A Taste for Violence Page 8

  Shayne sat very still, kept his eyes half-closed, his face expressionless. He said, “I take it Jimmy Roche likes your corn, too.”

  “That… and other things.”

  “But you were in sympathy with the strikers?” Shayne probed.

  “Look, Mister… I take care of number one. That’s all I’ve got to worry about. Anybody fool enough to dig coal for a few lousy bucks a day is welcome to do it.”

  “Did you know the men are going back to work tomorrow?”

  “I hadn’t heard, but it was in the cards. George Brand is the only man with enough guts to come in here and stir ’em up. With him out of the picture, what else would they do?” Ann Cornell tipped her glass and drank from it as though it contained only water, then lolled back in her chair.

  “So, Roche’s death actually broke the strike?” mused Shayne.

  “In more ways than one, brother. Hanging it on Brand was the way to speed things up. Charles Roche was their only chance to win, and Brand knew it. That’s why he’s the last man on earth to’ve killed Charles.” She spoke slowly. The natural up-curve of her full mouth drooped and her deep blue eyes were dull.

  Shayne said, “You’re a smart woman, Mrs. Cornell.”

  Her mouth twisted ironically and her gaze brooded across the room, then she twitched her shoulders impatiently, emptied her glass and said, “I’ve lived in Centerville all my life. I’ve seen other labor organizers come… and go. This time they had a chance. George Brand had the guts, and he had Charles Roche convinced.”

  “Who did kill Charles Roche?” Shayne asked abruptly.

  “What d’you care?” she said dully. “Doesn’t Brand suit you for a fall guy?”

  Shayne made an impatient gesture. “Maybe I don’t like the idea of a fall guy.”

  “You’re working for the mine operators,” she accused.

  “That doesn’t mean I’ve sold out to them,” Shayne growled. He got up and poured more into her glass, went back and sat down and muttered, “Roche had been receiving threatening letters.”

  She nodded slowly. “Jimmy told me about ’em.”

  “What did he tell you?”

  “Not much. All he knew, I guess,” she said carelessly. “I don’t think he saw one, but he seemed to think they had something to do with the strike… and Charles wanting to give the men a union contract.”

  “You’ve seen a lot of Jimmy?”

  “All of ’em,” she said thickly. “Him… and others. Ask around town and they’ll tell you Ann Cornell don’t play favourites. They tell a lot of goddam lies about me, too.” She didn’t sound bitter. Just passive and weary and drunk.

  “What about Charles?” Shayne demanded bluntly. “Did he ever drink out of your jug?”

  “I wouldn’t tell you… if he had. Every married man comes here is plenty safe.”

  “Charles wouldn’t have,” Shayne suggested, as though he argued the point with himself. “Not married to that hot little sketch I met tonight. She’d keep a man busy.”

  “I expect you’re right.” She was not drunk enough to be trapped. “You’re not drinking much,” she complained.

  “I’m working,” Shayne reminded her again. He drained his glass and set it down. “I guess I’d better get at it.” He stood up. He had tossed his hat on the floor beside his chair, and stooped over to pick it up. His head reeled dizzily. Straightening slowly, he asked, “What proof is that stuff I’ve been drinking?”

  She giggled. “I don’t know exactly. Lafe Heddon don’t bother with any of them gadgets when he runs off a batch. Three times through the coils and whatever comes out the last time is what you get in one of Lafe’s jugs.” She had grown careless of her grammar. She giggled again and said, “’Nother short one’ll take the edge off what you’ve got.”

  “Not for me.” Shayne shook his head angrily, then asked, “If you saw Brand had a chance… would you help me clear him?”

  She said, “Don’t be a fool. No need for you to waste any effort on Brand. You can figure his chances by the men going back to work. They’d stay out if he had a nigger’s chance.”

  Shayne hesitated, studying her face. “You don’t look like a girl who’d scare easy.”

  “I don’t.” She was looking up at him, trying to focus her eyes on his. When she succeeded, she held his gaze levelly and said, “I know what you’re up against in this town.”

  “But the police would give you protection if…”

  “The police?” She laughed. “Are you joking? Those crummy bastards! If I knew anything to help Brand I’d forget it. If you run across anything, you’d better forget it, too.”

  Shayne said, “I’m not very good at taking advice. Thanks for the drinks.” He turned and stalked through the door.

  He got in his car, started the motor and turned on the headlights. As he pulled onto the pavement, lights showed in the rear-view mirror from a car behind him. They appeared to come from a car waiting at the intersection where Charles Roche had left his car parked last night while he kept a date with death.

  The car gained on him slowly as he drove straight ahead, down the slope toward the east-west highway through Centerville. He vividly recalled the incident on the highway earlier as he and Lucy were driving into town. A car deliberately forced off the road and over a cliff and an armed deputy waving all traffic on while his buddy beat the driver to death. It wasn’t a pretty picture to remember, but his mind dwelt upon it as he watched the queer maneuvers of the car behind him.

  It had speeded up to a distance of two hundred feet back, and appeared to slow deliberately to follow him at that distance. As though it were stalking him. It couldn’t be an ordinary tail. No cop would be fool enough to hope to follow so close and remain unobserved.

  The road began to twist around the side of the hill and there was a steep embankment on his right. At this precise instant the car behind him picked up speed. Shayne’s perceptions sharpened, and he instinctively edged toward the center of the pavement.

  The other car was coming up fast and a horn sounded impatiently. Shayne pulled further to the left to let it pass on his right between his car and the steep embankment which was so remindful of the scene of the accident that afternoon.

  He grinned sourly when the pursuing car slowed suddenly, and did not accept the challenge. The horn blew steadily, but Shayne held to the left-hand side until the road flattened out on both sides, then edged slowly to his rightful place. In a moment the other car rushed past. There were two men in the front seat of the heavy sedan, and Shayne’s headlights picked out the two letters, “P D” above the license plate in the rear.

  He wondered why they hadn’t stopped to arrest him for taking the right-of-way and refusing to let them pass on the left. He had never known cops to pass up that sort of an insult before. They evidently had orders not to arrest him. He wondered what orders they did have… and who had given them during the short time that had elapsed since he visited Charles Roche’s widow.

  He debated savagely with himself as he drove on toward the Eustis Restaurant. The smart thing would be to get out of town at once. But the more his mind dwelt upon every single angle of the case, the greater the challenge became.

  His mouth was grim and his eyes bleak when he parked in front of the restaurant and went in.

  8

  TWO men were seated at the table with Lucy Hamilton. One was a balding, wiry, middle-aged man in his shirtsleeves with bright red and yellow suspenders. The other was younger and heavier, wearing a seersucker suit. He was holding Lucy’s left hand, leaning close and talking rapidly. Two gold teeth showed beneath his short upper lip as he talked.

  Lucy’s face was flushed, and she nodded continually, her brown eyes glowing as though she listened to pearls of great wisdom. The brandy bottle was practically empty. She didn’t look up when Shayne threaded his way between the tables. The bald man glared with open hostility when the tall redhead stopped beside her and laid his hand on her shoulder.

  Lucy was st
artled. She drew away from the heavy man when she saw Shayne, and said vivaciously, “I’ve been having such a good time, Michael. These gentlemen have been telling me all about Centerville, and it’s simply fascinating.” She put her hand on the bald man’s forearm. “This is Mr. Rexard… Mr. Shayne. And this is Titus, Michael. He’s a state representative and very important.”

  Shayne nodded and said, “It was kind of you to entertain Miss Hamilton while I was gone.” He seated himself between Lucy and Rexard, looked at the depleted bottle with raised brows. “I’m afraid you haven’t been very hospitable, Lucy. Shouldn’t we order another bottle?”

  “Well, if you promise not to drink too much,” she said hesitantly. “They’ve been telling me the most awful things, Michael. About how the police are in cahoots with most everybody in town. I think it’s just terrible, Titus, the way you say they do. Tell Mr. Shayne about it.”

  He cleared his throat, flashed his gold teeth and drawled, “Miss Lucy forgot to say my name is Tatum, Mr. Shayne. I’ve been telling her how they work things in Centerville, seeing you all are strangers and mighty nice people. A man’s got to walk a pretty straight line to stay out of trouble hereabouts.”

  “The police just run the town the way they want to,” Lucy put in indignantly. “It doesn’t matter whether you get drunk or not, if you’re a stranger and in a place like this and take a few drinks and they think you’ve got any money, they arrest you when you go out and put you in jail for drunkenness. Then you have to pay a fine and the judge splits it with the proprietor for tipping them off about you.”

  Rexard looked worried. “It’s not so good to say it right out loud like that, Miss Lucy.” He glanced nervously around them. “You can’t get any proof that they pay for the tipoff. It just happens that a policeman’s always waiting outside to grab a man after he’s had a few drinks and shows a roll. The Eustis isn’t any worse than other places.”

  Shayne listened soberly and thoughtfully, then beckoned a waitress, ordered another bottle of brandy and said, “What happens if a man is arrested when he isn’t actually drunk?”

  Both Tatum and Rexard laughed jeeringly. “If a cop says a man’s drunk, he’s drunk,” said Rexard.

  “And if you don’t plead guilty,” Tatum contributed, “you get thirty days in jail.”

  “But they have to have some proof,” Shayne argued. “You could demand an examination by a doctor.”

  “In Centerville?” Titus Tatum’s gold teeth showed to the gum line in a hoarse laugh. “Argue with them and you get beat up,” he explained simply. “It don’t pay. Safest thing is to keep your mouth shut and pay.”

  “It’s just like the Gestapo in Hitler’s Germany,” Lucy said. “Some men stay in jail here three months without being allowed to see a lawyer and not knowing what they’re charged with. Isn’t that what you said, Titus?”

  “A man hasn’t got much chance once he’s locked up,” he admitted cautiously. “The City Hall gang has things pretty much their own way… have for thirty years. Run the slot machines and liquor business and all. It’s a losing game to try and buck ’em. Smart folks just keep their mouths shut and stay out of trouble.”

  “So… you be smart, Michael.” Lucy squeezed his arm, then continued excitedly, “Have you heard the big news? About the end of the strike? The miners are going back to work tomorrow.”

  The waiter brought a bottle of brandy. Shayne said to Lucy, “I heard about it,” opened the bottle and poured some in four glasses. He asked Rexard, “Do you live here?”

  “Dry cleaning business,” Rexard told him. “I say it’s a shame for the miners to give up that way, but I reckon the poor devils didn’t have a chance. George Brand certainly let ’em down when he killed young Roche.”

  “Do you think he did?”

  “It makes no difference whether he did or didn’t,” Rexard said gloomily. “Strike’s broken, and there won’t be another one for years.”

  “Do you know, Michael, there’ve been five men killed in Centerville in the past month? Counting Mr. Roche last night and that man on the highway this afternoon. But that was an accident, I guess.” Something in her voice warned Shayne that it was important for him not to comment upon it.

  Shayne took a sip of brandy and said casually, “An accident on the highway?”

  “Just about sundown,” Titus Tatum said. “Not more’n a mile west of town.”

  “This side of the Moderne Hotel,” Lucy said. “Titus was telling me about it.”

  “That’s right,” said Tatum. “Car went out of control over the side, I reckon. They found him with his head bashed in.”

  “A couple of special deputies found him,” Lucy interposed, her voice vibrating with anger and warning.

  “Fellow by the name of Margule,” said Rexard.

  Shayne said, “Margule? Wasn’t that one of the men who played poker with Brand last night?”

  “That Brand claims was playing poker,” Rexard agreed unemotionally. “It’s tough on Brand having it happen… right on top of them saying Jethro Home has skipped town.”

  “That leaves only one other witness for Brand,” Shayne said slowly.

  “Yep. Dave Burroughs. I’d hate to be in Dave’s shoes right now. Wasn’t so bad when he had two others to back him up.” The heavy congressman spoke in a heavy voice.

  “Were there any witnesses to Margule’s accident?” Shayne asked casually.

  “If there were I reckon they’re not talking,” said Rexard.

  There were lines of tension in Shayne’s gaunt face. He took a sip of brandy. It went down easier now that the way had been paved by Ann Cornell’s corn. He looked slowly around the restaurant. It was well-filled now. There was a small cleared place in the center where a few couples were dancing to a hillbilly tune from the juke-box. A lot of men and some women were lined up at the slot machines, feeding coins into the machines and pulling cranks and waiting apathetically for the cylinders to stop so they could deposit another coin.

  He wondered what their attitude toward the ending of the strike was… what they thought about the highway accident that had removed one of George Brand’s witnesses from the jurisdiction of the court while a second one of the trio had unaccountably disappeared. What did these people think about a police force and a judge and a small army of special deputies who acted wholly outside the law?

  If the group gathered in the restaurant was representative of Centerville’s citizenry, Shayne decided that they didn’t think about things like that. Over a period of years they had probably ceased to resent being pushed around by the local authorities. Those who could, he surmised, catered to the police and tried to get in on the graft. Those not lucky enough to do that tried to avoid trouble by being passive and staying out of their way.

  Lucy and Titus Tatum pushed their chairs back and got up to dance. Shayne poured more brandy in Rexard’s glass and jerked his head towards Titus.

  “One of your local politicians?”

  “Titus isn’t as bad as some,” Rexard told him. “Knows which side his bread is buttered on and doesn’t cause any trouble.” He hesitated, then added, “Nobody gets elected here without backing from the city hall bunch.” He accepted a cigarette from Shayne’s extended pack and confided, “Miss Lucy says you all are just driving through.”

  “We might stay over a few days,” Shayne told him. “Depends on several things.”

  “She didn’t say what your business might be,” Rexard probed.

  “Didn’t she?” Shayne scowled into his glass for a moment, then watched the couples who were dancing.

  Rexard turned in his chair, grinned broadly, said, “That Titus. He’s quite a chaser. Seems like he took a shine to Miss Lucy soon’s he saw her sitting here alone. But you needn’t make nothing out of that,” he went on hastily. “He’s a gentleman, if I do say so.”

  Shayne wasn’t particularly concerned with Lucy and the Centerville Lothario. She knew when to be naive and when to get tough. He said abruptly to Rexard,
“I don’t quite understand the situation here about the miners. Aren’t they affiliated with John L. Lewis’ United Mine Workers?”

  “Not in Centerville. Some mines in Kentucky are organized, but not hereabouts. Organizers from outside don’t last long.”

  “What happens to them?”

  Rexard lifted his skinny shoulders. “Lots of things. Car runs over a cliff, maybe. Like Joe Margule this afternoon…”

  “You mean they get rubbed out?” Shayne interrupted sharply, turning his gaze from the dance floor to his bald-headed companion.

  Rexard moved uneasily and looked cautiously around. “For God’s sake Mr. Shayne,” he said in a low voice, “don’t say things like that out loud. It’s not healthy in Centerville. We leave well enough alone here. The mine owners don’t like union organizers, so they don’t last long.”

  “George Brand lasted.”

  “That’s right.”

  “How?”

  Rexard twirled his glass, said hesitantly, “I reckon he’s tough. Lots of people have wondered the same thing since the Roche strike started, but the management just didn’t seem to worry much.”

  “But suppose Brand’s union had won?”

  “They didn’t.”

  “From what I hear, they might have if Charles Roche had lived a few more days,” Shayne said.

  “He didn’t.”

  “Was it known publicly that Roche intended to compromise with Brand and end the strike as soon as he took over control of the mine?”

  “There was talk,” Rexard told him, keeping his voice low. “It wasn’t something Roche would print in the paper, I reckon.”

  “What sort of woman is Ann Cornell?” Shayne asked abruptly. The music had stopped and Lucy and Tatum were feeding the slot machines. Lucy was plucking coins from Tatum’s palm, her brown eyes shining and her laughter floating across the room.