Murder Is My Business
“In this age of private eyes with cats, funny neighbors, and relationship woes — here’s to 40’s thriller writer Brett Halliday, whose baffling, bullet-paced capers have come to light again.
“Halliday’s books were marvels of misdirection. Red herrings, skewed motives, mistaken identities — he did everything but come to your house and bang cymbals.
“Halliday’s plots are byzantine gems. This is back when mystery writers were so much
smarter
than you and me. Want an engrossing read? Pick this one up.
“Never heard of this book? No matter. It’s been waiting patiently, poised to dazzle you with raw, ingenious storytelling. Halliday is the king of the baffler novel. Pure pleasure.
“How long can Halliday’s best-selling books remain dormant, undiscovered...? The answer: not a minute longer, thanks to Hard Case Crime.”
Shane Black is the author of numerous films including LETHAL WEAPON, THE LONG KISS GOODNIGHT, and KISS KISS BANG BANG, which was partly inspired by the books of Brett Halliday.
The door of his hotel room stood slightly ajar when he returned. He knew he had locked it when he went out.
He went on around the corner of the corridor and stopped. He took his time about lighting a cigarette, moving back to a position where he could watch the door.
The incident didn’t make much sense to Shayne. If this was an ambush, the person inside his room was playing it dumb to leave the door open to warn him. On the other hand, he realized fully that he had stayed alive for a lot of precarious years by never taking anything for granted.
He smoked his cigarette down to a short butt, then walked rapidly along the corridor, drawing his gun as he approached his door from the wrong direction.
He hit the open door with his left shoulder in a lunge that carried him well into the center of the room.
A woman sat in a chair by the window. She dropped a water tumbler from which she had been helping herself to his cognac. Otherwise she remained perfectly calm.
Shayne’s alert gray eyes swiftly circled the room, returning to her face while he slowly pocketed the gun.
“Carmela Towne,” he said in a flat tone.
Carmela pushed herself up from the chair with both hands gripping the arms. Her eyes searched his face and she said, “Michael,” making three syllables of his name, her voice throaty and a little blurred.
“Some day you’ll get yourself shot,” he said, and went toward her.
Carmela Towne giggled, “I’m already half-shot, Michael,” and held out her arms to him...
SOME OTHER HARD CASE CRIME BOOKS YOU WILL ENJOY:
SOMEBODY OWES ME MONEY
by Donald E. Westlake
NO HOUSE LIMIT
by Steve Fisher
BABY MOLL
by John Farris
THE MAX
by Ken Bruen and Jason Starr
THE FIRST QUARRY
by Max Allan Collins
GUN WORK
by David J. Schow
FIFTY-TO-ONE
by Charles Ardai
KILLING CASTRO
by Lawrence Block
THE DEAD MAN’S BROTHER
by Roger Zelazny
THE CUTIE
by Donald E. Westlake
HOUSE DICK
by E. Howard Hunt
CASINO MOON
by Peter Blauner
FAKE I.D.
by Jason Starr
PASSPORT TO PERIL
by Robert B. Parker
STOP THIS MAN!
by Peter Rabe
LOSERS LIVE LONGER
by Russell Atwood
HONEY IN HIS MOUTH
by Lester Dent
QUARRY IN THE MIDDLE
by Max Allan Collins
THE CORPSE WORE PASTIES
by Jonny Porkpie
THE VALLEY OF FEAR
by A.C. Doyle
MEMORY
by Donald E. Westlake
NOBODY’S ANGEL
by Jack Clark
is my
BUSINESS
by
Brett Halliday
A HARD CASE CRIME BOOK
(HCC-066)
First Hard Case Crime edition: August 2010
Published by
Titan Books
A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd
144 Southwark Street
London
SE1 OUP
in collaboration with Winterfall LLC
Copyright © 1945 by Dodd, Mead & Company, Inc.;
copyright renewed 1973 by Davis Dresser.
Cover painting copyright © 2010 by Robert McGinnis
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Print edition ISBN 978-0-85768-347-2
E-book ISBN 978-0-85768-404-2
Cover design by Cooley Design Lab
Design direction by Max Phillips
The name “Hard Case Crime” and the Hard Case Crime logo are trademarks of Winterfall LLC. Hard Case Crime books are selected and edited by Charles Ardai.
Visit us on the web at
www.HardCaseCrime.com
For FORREST and HELEN FISHEL
In appreciation of so many things.
CHAPTER ONE
On a late fall day in 1944 Michael Shayne was slouched in his swivel chair half asleep when his secretary quietly opened the door to his private office and stepped inside. A felt hat was tipped forward, the brim shading his eyes, and his big feet rested comfortably on his scarred oak desk.
Lucy Hamilton closed the door firmly and advanced toward him. Shayne roused, cocked a shaggy red eyebrow upward, and muttered, “Go away.”
Lucy was slim and straight and supple. She had clear brown eyes and a sweetly rounded face with a firm chin. She said, “No wonder you don’t get ahead in this competitive world. There’s a client outside.”
Shayne yawned and stretched his long arms, then opened both eyes. “I was dreaming,” he said accusingly. “A damned nice dream. And then I saw you standing there. Is the door locked?” He swung his feet down purposefully and started to get up.
Lucy backed away from him. She said, “I never lock the door when I come in here,” with crisp dignity. “Shall I send the lady in?”
Shayne scowled and sank back into the creaking swivel chair. “Is she pretty?”
“No. She’s a little old lady.”
“Money?”
“I’m afraid not. But she’s terribly worried about her boy.”
Shayne said, “Nuts.” His scowl deepened. He pulled off his limp felt hat and sailed it across the room, where it landed on top of a steel filing cabinet. He ran knobby fingers through his bristly red hair and growled, “Why do I always have to draw old ladies without any money? If you were the right kind of secretary—”
Lucy Hamilton had her hand on the doorknob. She opened the door and said, “Mr. Shayne will be pleased to see you, Mrs. Delray.” She stood aside to let the little old lady enter the office.
Mrs. Delray was shrunken and brisk. She wore a voluminous black silk dress that reached almost to her ankles, and an outmoded black hat flared up and away from her wrinkled face. She had a sweet smile and an air of quiet dignity that brought Shayne up from his chair. He said, “I’m sorry my secretary kept you waiting, Mrs. Delray. If you’ll take this chair—”
Mrs. Delray perched herself on the edge of a wooden chair beside Shayne’s desk. The tips of her black, substantial shoes barely touched the floor. “Captain Denton recommended you, Mr. Shayne,” she began at once. “He said I should see a private detective and you were the cheapest one in New Orleans. You see, I haven’t very much money to spend.” She spoke briskly, leaning toward him, her black eyes bright and expectant.
Shayne slid into his chair and folded his arms on the desk. He said, “Captain Denton, eh?” without enthusiasm. “Is he a friend of yours, Mrs. Delray?”
“Oh — no. I don’t know any policemen. I went to his
office for help, but it seems that policemen aren’t interested in helping a taxpayer. He said I’d have to hire a private detective and he hustled me right out of his office.”
“Why do you need a detective?” he asked with gentle restraint.
“It’s about my boy, Jimmie. He’s a good boy and he’s not a draft-dodger, Mr. Shayne.” Her voice trembled with eagerness to be believed. She fumbled with the clasp of a large, worn pocketbook and drew out an envelope. She offered it to Shayne, explaining, “This is a letter I got from Jimmie this morning. You can see he’s as patriotic as anybody even if he didn’t ever register for the draft like it seems he should have.”
Shayne took the envelope and pulled out two folded sheets of USO writing paper covered on both sides with penciled words. He settled back and read:
Dear Ma—
Here I am back in the U.S.A. after five years. A lot of things have happened since I wrote to you a couple of months ago. I haven’t got time to tell you all of them, but it looks like I am going to get a chance to make up for staying out of the War all this time while I was working in Mexico.
Like I told you before, I didn’t know I was supposed to register for the draft while I was in Mexico, and when I found out about the law last year I was afraid to on account of I thought they might arrest me for a draft-dodger.
But I felt guilty about it and finally couldn’t stand
it any longer and came back to El Paso. And then a funny thing happened, Ma. It’s like in a storybook. I met up with a man and got to talking to him and he said why didn’t I go to the Army and tell them the truth about being in Mexico all this time and ask to enlist, only not under my real name on account of it might cause trouble for you and because there’s big things happening here and they need me for sort of undercover snooping because I can talk Mexican good and ain’t enlisted under my real name and all that.I can’t tell you any more about it, Ma, because I don’t know much more, but it’s some sort of spy ring and it’s awful exciting and maybe I’ll be a hero after all.
So when you write to me address your letters to Private James Brown at the above address and don’t worry about it being anything wrong on account of I think you’ll be proud of me when it’s all over.
I’ve got a pass to go into town this afternoon and meet this man and find out more about it.
I will close in haste.
Your loving son, Jim.
Mrs. Delray watched him eagerly. She said, “You can see for yourself, Mr. Shayne, Jimmie’s wanting to do the right thing.”
He muttered, “Yeah,” absently. His right thumb and forefinger gently massaged his left earlobe as he frowned at Jim Delray’s letter, his gray eyes brooding upon the penciled sheets.
Carefully refolding it and replacing it in the enve
lope, he looked up to meet the mother’s bright eyes. He shrugged his wide shoulders and said, “I don’t see why you need a detective, Mrs. Delray. If you want to take this up with anyone, I suggest you go to the FBI.”
Fear clouded her lined face. “I’m afraid to,” she confessed. “I don’t know what they might do to Jimmie when they find out he was working in Mexico for five years and didn’t ever even register for the draft like the law says. And now he’s gone and enlisted under a false name and all—” Her voice trembled and there were tears in her eyes, but she lifted her chin proudly. “Not that my Jimmie would do anything wrong, Mr. Shayne. He’s a good boy and he’s been
that
worried about not getting registered.”