you’re all right, but I’m not taking any chance with my life.”

  Shayne turned away abruptly and said, “I’ve wasted a night in this stinking jail for nothing,” and was making his way toward the cell block when he heard the outer door opening.

  “John Smith. Front and center,” a voice called out.

  “Coming,” Shayne said gruffly, and went toward the rectangle of light.

  Gantry stood in the doorway. He looked fresh and clean and ready for a night of excitement in Centerville. The hunchbacked jailor, dirty and smelling of fresh beer, stood aside, the big key hanging on the chain around his waist.

  Shayne’s rugged red brows lifted quizzically when Gantry said in a curiously servile voice, “This way. There’s a lady waiting to see you.”

  Shayne followed him. He tried to stir up a feeling of animosity toward Lucy Hamilton for interfering when he had specifically told her not to try to get him out of jail until tomorrow.

  He followed Gantry’s youthful and springy steps, and wished he could be thirty again, but he forgot Gantry when they entered the room and Elsa Roche was standing there, holding out both her hands to greet him.

  10

  HER small dark face was strained, her gray-green eyes, red-rimmed and swollen, were intent upon his face. She looked sober and frightened. She caught both of his hands and gripped them with surprising strength. Her short upper lip quivered when she tried to speak. “I… had to… see you,” she managed to say.

  “I didn’t expect you to be here,” Shayne said. “How the devil did you find out I was here?”

  They were alone in a small private office. Shayne released her hands when Gantry came through the doorway and said, “I’ll get your stuff, Mr. Smith,” then retreated down the corridor.

  Elsa Roche took a compact from her purse, opened it, and turned aside to peer into the mirror. “It was difficult to find you.” She had control of her voice now, and it was almost flippant. “I called around at the different hotels and learned you were registered at the Moderne but weren’t in yet. Then I called the police station to ask them to watch out for you around town and have you call me at once. I talked to Sergeant Gantry, and when I described you he laughed and said he’d just booked a man named John Smith who answered your description. I thought it might be you, so I came down to see.”

  They heard Gantry’s footsteps coming toward them in the corridor. He came in and handed Shayne a sealed envelope.

  Shayne opened it and examined the contents, nodded and said, “Thanks, sergeant,” gravely. “Do I just walk out of here?”

  Gantry smiled thinly and glanced at Mrs. Roche. “Suppose we say you’re paroled in her custody. That what you want, Mrs. Roche?”

  She snapped her compact shut. “It was all a stupid mistake in the first place,” she said arrogantly. “You can see for yourself Mr. Smith isn’t drunk.”

  “I admit he’s sobered up fast,” Gantry agreed.

  “So just cross off that ridiculous charge against him.” She stepped forward and took Shayne’s arm confidently. “My car is outside the main entrance.”

  Gantry preceded them down the wide hallway and opened a door leading out onto the front entrance of the city hall. The Buick which Shayne had seen at the Roche house stood at the bottom of a flight of wide concrete steps. Elsa clung to Shayne’s arm as they descended. He opened the left-hand door for her to get in. She started the motor and waited for him to get in, then put the car in gear and drove to Centerville’s main street without speaking.

  Shayne lounged back on the cushions, lit a cigarette, and waited for her to start talking. She drove competently and with grave intensity, turning left on the main street and following it through the outskirts of town onto the eastward highway. When they were beyond the city limits she said, “I hope you don’t mind being kidnaped.”

  “Have you ever visited the city jail?” Shayne countered.

  “No.”

  “If you had, you’d know that being kidnaped is a pleasure.”

  “Jimmy and Seth discussed you thoroughly after you left tonight,” she confided. “They seemed to think you were quite notorious in your profession.”

  “I’ve got a good publicity man.”

  They had left the village far behind. The highway was dark and deserted, windi
ng through a wooded valley, the headlights glowing upon a stream on one side and a mountain slope on the other. Elsa drove purposefully, sitting erect and watching the road carefully. Presently she slowed and turned off onto a dirt road leading down a gentle incline to a flat wooded grove in a bend of the river. She parked between two overspreading trees on the bank of the stream, cut off the motor and headlights and leaned forward with both hands clasped on the steering wheel.

  Shayne meditatively puffed on his cigarette and listened to the sound of the river and the chirping crickets and wondered how Lucy was getting along with her two Kentucky cavaliers.

  “Did you see George in jail?” Elsa asked suddenly.

  “Didn’t you guess that was why I got myself locked up?”

  “Yes. I guessed that.”

  “I talked to him,” Shayne said quietly.

  “How is he?”

  Shayne thought he detected eagerness or anxiety in her tone. He turned quickly to look at her. She was leaning farther forward, her chin on her hands, her eyes staring straight ahead. He said, “Seems well enough. Quite cheerful, in fact. He’s not worrying about the murder charge. I got the impression he has a couple of aces up his sleeve.”

  “Does he know… about the men he was trusting to give him an alibi?” Anxiety was definitely in her voice now.

  “I told him that angle was shot. It didn’t seem to perturb him very much. He’s…” Shayne paused, groping for the right words to describe George Brand’s attitude. “… very sure of himself. Not vain, but with the certitude of a man who knows exactly the odds against him and how to beat them.”

  She said, “I know,” in a stifled voice. She raised her head suddenly and beat one doubled fist against the steering wheel. “I’m frightened, Mr. Shayne. I don’t know what to do. I had to talk to someone. From the things Jimmy and Seth said about you I gathered…” She hesitated, turning toward him.

  “What,” asked Shayne, “did you gather?”

  “That you’re tough and hardboiled, but basically honest. Seth and Mr. Persona had an argument about it after you left. Seth doesn’t trust you.”

  “Doesn’t trust me to give my all for AMOK,” he amplified.