Shayne slugged him between the eyes with the barrel of his. 45. Elwood staggered back against the wall, stunned and half-blinded by the blood streaming into his eyes.
Shayne jerked him forward and secured the other cuff, shoved him out into the hall, picking up the paper-wrapped revolver on the way. He got Elwood in the car before he recovered enough to realize what was happening. Before he started the motor, the ex-chief began to mutter oaths. Shayne hit him hard with his left fist, hurling him against the car door, then drove directly to police headquarters.
Two patrolmen were going up to the side entrance to report for duty. Shayne hadn’t seen either of them before. They stared at him in uncomprehending astonishment when he stepped from the car and ordered briskly, “Bring this prisoner inside.”
The chief’s gold badge was glittering on Shayne’s chest and he held his automatic in his hand. The patrolmen stopped in their tracks, their astonished eyes staring from Shayne to the portly, hand-cuffed man in the car, his body slumped against the door, his face scarcely recognizable with blood and tears streaming over eyes and jowls.
“But… isn’t that… the chief?” One of the men stammered.
Shayne raised his gun and ordered, “Bring this prisoner in,” again.
The men reacted to the badge and the gun and the tone of authority in Shayne’s command. They went to the car and laboriously supported the heavy, stunned man from the front seat. Shayne went up the steps ahead of them and on into the room where he found the officer named Gar still sitting at the desk from which he had relieved Gantry the night before.
Shayne said, “Book this man for murder. He’s out and I’m in. The faster you birds get that through your heads the better we’ll all get along.”
Gar’s bleary eyes were popping. “Looka here… you can’t do nothin’ like this. The chief…”
A car had stopped outside and a tall, distinguished appearing man got out. He came up the steps spryly and entered the room.
“Looka here, Mayor,” Gar said, “can you tell me what’s goin’ on around here?”
The mayor looked over at Elwood. He was slumped in a straight chair, his head lolling on his shoulder. Turning to the gaping members of the police force who had gathered for day duty, he quietly explained the new order of things in Centerville, appealed to them for co-operation.
When he finished his brief speech he held out his hand to Shayne and said, “Good luck to you. If there is any insubordination, just call on me.”
When the mayor went out Shayne waved his hand negligently and said, “Lock him up,” to the two men guarding Elwood. “Then get some hot water and plenty of lye and a scrub brush and put him to work scrubbing that stinking hole up there. Kick him in the rump every time he slows up, and keep him at it until the job’s finished.”
Shayne said to Gar, “Bring the records on every prisoner to my office at once. No one is to go out on assignment until I talk to them,” he added, looking at the day officers who immediately snapped to attention.
He turned and strode into the large office previously occupied by Elwood, picked up the telephone and called Lucy Hamilton at the Moderne Hotel to tell her it was time his secretary got on the job.
19
Shayne worked straight through the day, forgetting the lunch hour. Twice during the morning he sent out for containers of black coffee, and surprised Lucy Hamilton by drinking cupfuls without the addition of cognac. At two o’clock he had sandwiches and more coffee sent in while he dug into past records of the men under him. He suspended some, shifted the assignments of others, calling them in one by one to size them up and get an idea of their personalities and inquire into their particular duties.
He then attacked with enthusiasm the charges on file against the thirty-five prisoners and ordered eighteen of them released immediately. Each of the released prisoners had been brought into his office where he explained privately why they were being released and the sort of new deal he was inaugurating in Centerville. Of the remaining seventeen prisoners, he ordered that twelve should be brought to trial at once and faced by their accusers and either sentenced or released.
Only five of the entire number were charged with crimes serious enough to require grand jury action. After a long conference with the city attorney, it was agreed that a special jury should be called within one week to consider those cases.
By four o’clock he had completed most of the preliminaries necessary to a complete reorganization of the department, and he settled back to dictate a memorandum to each officer remaining on active duty.
Lucy Hamilton sat across from him with her stenographer’s pad, glancing up at his face each time he hesitated. Overnight, he had become a new sort of man. There was a ruthless, driving efficiency about him which she had never known the easy-going detective to manifest before. He was displaying an amazing talent for grasping details and organizing them, for making rapid and definite decisions that sounded right. He appeared happier than she had ever seen him.
As for herself, Lucy was still befuddled. After recovering from her anxiety upon receiving his telephone message to hurry to the police station, she was immediately confounded to find him directing the affairs of the department. She hadn’t asked questions, for there hadn’t been time. She knew Henry Elwood was locked in his own jail charged with murder, but she didn’t know any of the circumstances. She didn’t know what had been done about George Brand or any of the other persons involved in the Roche murder. All she knew was that Shayne was in the driver’s seat and was getting as much accomplished as possible while he remained there. She had a queer feeling that none of this was real and that she would wake up after a time and find herself back in Miami, but in the meantime Shayne kept on dictating his blunt memorandums and she continued to take shorthand notes.
There was a discreet knock on the door. Shayne stopped dictating to call, “Yeh?”
A patrolman stuck his head in and said, “There’s a man here who insists on seeing you, Chief. Says it’s important.”
“Send him in,” said Shayne.
A quietly dressed man with hard features entered. His pinstriped blue suit was well cut, his shoes highly polished, his manner that of a self-assured and aggressive person. He wore a stiff straw hat with a red and white band. He removed it when he saw Lucy.
He said to Shayne, “Your stupid man outside says I’ll have to get permission from you to see my client.”
“Who is your client?”
The stranger pulled up a straight chair and sat down. “George Brand. You can’t deny an attorney access to his client.” He took a card from his breast pocket and flipped it in front of Shayne.
Shayne read aloud, “Myron J. Stanger, Washington, D. C. Chief Counsel representing NUWJ. What do the initials stand for?”
“National Union for Workers’ Justice. I imagine you’ve heard of us.”
Shayne leaned back, studying the card. He asked, “Are you from Washington?”
“Our headquarters are there. I travel a great deal, but I happened to be in the office yesterday morning when we read of this outrageous affair in the morning paper. I came at once.”
“Do you know your client personally?”
“It happens that I do know George Brand. Most favorably, I assure you. I’ve represented him on other occasions when his zeal got him into difficulties with the law.”
Shayne said affably, “I’m glad Brand has a competent attorney. Lucy, will you get that bottle out of the top drawer of the file? Did you drive down, Mr. Stanger?”
The attorney showed mild surprise at this display of cordiality. It was evident that he had come to Centerville with a far different concept of the reception he would receive from the authorities. He thawed visibly and produced a pipe and tobacco pouch. “Yes, I drove. Left Washington before noon and went straight through to Lexington last night.”