A Redhead for Mike Shayne Read online

  5

  In his private office at Miami Beach Police Headquarters, Chief of Detectives Peter Painter greeted the detective with an irascible scowl when he walked in. “You took your own sweet time getting here, Shayne. Another half hour and I would have had a warrant sworn out for your arrest.”

  Shayne said, “In that case I’m glad I didn’t take time for that extra cup of coffee I wanted.” He pulled a chair closer to the chief’s wide, uncluttered desk and sat down. “You know I promised Hogan I’d be in first thing.”

  “Hogan exceeded his authority by permitting you to walk away from the scene of the crime last night,” snapped Painter. “You can’t just come over to the Beach and knock off our citizens at your pleasure, Shayne.”

  Shayne said wearily, “Come off it, Painter. You know how things were last night. Hogan had a lot more important things to do than drag me in to make a formal statement. I’m here now, so what’s the fuss?”

  “I’d like some factual evidence that last night’s killing was justifiable self-defense. All we have right now is an unsupported statement from you that the other man fired at you first.”

  “Did Hogan mention the six bullet-holes in the wall of the office directly over the chair I was sitting in?”

  “There was some such notation in his report.” Painter leaned back stiffly and brushed his pencil-thin black mustache with his left thumb-nail. “You want us to think you were staked out waiting for him to break into the warehouse and sat quietly in your chair while he fired six bullets over your head before you got off one of your own? Even on TV the noble private eyes don’t give a killer six shots to one. Did you have to get your gun out and load it before you started shooting back?”

  Shayne reached in his pocket and got out the Russian pistol and put it on the desk in front of him. “That’s the baby that did it,” he said easily. “If you want to know the truth, I had exactly less than one second to get my shot off.”

  Painter blinked incredulously at the strange-looking gun and shook his head. “What is it? A pocket bazooka?”

  “That’s not a bad guess,” Shayne agreed. “Actually it’s Russian. A Lenski twelve-oh-seven. That’s twelve millimeters,” he added. “Fifty caliber by our standards.”

  “Fifty caliber?” Painter leaned forward and poked at the gun with one fingertip to turn it so he could peer into the yawning muzzle.

  “It carries a full load of twelve fifty-caliber bullets,” Shayne told him, “and is fully automatic and discharges six of them in less than one second. That’s what happened in the warehouse last night,” He added grimly, “while I was fooling around and getting set to shoot back.”

  “Nonsense,” said Painter briskly. “It’s sheer impossibility. Something you dreamed up from reading too much science fiction and listening to too much Russian propaganda.”

  “Not only that,” said Shayne, calmly disregarding the detective chief’s sarcasm, “but it’s something like twice as powerful as our Magnum forty-four. This funny-looking contraption,” he went on acidly, “is manufactured from some alloy that weighs a couple of ounces less than a standard Colt forty-five, yet is strong enough to withstand a muzzle velocity of nineteen hundred and eighty feet per second and a muzzle energy of more than two thousand foot pounds. Just to give you an idea of what that means … the thirty-eight you normally carry has a muzzle energy of two hundred and sixty-six foot pounds.”

  “Where the devil do you get all this information about guns?” growled Painter.

  “It’s part of my job to know all about guns,” Shayne lied to him happily. “You never know when some stray bit of information may come in handy. But the important thing is this, Painter.” He leaned forward seriously now. “So far as any records show, there has never been a Lenski twelve-oh-seven imported into the country. Where did our boy get hold of it for last night’s job?”

  “Maybe he’s a Russian spy?”

  “Knocking over our liquor warehouses?” Shayne smiled grimly. “I doubt it somehow. What did you get on him?”

  “Nothing important.” Painter moved a sheet of paper in front of him and studied it. “Name was Miles Leiffer. Twenty-eight. Resident of the Beach. A punk. He’s been in and out of trouble since he was eighteen. Petty stuff. Not even armed robbery in the past. His known associates are all the same ilk. No tie-up with any gang such as the warehouse looters seem to be.”

  “I’d like to know how a guy like that got hold of this Russian time bomb.”

  “I’ll tell you one thing, Mike.” Painter was suddenly and excessively cordial. “Lots of stuff from Cuba is getting into circulation here nowadays. Refugees get over here broke and peddle anything they’re carrying for a few bucks to eat on.”

  “I know. One more thing I didn’t mention about this little item is that it’s brand new. Still has traces of the original grease it was packed in at the factory for shipment overseas. You can tell by the fishy smell it has.”

  “I know there’s something damned fishy about it. What kind of crap are you feeding me, Mike? Fish-grease, by God!”

  “Ask any expert,” said Shayne calmly. “Get your own Sergeant Anderson in here. If he’s as good as I think he is, he’ll verify every statement I’ve made.”

  “Anderson is one of the best ballistics men in the state, but I seriously doubt he’s that good,” fumed Painter. “We’ll see.” He pressed a button at the edge of his desk and spoke into an inter-com, “Send Sergeant Anderson in here.” Then he leaned back and thumb-nailed his mustache again, and his black eyes glittered at the gaunt-faced redhead. “Suppose what you say is true, why worry about one gun? No matter how lethal it may be. We’ve got it out of circulation.”

  “There’s one other little thing that bothers me.” Shayne pulled the folded newspaper from his pocket and pushed it across the desk under Painter’s nose. “Do you remember posing for that picture a few days ago?”

  Painter glanced down at the paper and stiffened. He looked at it a long moment, and then slowly, seemingly unwillingly, transferred his gaze to the pistol in front of him. He wet his lips and muttered, “I see what you mean. I remember about that damned gun now. I asked Anderson what in hell it was, and he said he thought it was a Russian make, and he was going to try and look it up in some arms manual he has.”

  “Two of them here on the Beach in three or four days,” Shayne pointed out “Law enforcement is liable to get tough if many of those baby cannons get scattered around among your underworld.”

  The door of the office opened and Sergeant Anderson stepped inside. He was a tall, bulky man, with snow-white hair and placid features. He lifted his eyebrows in surprise at the sight of the Miami detective whom he knew well, said, “You wanted me, Chief?” to Painter, then drew in his breath abruptly as he caught sight of the gun on the desk.

  He said, “Another one of those, eh?” and glanced from the weapon to Shayne. “I admit I wondered this morning when I saw Hogan’s report in last night’s shooting. But he wasn’t very clear about it, and didn’t mention the type of weapon involved.”

  Peter Painter cleared his throat unhappily. “Recognize it, Sergeant?”

  “It’s known as a Lenski twelve-oh-seven. A Russian product, Chief. After reading up on it in the International Small Arms Manual, I experimented some with the one that turned up last Monday. My God! the penetration power that thing carries. I added three sandbags to my Ballistic Range before I even slowed it down.”

  “Why wasn’t I given a report on the previous one, Sergeant?” demanded Painter in an ominous voice. “Goddamit, do I have to wait for a private dick from Miami to come in here and tell me what’s going on in my own town?”

  “I wrote you a detailed report day before yesterday,” Anderson told him calmly. “Remember, when you first showed it to me I admitted I didn’t know what the hell it was, but promised I’d find out. If you don’t read reports from Ballistics how do you expect to know what’s going on?”

  Anderson was an old and valued department-hea
d in the Miami Beach Police Force and one of the few men serving under Peter Painter who would dare to speak up in that manner, and the chief conceded gruffly, “All right, Anderson. There’s just too much paperwork involved in my job. So, it’s a Russian gun, eh? How did it get into Miami?”

  “That, I can’t say. Not officially or legally, I’m quite certain. There’s no record of any such importations. So, you ran up against this last night, Mike?” he added curiously. “And came out of it alive?”

  “By the grace of God and a lot of luck. Tell me, Andy. About the other one. Was it brand new also? Factory-fresh?”

  “That’s one of the first things I noticed about it. The Russians use a special type of grease as a protection in packing their guns for shipment,” he went on, speaking half to Shayne and half to his superior. “My tests confirmed the presence of that grease on the other gun, and I’d guess this one will show it up, too.”

  “So, there it is.” Shayne spoke musingly, narrowing his eyes in thought and tugging worriedly at his left earlobe. “Two completely virgin Lenskis popping up in your territory within days of each other, Painter. Each one in the hands of a punk who probably didn’t have the slightest idea what he had hold of. Does either one of you have any idea what price they would bring from a rare gun collector in this country?”

  Both the detective chief and sergeant were silent for a moment, and then Anderson offered diffidently, “I got interested and checked all the information I could find in technical journals, and while the Russians don’t quote any actual retail prices as we do, I gathered that the production cost on this model was roughly equivalent to a hundred and fifty of our dollars.” He paused and then added strongly, “From what I’ve seen of its performance I’d say it was a hell of a bargain at that price.”

  Shyne shrugged and offered blandly, “I’ll double that price for a dozen of them if you can turn them up, Sergeant.”

  “You planning to equip a private army?” sneered Painter.

  “It’s my thought,” said Shayne equably, “that if there’s a supply of these loose around these parts, I’d much prefer to get them into my hands instead of in the possession of trigger-happy boys like the one I came up against last night. I think we should make a hell of an effort to locate the source of supply and cut it off before your men start getting blasted off their beats,” he added seriously to Painter.

  “So now you’ve started worrying about the welfare of my men,” said Painter bitingly. “That’s very commendable. Just how do you suggest we go about locating the source of supply?”

  Shayne shrugged. “Routine police work. These two men who were both killed with Lenskis in their possession … check back on all their associates and try to learn where they might have picked the guns up … find out how long they’ve had them in their possession.”

  “Sure. We ask questions like that, you know what kind of answers we’re going to get. Any other bright ideas about how I ought to run my police force?”

  Shayne said dispassionately, “You asked me.” He turned to Sergeant Anderson. “Where do punks like these normally pick up a gat if they need one for a job?”

  “Any pawn-shop … second-hand store. You know how it is. Of course, the boys in the rackets that really have connections.…” He shrugged significantly. “That’s a different story. But on your own, you’d just ask around, I guess.”

  “Then why don’t you try asking around?” Shayne suggested sharply to Painter. “Cover every pawn-shop on the Beach, and get Will Gentry to do the same in Miami. He’ll cooperate if you explain how important it is.”

  “Do you know how many pawn-shops there are in the Miami area?” demanded Painter witheringly.

  “I haven’t any idea. It takes a dick five minutes to make his visit and ask a question.”

  “And you know what sort of answer he’ll get to that sort of question. Christ alive, Shayne. You haven’t cut your eyeteeth in police work.”

  “You’ve got stoolies, haven’t you?” persisted Shayne. “Put the word out.”

  “I think you’re making a hell of a mountain out of a damned small molehill,” fumed Painter. “Personally, I’m not ready to concede that any gun produced by the damned Commies is so far superior to the ones we produce. It stands to reason, dammit. This lousy thing will probably fall to pieces next time anybody fires it. What’s all the excitement about? You’d think, by God, we’re about to be invaded.”

  Shayne said, “Okay. It was just a suggestion.” He paused and then added, “If you want to get a stenographer in I’ll dictate a statement on last night and sign it. You can also get an affidavit from Ericsson, the warehouse manager, if you want it, testifying to the effect that I was officially on guard duty last night, and was protecting their property when the shooting occurred.”

  He settled back and lit a cigarette while Painter dismissed Anderson and ordered a stenographer to come in.

  6

  It was after eleven o’clock before Michael Shayne finished dictating the long and detailed report required by Painter, waited for it to be typed in triplicate and signed all three copies.

  It was hot as he emerged from Police Headquarters, the cool breeze of early morning having died away during the time he had wasted inside, and he got in his car and pulled away hastily, crossed to the mainland by the Venetian Causeway which was comparatively cool with open blue water on both sides of the roadway.

  At the end of the Causeway he continued on directly to Miami Avenue and turned southward, cruising down the crowded street slowly while he considered various possible courses of action, discarding each one as impractical until his eye was suddenly caught by the faded sign on a dingy bar on the right hand side of the street which was called starkly and simply, “PAPA’S PLACE.”

  He eased into a parking spot a short distance ahead, pleased that he had been reminded of Papa Gonzalez at this juncture. He walked back briskly and entered the ill-lighted barroom which stank of stale beer and human sweat.

  But it was cool inside, and crowded for that hour of the morning. At least a dozen men were hunched over mugs of beer at the long bar, all of them Cubans and chattering explosively in their own language. Half the tables along the wall were occupied, with two checker games and one game of dominoes in full swing, and these tables were surrounded by onlookers who watched and commented on each move made by the players.

  Shayne stopped at the unoccupied end of the bar, blinking his eyes at the dimness and trying to remember how long it had been since he had last entered Papa’s Place. More than a year, he guessed. Probably two or three. Soon after the initial Castro triumph in Cuba, he thought, and prior to the disillusionment of so many Cubans and the influx of refugees into Miami.

  The bartender came toward him languidly, a tall, mustached, one-eyed Cuban, with a questioning scowl on his swarthy face at the sight of the red-headed gringo. Silence had fallen over the men seated at the other end of the bar, and their heads had turned to regard him furtively.

  Shayne looked dubiously at the row of dusty bottles behind the bar and decided to play it safe by ordering Bacardi. “A straight shot with a little water on the side,” he told the bartender, getting out his wallet and extracting a five-dollar bill.

  When the drink was set before him he sipped it blandly, facing straight forward and paying no attention to the watching and waiting men on his right.

  The bartender went to the till and returned, placing four dollar bills and four dimes in front of him. Shayne put his forefinger on one of the bills and pushed it forward, saying courteously, “For this, would one of the hombres at the end of the bar be persuaded to go upstairs and tell Papa Gonzalez that Michael Shayne is here and desires a word with him?”

  The bartender paused, cocking his head and rubbing the side of his nose, “You are a friend of Papa’s Señor?”

  “Michael Shayne,” the redhead repeated gently. “Por favor.”

  The bartender scooped up the bill and went to the end of the bar where he spoke in a low
voice to one of the men. Shayne continued to sip his good Island rum, looking straight ahead and disregarding the others.

  He drained his glass and set it down when he was aware of movement behind him and felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned and a very thin young man of about twenty with glossy black hair and smouldering black eyes said, “You will come with me, Señor?”

  Shayne followed him to the rear, behind the backs of the men seated silently at the bar, to an uncarpeted stairway that led up to the second floor where the young man stood aside and silently gesticulated upward.

  Shayne climbed the stairs, hearing the resumption of animated conversation in the room below as he reached the top. A door stood open directly across an unlighted hallway, and Papa Gonzalez got up from behind a bare desk in the center of the room as Shayne stepped inside.

  He was a tall, spare, distinguished-looking Spaniard, with silvery hair and aquiline features which remained unsmiling yet held a pleased, welcoming look as he leaned across the desk to offer Shayne a sinewy hand, and said pleasantly, “When the man said your name I did not know whether he erred or not. It has been a long time since you honored my poor place with a visit.”

  Shayne shook hands warmly and said, “You can relax, Papa. I’m here to ask a favor of you.”

  “There is no one in the entire city of Miami,” said the old man courteously, “to whom I would rather grant a favor.”

  Shayne turned and closed the door behind him, then sat down in a wooden chair in front of the desk and crossed his long legs. Gonzalez reseated himself behind the desk, leaned forward with both elbows on the bare surface and rested the tips of his fingers on both sides of his forehead, shadowing and half-hiding his bronzed features.

  “You are still … detecting?” he probed delicately. “I read … things in the papers.”

  Shayne nodded, getting out a cigarette. “From the looks of things downstairs, you’re keeping busy, too.”