Read Online A Taste for Violence by Brett Halliday - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Brett Halliday
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Shayne entered the room.
Gerald said in a tone evidently intended to warn Elsa Roche, “This man is a private detective whom Charles engaged to come here… by letter… some three days ago. He insisted upon coming in, even though I assured him the need for his services no longer existed.”
The young man at the radio turned his head and looked at Shayne just as Shayne glanced in his direction. His dark hair was plastered down except where singed ends curled up. Shayne stared at him for an instant, noting the lack of eyebrows and lashes, and the puffy pallor of his skin.
Turning back to Elsa, he said, “The name is Shayne. I have accepted a retainer from your late husband and feel obligated to look into his murder.”
She said, “A private detective?” and made it sound like a ridiculous occupation. She did not change her position, but looked far up into Shayne’s face.
“Michael Shayne? The private eye in Miami who’s always grabbing headlines?” the young man asked.
Shayne said, “You have the advantage of me.”
“I’m Jimmy Roche.” He straightened his body and took a step toward Shayne. “So Charles got up enough gumption to write you. What did he say?”
“Quite a lot,” Shayne told him, turning his attention again to Elsa Roche. Her dainty left hand was curled into a tight fist and a large diamond glittered on the third finger above a yellow gold band set with tiny stones. She had set her cocktail glass down and was holding the long jewelled holder in her right hand. The cigarette had fallen from it, and there was the smell of the rug burning.
Shayne stepped forward and put his toe on the glowing cigarette. “Pardon me,” he said. “This looks like a pretty good rug.”
Elsa Roche ignored his act and his words. She continued to look up at him. Her gray-green eyes showed nothing of the emotion which had caused her to double her fist and let the cigarette fall from the holder unnoticed. She asked, “Did Charles mention any one he was particularly afraid of?”
“Letters from clients are privileged communications, Mrs. Roche. The fewer people in Centerville who know what your husband said, the better chance I’ll have to find his murderer.”
“This is all quite beside the point,” Seth Gerald said impatiently. He moved to stand closer to Shayne. Jimmy Roche came over to join them, and they made a semi-circle in front of Elsa’s chair. “Charles’ murderer is behind bars right now,” Gerald went on, “and we don’t want any…”
“Get Mr. Shayne a drink, Seth darling,” she interrupted. She spoke lazily, but an electrical current seemed to flow into the room.
“Cognac,” Jimmy suggested, “that’s what Shayne drinks.” He turned aside and called, “Emma! Bring a bottle of Hennessey and a glass. Straight?”
Shayne said, “Thanks. With ice water on the side, if you have it.”
Jimmy said, “Sure,” and walked toward a door in the rear of the room, opened it, and went out to give further orders.
Shayne went over to a chair and sat down. Seth Gerald moved slowly around the room for a moment, then seated himself across from Shayne. Elsa Roche sat up straight, then leaned forward to clasp her hands around a crossed knee and commanded:
“Come sit beside me, Seth darling, and stop being so tragic. I don’t think the case is any too strong against Brand, and if Mr. Shayne has, or can get enough evidence to help hang him, why shouldn’t we have it?”
“He hasn’t said he has any. What can he have?” asked Gerald crossly. “He just arrived in Centerville.”
Jimmy Roche returned to the room and went over to lean against the radio cabinet. “Those threatening letters,” he interposed, “if Charles sent them to Shayne and if they’re signed by Brand… that ought to be enough to hang him.” He spoke excitedly, but his eyes were clouded and dull.
Elsa flashed a scornful glance at her brother-in-law, then said to Gerald, “I told you to come over and sit beside
Gerald said in a tone evidently intended to warn Elsa Roche, “This man is a private detective whom Charles engaged to come here… by letter… some three days ago. He insisted upon coming in, even though I assured him the need for his services no longer existed.”
The young man at the radio turned his head and looked at Shayne just as Shayne glanced in his direction. His dark hair was plastered down except where singed ends curled up. Shayne stared at him for an instant, noting the lack of eyebrows and lashes, and the puffy pallor of his skin.
Turning back to Elsa, he said, “The name is Shayne. I have accepted a retainer from your late husband and feel obligated to look into his murder.”
She said, “A private detective?” and made it sound like a ridiculous occupation. She did not change her position, but looked far up into Shayne’s face.
“Michael Shayne? The private eye in Miami who’s always grabbing headlines?” the young man asked.
Shayne said, “You have the advantage of me.”
“I’m Jimmy Roche.” He straightened his body and took a step toward Shayne. “So Charles got up enough gumption to write you. What did he say?”
“Quite a lot,” Shayne told him, turning his attention again to Elsa Roche. Her dainty left hand was curled into a tight fist and a large diamond glittered on the third finger above a yellow gold band set with tiny stones. She had set her cocktail glass down and was holding the long jewelled holder in her right hand. The cigarette had fallen from it, and there was the smell of the rug burning.
Shayne stepped forward and put his toe on the glowing cigarette. “Pardon me,” he said. “This looks like a pretty good rug.”
Elsa Roche ignored his act and his words. She continued to look up at him. Her gray-green eyes showed nothing of the emotion which had caused her to double her fist and let the cigarette fall from the holder unnoticed. She asked, “Did Charles mention any one he was particularly afraid of?”
“Letters from clients are privileged communications, Mrs. Roche. The fewer people in Centerville who know what your husband said, the better chance I’ll have to find his murderer.”
“This is all quite beside the point,” Seth Gerald said impatiently. He moved to stand closer to Shayne. Jimmy Roche came over to join them, and they made a semi-circle in front of Elsa’s chair. “Charles’ murderer is behind bars right now,” Gerald went on, “and we don’t want any…”
“Get Mr. Shayne a drink, Seth darling,” she interrupted. She spoke lazily, but an electrical current seemed to flow into the room.
“Cognac,” Jimmy suggested, “that’s what Shayne drinks.” He turned aside and called, “Emma! Bring a bottle of Hennessey and a glass. Straight?”
Shayne said, “Thanks. With ice water on the side, if you have it.”
Jimmy said, “Sure,” and walked toward a door in the rear of the room, opened it, and went out to give further orders.
Shayne went over to a chair and sat down. Seth Gerald moved slowly around the room for a moment, then seated himself across from Shayne. Elsa Roche sat up straight, then leaned forward to clasp her hands around a crossed knee and commanded:
“Come sit beside me, Seth darling, and stop being so tragic. I don’t think the case is any too strong against Brand, and if Mr. Shayne has, or can get enough evidence to help hang him, why shouldn’t we have it?”
“He hasn’t said he has any. What can he have?” asked Gerald crossly. “He just arrived in Centerville.”
Jimmy Roche returned to the room and went over to lean against the radio cabinet. “Those threatening letters,” he interposed, “if Charles sent them to Shayne and if they’re signed by Brand… that ought to be enough to hang him.” He spoke excitedly, but his eyes were clouded and dull.
Elsa flashed a scornful glance at her brother-in-law, then said to Gerald, “I told you to come over and sit beside
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