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.
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?”