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:
“Not much.” The younger man shrugged. “He called once a year to wish Carol and the kids Merry Christmas. At least I gave him grandchildren, huh? Oh, and he never forgot to send a birthday card to anyone in the family.” David’s brow knitted. “Come to think of it, he called about two weeks ago to ask if my insurance firm had any branches in Canada.”
“Canada?”
“Yeah.” David shrugged again. “I told him we didn’t and I asked why he was interested. He said he wanted to get a contact up there. Then he added that he might ‘decide to do a little fishing’ and hung up.”
“That’s it?”
David nodded. Then his expression stiffened as he stared hard at Lansing. “You’re thinking that I’m from San Diego and the caller mentioned it too. You suspect I might have something to do with Father’s death, don’t you?”
“I didn’t say that, David.”
“You didn’t have to,” the younger man hissed angrily. He rose from his seat. “See you at the funeral, brother.”
Lansing watched his brother storm out of the shop. He wanted to call him back and assure him that he believed in his innocence, but he couldn’t
David was right.
Major Lansing did suspect his own brother.
Gulls soared above Lake Huron as lansing parked the Volkswagen Rabbit near the Lexington Harbor. He walked along the pier, glancing at a craft, similar to a small Princess Ship, that cruised along the blue-green water. Most of the boats were in dock — small, professional rigs that performed unromantic and often unpleasant tasks. A vile stench assualted his nostrils as he approached a tin roofed building. The smoke stack of a diesel-engine jutted from the cabin of a diminutive flatboat docked beside the structure. Dead fish, rotten vegetables and organic garbage was piled on the dreary little craft.
Two large, muscle bound men shoveled the foul conglomeration from the pile and dumped it into large metal barrels. A third man, only slightly smaller than his workers, supervised the chore from the pier. Although ten years had passed since Lansing had seen Fred Minton, he recognized the ex-cop immediately. Minton had gained at least twenty pounds and his paunch formed a hump under his Navy blue turtle-neck sweater. A gray-black beard decorated his face and he wore a battered sea captain’s cap with a cracked plastic bill.
“If you can’t get it all into those four barrels, we’ve got more in the warehouse,” Minton told his laborers. “Don’t stuff those things too full or we won’t be able to seal the lids on tight.”
“We know what we’re doin’, Captain,” one of the men, a hard-faced stevedore with a shaggy brown beard, replied gruffly.
“Just make sure you do it right, Sol,” Minton growled. “And don’t spill any of that crap over the side. The EPA inspectors love to catch petty violations like that.”
“My, my,” Lansing commented as he strolled closer. “From Flatfoot to Captain Bligh. How you’ve come up in the world, Minton.”
The ex-cop turned sharply. A puzzled expression dominated his face until his mind recalled a name to suit the major’s face. “Clifford Lansing? Jesus, I thought you’d been killed in Vietnam or something.”
“And I thought you would have been jailed for taking bribes from every loan shark and dope-dealer in Detroit,” Lansing replied with a sneer. “But I see you still can’t help associating with garbage of one kind or another.”
“Didn’t they teach you any manners in the Army, Lansing?” Minton muttered. “I suppose you came back for your father’s funeral. Read about that. Sorry your Dad bought it. He was a good cop.”
“I’m surprised you’d recognize one.”
“That snotty talk can get you a busted head,” the ex-cop warned. “Especially around here. But I can understand you being upset, so just get the hell outta here before I have Jake and Sol tear you apart like a Thanksgiving Day turkey.”
“It must feel good to be able to tell somebody what to do after taking orders from hoods for so many years, eh, Fred?”
“You want something, Lansing?” Minton snorted. “Or did you just come here to admire the view?”
“My father was interested in your current occupation,” the major replied. “I thought I’d see what you were up to that’s so fascinating.”
“John C. was looking into my business?” Minton chuckled. “I’m a seafaring garbage man, Lansing. I go all over Lake Huron to pick up fish rejects from nets and slop from the diners and ships’ crews. Why would your dad want to know about that?”
“Maybe he suspected you might be hauling around more than one kind of junk.”
“Drugs?” Minton smiled. “You know me better than that, Lansing. Look, I’ll level with you. Sure I was on the take. With the lousy salaries we got for risking our lives in a zoo like Detroit, who wouldn’t be?”
“Any good police officer,” Lansing answered.
“An overgrown boy scout like you,” Minton scoffed. “But I never got involved deep enough to get caught. I’m not stupid, Lansing — and only an idiot would try to run drugs in a garbage scow. Since the Canadian government is bent outta shape about marijuana coming from the States, the narcotics boys are sniffing around the docks constantly. The goddamn Environmental Protection Agency checks me out any time they feel like it too. Besides, I know the local fuzz were told about my under-the-table deals in Detroit. Lexington’s finest are keeping an eye on me as well. No way I’m going to deal in dope, gun-running or anything else.”
“You’ll just keep making your living as an honest shipping magnate,” Lansing shook his head. “You couldn’t stay clean as a cop and I doubt that you’ve turned over a new leaf, Minton.”
“You don’t like me,” the scow captain frowned. “Well, that just breaks my heart, Lansing. But you haven’t been with the police department for a long time. So unless the United States Army wants me for something, you’d better get off my back and keep your mouth shut. There’s laws against slander and libel, and I’ll sue your ass off if you give me any more trouble.”
“Don’t be so touchy, Fred,” Lansing said. “I won’t take up any more of your time. You can get back to your stink now.”
The motel room was small and spartanly furnished, but it served Major Lansing’s needs. He closed and locked the door and pulled the drapes before he removed his windbreaker. The snubnose .38 was holstered high on his right hip. Lansing stripped off his belt to remove the revolver. Tucking the S&W under the pillow on his bed, Lansing placed the briefcase on a desk and popped it open.
A knock at the door drew his attention. “It’s me, Cliff,” David Lansing’s voice announced. “May I come in?”
“Of course,” the major replied, unlocking the door for his brother. “I’m glad you came.”
“I had to talk to you after I blew my stack today,” David explained, entering the room.
“Forget it,” Lansing said as he shut the door. “It probably seemed like I was giving you the third degree.”
“Father and I weren’t very close, Cliff,” the younger man admitted. “But I would never have done anything to harm him.”
“I don’t really know you anymore, Dave,” Lansing confessed. “But I don’t believe you’d participate in killing our father.”
“But the guy on the phone mentioned San Diego and something worth two million dollars,” David said, sinking into a chair. “Do you have any idea what he was talking about?”
The major sat on the edge of the bed. “The first things that come to mind are items like heroin, stolen jewels, art objects and such. Harrimon Carter, one of the suspects, used to be a fence in Detroit but he was a small-timer and I doubt he’d be able to handle anything on that level. If he had some big connections, he wouldn’t be running a two-bit novelty shop. Besides, both Carter and the other suspect, Minton, are under constant surveillance by the authorities. They’d have to be crazy to smuggle in anything from California that would arouse suspicion.”