Target_Mike Shayne Page 5

  “Baumholtz,” the man said, slightly appeased by Painter’s politician’s manner. “Walter Baumholtz, from Newark, New Jersey. That’s the whole point, I didn’t see a thing. And to hector me in public like this—why, any one of these people may be a newspaperman, for all I know. I’m not seeking publicity.”

  He looked suspiciously at Tim Rourke, who grinned at him. Several pieces of folded copy paper stuck out of Rourke’s coat pocket, and he looked like what he was, a reporter on a story.

  Painter turned to the Seafarer manager. “Do you have a room where we won’t be disturbed?”

  “Perhaps my office,” George said.

  Shayne motioned to the bartender for more cognac. He took both glasses with him, carrying them easily in one huge hand. He saw Lucy looking at him, and he gave her a look which he meant to be reassuring.

  George led the way to a door beyond the service bar. Painter made no objection when Shayne went in with them, but he closed the door in Rourke’s face.

  It was a small room, furnished only with a desk and a few chairs. Painter moved two of the chairs out from the wall for Baumholtz and the woman, and went around the desk to George’s chair. Shayne lowered one hip to the corner of the desk, the top of which was cluttered with the next day’s menus.

  “Squire?” Painter said. “Fill me in.”

  “I heard the guy say he saw somebody fiddling around in Shayne’s Buick. I tried to get some details, but he thought better of it and clammed up.”

  “Will you expand on that, Mr. Baumholtz?” Painter said pleasantly.

  Baumholtz flushed. “There’s nothing I care to say except that the officer ought to wash out his ears. I may have mentioned hearing about an explosion like this once up North, I don’t really know. It was quite without significance, on my word of honor.”

  Squire insisted, “He said he saw somebody with a tool-box go into the parking lot and fiddle with the Buick. That’s word for word.”

  “We seem to have a conflict of testimony here,” Painter said.

  He turned to the woman who had been brought in with Baumholtz. She was small and faded, with narrow features and metal-rimmed glasses. She patted her graying hair nervously under his gaze.

  “Mrs. Baumholtz, I take it?” Painter said. “Did your husband address such a remark to you?”

  Both she and Baumholtz seemed considerably more agonized than the circumstances warranted. Shayne had an inspiration.

  “Perhaps this isn’t Mrs. Baumholtz?”

  “Well, the truth is—” she said, looking pleadingly at Baumholtz.

  He cleared his throat. “As a matter of fact, I left Mrs. Baumholtz back home in Newark. She never enjoys herself much at conventions, and she decided not to accompany me this year.”

  “Your name is—?” Painter said to the woman.

  Baumholtz interjected quickly, “Is that absolutely necessary, Officer? What I mean is, I happened to stop in this bar over the way for a cocktail or two, and seeing that this lady seemed to be there by herself, I took the liberty of offering to buy her a drink. That’s all there is to it. Now if she tells you her name and it leaks to the newspapers, what do you think Mrs. Baumholtz is going to say? Don’t worry, it’ll get back. I don’t know if you’re married yourself, but I can tell you how it’ll look to Mrs. Baumholtz. It’ll look as though I’m carrying on some kind of backstairs intrigue. I hope you gentlemen won’t get the wrong idea about my wife if I say she can be a little sharp on occasion.”

  He was very much in earnest. Painter’s lip twitched. Several of the detectives had their hands up to hide their grins.

  “In fact,” Baumholtz said, “I’d breathe a little more easily, and I’d certainly be able to answer your questions a lot better if you could see your way clear to excusing her. She really has nothing to contribute.”

  Painter said, “Is all of this true, madam? He is only a chance acquaintance?”

  She blushed. “Yes, sir, but I hope you don’t think I make a habit of accepting drinks from strangers, because back home—well, my friends would just about die. But he seemed so friendly, I didn’t see any reason to hurt his feelings. We visited a bit, you know, and then we heard that big explosion across the street, and we ran out to see what had happened.”

  “And to the best of your recollection,” Painter said, “What exactly did Mr. Baumholtz say?”

  “You mean when he offered to buy me another cocktail?”

  “No, no. About seeing somebody with a tool-box.”

  “Why, just that. What the policeman said. I was going to ask what he meant, but the policeman whirled around and before you could say Jack Robinson he dragged us in here. And I must say,” she added indignantly, rubbing her arm, “he wasn’t too gentle about it, either. If that’s the way you treat your visitors, all I have to say is—”

  “Never mind that,” Painter said shortly. “You aren’t in any position to lecture anybody. You didn’t see anybody around the Buick yourself?”

  “Oh, no. I’d been there in that bar for an hour or more, just minding my own business.”

  Painter rubbed down his mustache, thinking. “All right, the lady can go.”

  When Squire opened the door, she bolted out of the room without a backward glance.

  “This isn’t good police procedure,” Painter said, “dismissing a witness without even taking her name and address. I’m doing it as a favor to you, Mr. Baumholtz, and I expect you to be completely frank with me in return. Don’t worry about anything you tell us being leaked to the newspapers. We’re all police officers here except Mr. Shayne, who in this instance will be most careful what he tells his friends on the press.”

  Baumholtz looked up quickly. “Are you Michael Shayne, the—”

  “Yes, yes,” Painter said sourly. “It’s my duty to protect the life of every citizen, disregarding my personal feelings, and I intend to do my best to keep Shayne alive, however much pleasure I would get out of attending his funeral. I expect no cooperation from him, I may add. Now, Mr. Baumholtz.”

  Baumholtz lighted a cigarette. His hand was shaking badly.

  “I hope after all this that you aren’t expecting anything so wonderful, because you’ll be disappointed. I didn’t even see his face.”

  “Just describe him as best you can, Mr. Baumholtz.”

  Baumholtz frowned at his cigarette. “I was looking for a quiet bar to have a cocktail in. I looked into this place first, but everybody seemed to be in couples or in parties. I’m a delegate to the furniture dealer’s convention at the Fontainebleau, and most of the fellows brought their wives. Those who didn’t just stand around yakking till it’s time for the girl-show. That kind of conversation I can get enough of back home. Do you see what I’m driving at? This is the first time in my life I ever took a vacation without Mrs. Baumholtz, and what’s the point, really, if you don’t make a few new acquaintances? Now don’t get the wrong idea. I wasn’t going to do anything but have a companionable cocktail and maybe dinner with her, because I’ve never played around behind Mrs. Baumholtz’s back, and it’s too late to start now.”

  He laughed unconvincingly and looked around the room, smoothing his hair with the flat of one hand.

  “You looked in here,” Painter said. “Then what?”

  “I was telling you. I turned around and went back out. I was standing on the sidewalk looking the neighborhood over. That’s how I happened to notice this mechanic walked into the parking lot with a box of tools. I wouldn’t say I noticed him, exactly. He just happened to sort of catch my eye. He had a bluish, or maybe a grayish shirt and pants, like a uniform, the kind a grease monkey wears in a service station. A cap on his head, a peaked cap.”

  “And he was carrying a tool-box?” Painter said.

  “He was carrying a tool-box. And there was something written across the back of his shirt, some kind of writing. I guess it said what garage he was from, the way they do. He went straight to one of the cars. Now I’ll tell you—I’ve been trying to think why h
e stuck in my mind. What was he doing? That was easy. He was answering a call from somebody who had battery trouble, or maybe whose stop lights wouldn’t work, some little thing like that, and they wanted to get it fixed while they were eating supper. And there was quite a bit of coming and going at that time. So why did I notice him?”

  “Why did you, Mr. Baumholtz?”

  “Well, the bomb went off. We all poured out of that bar and rushed over to see what on earth had happened. There was a lot of chattering, and suddenly it leaped into my mind that that mechanic I saw must have planted the bomb under my eyes. Now I couldn’t swear it was the same car. Cars nowadays look pretty much alike to me. But before I could stop to think twice I blurted it out, and unfortunately the officer heard me.” He turned to Shayne. “As I say, I really do want to be helpful, and I’d like your opinion.”

  “Yeah?” Shayne said.

  “It seems to me there must have been a wrong detail somewhere, and now I think I can recall what it was. When you go to work and call a mechanic, he shows up in a wrecker or a pick-up truck, doesn’t he? But this fellow came in a regular car. That must be why it made a sort of dent on my mind, don’t you think?”

  “What was he driving?” Shayne asked.

  Baumholtz reflected. “Now there you have me. I can’t quite seem to visualize it. And I don’t remember what model or color the car was. It was just the same ordinary sedan you see all over the place. I’m pretty sure the mechanic got out on the sidewalk side, so probably there was somebody else at the wheel.”

  “Will you describe this mechanic for us?” Painter said.

  Baumholtz’s eyes opened wider. “But I’ve just got done telling you officer. I can’t describe him.”

  “Come now,” Painter said. “You have a clear enough picture of how he was dressed and what he did What did he look like?”

  “I didn’t see his face.”

  “How could you see him get out of the car and pass in front of you without seeing his face?”

  “I didn’t see him get out of the car. Apparently you haven’t been listening to me. I saw him go into the parking lot, I saw the writing on his back and so on. Then later after the explosion I remembered he’d got out of a car, not a truck, and that’s why I remembered him at all.”

  “I’m afraid that sounds reasonable,” Shayne remarked.

  “I’m conducting this,” Painter said sharply. “It doesn’t sound reasonable to me. If you concentrate hard enough, I think you’ll find that it’ll come back. What was his general build? Was there anything noticeable about his walk?”

  Baumholtz drew on his cigarette. “Not that I can think of. He wasn’t one thing or another. He wasn’t any giant, but I think he was taller than me. Though maybe not, at that, if I stood up straight. Mrs. Baumholtz is always after me about slouching. His walk?” He shook his head slowly. “Not a thing, I’m sorry.”

  Painter studied him. “Very well, Mr. Baumholtz. I’m going to ask you to think about it overnight. If we can arrest this man, I think we can convict him of murder. Stop in tomorrow morning. I may have some pictures to show you.”

  “All right, but don’t count on anything. Do I have your solemn promise not to put anything about this in the newspapers?”

  Painter assured him that he did, and stood up. “And thank you for your help, Mr. Baumholtz. I’m sorry it hasn’t been more fruitful.”

  “So am I, sir. What time tomorrow? Better make it about nine, because I don’t know what’s scheduled for us later in the morning.”

  Painter agreed that nine o’clock would be satisfactory, and took Baumholtz to the door.

  “Squire,” he said, turning back, “I’m taking Mr. Shayne in for some friendly conversation, and if he’s as responsive as Mr. Baumholtz has been, he’ll be doing well. Here’s what I want you to do.”

  He ticked off the points while Squire made notes. He wanted the neighborhood covered by detectives, to turn up somebody who had seen the mechanic coming or going. As soon as there was a report from the laboratory on the specifications of the explosive, he wanted a check on every chemical supply house that might have handled the ingredients. The dead boy’s uncle would have to be taken to the morgue for an identification. Painter wanted two good men assigned to check Sylvia Masante’s story.

  Shayne finished the cognac, with his usual mixed feelings about Painter. Insufferable in many ways, there was no one who could beat him on routine.

  Rourke and several reporters from the Tribune and the wire services were waiting outside the office. They converged on Painter.

  “Later,” Painter snapped, brushing past.

  Shayne stopped at the table where Lucy was sitting with the girl.

  “Do they know who did it, Michael?” Lucy said anxiously.

  He grinned down at her. “You know better than that, angel. They’re in their customary fog. Painter wants me to swear under oath that I don’t know any more about it than he does. That happens to be true, so I’ll humor him. Take Miss Masante home. Petey’s sending a couple of detectives along to verify her story, and if they’re rough with her I want to know about it. Then go home and make the drinks. I’ll be with you as soon as I comb Mr. Painter out of my hair. And incidentally,” he added, “don’t open the door unless you’re sure who it is, not that there’s anything to worry about.”

  “I’ll be careful,” she promised.

  When Shayne turned, he found Walter Baumholtz at his elbow.

  “Mr. Shayne,” Baumholtz said, “the convention’s over tomorrow, and if I don’t happen to see you again. I just wanted to tell you how glad I am to have met you. And I certainly want to wish you lots of luck.” He put out his hand, and the detective accepted a flabby handclasp.

  “Thanks,” he said briefly.

  “You’re keeping us waiting, Shayne,” Painter snapped.

  “I wouldn’t want to do that,” Shayne said.

  6

  Peter Painter leaned back in his swivel chair and watched Shayne read through the statement he had just dictated.

  “It all seems to be here,” Shayne remarked.

  He looked quizzically at the chief of detectives. The statement contained nothing but the exact, literal truth. In it, Shayne declared under oath that he had no present clients, that he hadn’t accepted a retainer in over two months, that he had no idea who had attempted to kill him by planting a bomb in his car. He threw the paper on Painter’s desk.

  “Sign it,” Painter said.

  “In a minute. First I want to warn you not to waste any of your time or the tax-payers’ money trying to prove perjury. This is all true.”

  “Even if it wasn’t I probably couldn’t prove it,” Painter admitted. “I’m protecting myself and this office in the event of your unhappy demise.”

  “You don’t sound unhappy,” Shayne said. He reached for a pen. “Purely as a matter of interest, if you don’t believe this statement, what do you think the truth is?”

  “I’ll tell you after I see your John Hancock on it” The redhead laughed shortly and scrawled his name across the bottom of the sheet. Painter checked to make sure he had used his own name and not a pseudonym, and passed the document on to the two detectives who had been called in to affix their names as witnesses.

  “You asked me what I think is the truth,” Painter said, putting the statement in a desk drawer and closing the drawer with a bang. “Your dealings with the police have followed a certain pattern, and I see no reason to believe that you are deviating from the pattern in the present instance. I think, contrary to your sworn statement, that you have in fact been engaged by someone in your capacity as a licensed private investigator. Perhaps you haven’t actually taken a retainer, or at least you have been prudent enough not to cash the check. But somewhere in the offing is a large fee, undoubtedly amounting to more money than the most important police official of a major city will see in a year. You can earn this fee only by pulling the wool over the eyes of the police. Some unknown person has determined to sto
p you. You are equally determined not to be stopped. Well, one of these days your luck is going to run out. This, God willing, could very well be the time.”

  “Could be,” Shayne grunted.

  “Further—I believe that as usual you are withholding valuable information, by virtue of which the police could solve this boy’s murder by the time the papers come out tomorrow morning. That, too, is part of the pattern. I think I can say that never once—”

  “I’m not on your payroll,” Shayne interrupted impatiently. “If I’d made a habit of handing over all the information I collected, as fast as it came in, nine tenths of the criminals I’ve apprehended would have got away. You have your methods, I have mine. Mine are more effective.”

  “You’ve had a certain amount of luck,” Painter conceded. “You’ve had the cooperation, I could almost say the connivance, of the police department on the other side of Biscayne Bay. You’ve been able to exploit your contacts with the underworld. You’ve used pressures and made deals that aren’t open to legally constituted police officers. And have you ever stopped to wonder how many of your successful cases would have been solved in due course by the police, plodding along in their methodical, unspectacular way?”

  “Not very many, Petey,” Shayne said, watching him carefully. “Damn few, in fact.”

  He was expecting Painter to blow up at any moment, and when that happened he would have a clearer idea about how to proceed. Usually one prick of the needle was all that was necessary.

  He continued, “And if you want to go into ancient history, how many times have you got credit for an arrest that I blueprinted for you?”

  “I’ll give you your due, Shayne. You never hog the spotlight, so long as you get your fee. O’Brien, Paholsky, that’ll be all for now.”

  The two detectives left the office. Painter went to the door, opened it to be sure no one was listening, and closed it again. Shayne continued to watch him with sardonic amusement, his eyes narrowed against the smoke rising from his cigarette.

  “Precious little loyalty in this department,” Painter complained. “I’m going to lay my cards on the table. Life wouldn’t be the same around here if anything happened to you, Shayne. You keep me on my toes. I might even send flowers to your funeral.”