Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 46, No. 9, September 1982
- Автор: Холлидэй Бретт, Moore Arthur
- Год: 1982
- Язык: английский
- Год: Renown Publications
- ISBN: 0026-3621
- Жанр: Криминальные детективы
Электронная книга - «Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 46, No. 9, September 1982». Краткое содержание книги:
“Look,” Carter removed the cigar stump and used it to point at the truck. “I’m a legitimate businessman. See? I got me about a ton of hammocks. It’s gonna be a big thing this year.”
“How can anyone get along without one,” Lansing commented dryly. “Considering your track record, I’m surprised you can afford that eighteen wheeler.”
“We manage, Lansing,” Mike Sumter stated with a surly stare. “I’ve driven it all over the country to get the best quality material available for our shop.”
“Things must be looking up for you two high-rollers,” the major smiled. “Or maybe you’ve got another source of income the IRS doesn’t know about.”
“You’re lucky I’m on parole, punk,” Mike hissed. “Otherwise, I’d bash your teeth in for that remark.”
“Shut up, Mike,” Carter said flatly. “This guy’s trying to dig up some dirt on us. Don’t hand him a goddamn shovel.”
“What sort of dirt might I find if I looked?” Lansing inquired. “The same thing my father was investigating?”
“I thought your old man retired a while back.”
“You didn’t know he still worked private investigations?”
“You’re joking,” Carter snorted. “He musta been old enough to collect social security, for crissake.”
“He was interested in your activities, Carter. Why?”
“Seems to me I recall one of Old Man Lansing’s brats used to be a cop before he got a patriotic hair up his ass and decided to join the Army,” Carter smiled. “You know what I think? I think you’re that tin soldier and that means I don’t have to tell you a damn thing.”
“You heard the man,” Mike snarled. “You ain’t got no business here. Get out before we call the cops!”
“I wouldn’t want to make you do anything contrary to your nature,” Lansing replied dryly.
Carefully, Major Lansing turned the steel needle in the keyhole. He’d studied lock-picking from a former burglar who’d become the CID’s top advisor on the subject of breaking and entry. Lansing had used his ability on more than one occasion, although he’d never thought he’d be breaking into his own father’s home.
A dull click rewarded his efforts. Lansing turned the knob and opened the door. He entered the dark house, carrying a penlight in one hand and a brief case in the other. Flicking on the penlight, he cast the narrow beam across the interior until he found the office. Moving to the desk, he opened the center drawer and examined the papers with the diminutive light.
They were Xerox copies of newspaper and magazine articles. Although the publications varied, the subject remained the same. The articles concerned the American tuna boats that were seized by the Mexican coast guard south of Baja California in 1980 and 1981.
Lansing frowned. There didn’t seem to be any possibility the material could have any connection with a case his father was involved with in Detroit. However, after years of investigative work, Lansing had learned crimes were solved by deductions based on facts, not assumptions. He placed the Xerox copies in his brief case.
The sudden harsh ring of the telephone on the desk forced a gasp from the major. He hesitated for a moment, then decided he’d overdone the clandestine nature of inspecting his father’s house. After all, no one had denied him access to his former home. He picked up the receiver.
“Lansing?” a man’s voice asked anxiously.
“Yes,” he replied.
“I found out where they got them from,” the voice declared. “San Diego! Almost two million dollars worth!”
“What is it and who has it?” the major asked urgently.
“Huh?” the man paused. “You ain’t Lansing!”
“Wait!” the investigator urged. “I’m John Lansing’s—”
A sharp clang filled his ear, followed by a mournful whine. The mysterious caller had hung up.
Lansing cursed himself for handling the man too abruptly. He replaced the receiver in the cradle of the phone and opened the side drawers of the desk. After putting his father’s S&W revolver, holster and box of .38 cartridges in the brief case, he closed it.
David Lansing entered the coffee shop and located his brother seated at a booth by the front window. He slid into the seat facing the major.
“Maybe six in the morning isn’t early for you guys in the Army, but I’ve barely got my eyes open,” David complained.
“Sorry,” Lansing replied, looking down at his coffee cup. “This can’t wait.”
“That’s what you said on the phone,” the younger man nodded. “Now, what the hell did you want to talk to me about that couldn’t wait until nine o’clock and you can’t discuss in front of Aunt Glenda?”
Lansing glanced about the shop, looking at the plastic topped counter and the sad-faced woman behind it. A grill heated frozen sausage for another customer’s breakfast and glass pots of oily coffee sat on hotplates behind a case of doughnuts that had been removed from a box the night before.
“Do you remember when this place used to be an ice cream parlor?” the major mused. “We used to come here on the weekends when we were kids. We used to be pretty close once. What happened to us, Dave?”
“We grew up,” his brother replied flatly. “We became different kinds of people with different interests.”
Lansing looked at him. “Because we’re different means we can’t feel any closeness? Any love?”
“Jesus, Cliff,” David muttered. “You didn’t get me down here to tell me that, did you?”
“No,” the major admitted. “I didn’t.”
He told David about their father’s private investigation work. “I don’t believe Dad was killed by a burglar. A .357 Magnum isn’t the sort of weapon the average sneakthief carries. It’s a professional hitter’s gun or a cop’s. I used to carry one when I was with the department.”
“Maybe the burglar didn’t read the right crime magazines to know what he was supposed to take with him on the job,” David snorted.
“Our father was murdered,” Lansing said sharply. “And you don’t seem to give a damn!”
“Of course I do,” David snapped. “But I also remember when we were kids that we always knew he’d probably die violently. We learned to accept that. It was part of being a cop’s son. Right? I figure that’s why you’ve never been married, Cliff. Because you don’t want to put your wife and children through that same mess.”
“I can’t accept murder, Dave,” the senior brother insisted. “Especially father’s. The killer didn’t touch a three thousand dollar silver set in the dining room, but he ripped off a gold plated watch the department gave Dad when he retired. Does that make sense to you? I also suspect he removed some files from Father’s office. Dad had been investigating a couple of shady characters and there isn’t anything about them in his records.”
“Cliff,” David sighed, “you’re only going to be here for three days before you have to go back to Germany...”
“I’m not leaving until I’ve found Father’s killer,” the major said. “Last night I was going through his desk for clues when the phone rang. A man on the other end of the line said he’d discovered they’d gotten something worth almost two million dollars from San Diego.”
“Who was he? What was he talking about?”
“I don’t know. He hung up before I could get any answers, but I suspect he was one of Dad’s connections. A good cop makes a lot of contacts in a lot of different areas. Quite a few of them are involved in illegal deals themselves and they’re terrified of exposure. Unfortunately, I scared him off.”
“Have you gone to the police with this information?” David clucked his tongue with disgust. “Of course you haven’t. You want to solve this yourself, don’t you?”
“I don’t have any solid evidence to give to the police yet,” Lansing explained. “How much contact did you have with Father?”