Brett Halliday
Murder in Haste
Chapter One
As the powerful radio-equipped Cadillac slowed for the exit onto one of the smallest of the Bay Harbor islands, Chief-of-Detectives Peter Painter leaned forward and told his driver to shut off the siren. He was calling on a lady, and he thought it might be considered bad taste to arrive with his siren wailing. The neighbors might think she was being arrested.
He removed a cigarette from his filter holder and crushed it in the back-seat ashtray as the Cadillac drifted to a stop before a rambling stucco house. There was another Cadillac in the driveway, this one a white convertible. The rear lawn sloped off gently to a private dock and a boathouse.
Painter got out, giving the back of his jacket a smart tug to get rid of wrinkles. “Now don’t just sit there,” he told Heinemann, his driver. “Move around. Stay under cover and keep your eyes open.”
“Sure, Chief,” Heinemann said. He was a short, balding detective with overlong arms and grease-blackened fingernails. “How do I move around and stay under cover at the same time? And it might help if I knew what I was supposed to keep my eyes open for.”
Painter, always on the alert for signs of insubordination, shot him a sharp look and started for the house. But he turned back.
“You’ve got a point there,” he admitted. “You don’t want to be taken by surprise. I have reason to believe that somebody may try to take a shot at me. If it does happen, it won’t be a crackpot operation. It’ll be a professional job all the way. That’s why I think we’re all right here — there’s only the one exit off the island. But that’s no excuse for goofing off.”
“No, sir,” Heinemann said, leaving on the parking lights and sliding out from behind the wheel. “Because if there’s any shooting, I’m right here in the line of fire.”
“And remember that.”
Satisfied with the set of his jacket and the position of his necktie, Painter went up the front walk to the house, coming down too hard on his heels, as he invariably did. He was a short man, and to get the most out of his limited stature he held himself as erect as a bow-string. His shoes with their extra-thick heels were highly polished. He wore made-to-measure suits, and in the opinion of his numerous critics, he was usually somewhat over-dressed for his job.
He sounded the bell, and rearranged his breast-pocket handkerchief while he waited.
The door was opened by Rose Heminway, an attractive widow in her early thirties. She had shoulder-length blonde hair, and was wearing tapered green slacks and a vest of the same material. Painter suppressed a small gulp. He was seeing her in slacks for the first time, and these particular slacks were very effective, though so tight that he thought she probably had trouble putting them on.
“It didn’t take you long to get here, Mr. Painter,” she said, smiling. “I’ve been listening for your siren.”
“I don’t always use it,” Painter said. He followed her in. “And after all the time we’ve spent together the last few weeks, don’t you think we could start using first names?”
She smiled over her shoulder. “A fine idea, Peter. I was going to suggest it myself. But I confess I had an ulterior motive when I asked you to stop in. There’s something I want to say to you.”
They went into a pleasantly-furnished living room. In daylight the big windows across one end of the room would give a good view of the north bay. She saw him looking at a huge abstract painting on another wall. “Like it?”
“Very much,” he said doubtfully.
“It’s my pride and joy. Sit down, Peter. I think you’ll find the sofa most comfortable.”
He sat where she pointed, being careful with the creases in his pants. “Now don’t tell me we have to go into the Sam Harris case any more. I was afraid you’d bring it up, but haven’t we exhausted that subject? I know it’s exhausted me.”
She leaned over a tray on the low table in front of the sofa and put ice in a highball glass. “Norma Harris came to see me again this afternoon. Scotch or bourbon?”
“Bourbon, thanks. And what did dear, sweet Norma have to say? It couldn’t be anything new. I must have heard her repertoire of insults fifty times by now.”
She made the drinks and handed him his, then sat down at the opposite end of the sofa, bringing up her knees between them.
“She’s getting frantic, Peter. Really and truly frantic. I thought she was on the point of screaming a few times, and I don’t know that I blame her. The execution’s only five days away. She says that when she went to your office today you refused to see her.”
Painter flicked impatiently at his little hairline mustache.
“There’s no reason I should waste my time on every kooky dame who keeps coming in and having hysterics and turning the place into a madhouse. How do you think we can get any work done with that going on? We have other problems besides hers.”
“I understand that, Peter, but I can understand her position, too. Time’s running short.”
“I’m aware of that,” Painter said. “There’s a big red ring around the date on my calendar. I don’t need to be reminded of it every hour on the hour. In my humble opinion, she’s putting on the loyal wife act a little late. The woman’s no better than a chippy. I may be doing her an injustice, but I don’t really think so.”
He tasted the highball and shook it to make the ice-cubes rattle. “What else did she say to you? You sounded — I don’t know how to describe it, sort of strained on the phone.”
“Did I?” she said. “I probably did. Whenever I’m talking to somebody who feels that strongly about something, they can always manage to convince me. It’s only when I brood about it afterward that I begin to have doubts. Well, I might as well tell you. She... she says she’s sure you’ve turned up some new evidence which you’re deliberately suppressing. Don’t say anything for a minute, Peter. I know it’s ridiculous. I know you wouldn’t be a party to anything like that. But I can see how her mind works.
“You handled the original case against her husband. She’s given you some new leads, and it really hasn’t seemed to me that you’ve been — well, too energetic about following them up. You’re the expert, and there’s probably a perfectly good reason. I don’t think you’d deliberately sit on something, just to protect yourself against a charge of being stupid or careless three years ago. That’s what Mrs. Harris thinks, however, and she’s working herself up to giving it to the papers. She’s still quite a good looking girl. They might make quite a big thing out of it.”
“I don’t think I’ll worry about that,” Painter said calmly, drinking.
She hesitated. “There’s one other thing. As I say, she can be very persuasive. It’s her idea to call a press conference in her lawyer’s office, and she wants me to be there to back her up. She’s right about one thing — it would be an effective piece of publicity. Her husband was sentenced to death for killing mine. If she tells the newspapers she thinks he’s innocent, that’s not such a sensational piece of news. But if I say the same—”
Painter’s eyes narrowed. “Do you mean to sit there and tell me you intend to associate yourself publicly with this psychopath? You’re going to accuse me of letting an innocent man go to his death, for fear of being blamed for a shoddy piece of police work three years ago?”
She refused to meet his eyes. “I wouldn’t put it exactly that way, Peter. But it has been almost three weeks since I came to you, and as far as I can see you haven’t accomplished a blessed thing.”
He stirred uneasily. “I keep telling you I’m working on it.”
“I accepted that at first, but it’s just too vague, Peter. Never mind Norma. Never mind me. Think about Sam Harris in his condemned cell. Surely that same date is marked in red on his calendar, and every day it comes one day nearer.”