Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 41, No. 4, October 1977

“We want to talk to Mr. Colletti,” Shayne said.

“Yeah,” the young man said, “so do a lot of other people. Write him a letter.”

Shayne said, “The large gentleman behind me is a federal marshal with a federal warrant in his hand. If you don’t get out of the way, let us in and tell Mr. Colletti we want to talk to him, the Marshal will charge you with resisting arrest and interfering with a police officer in the line of his duties. Now — move!”

At that moment, Dominick Colletti appeared directly behind the young man. Colletti was in his late fifties, tall distinguished in appearance, with graying temples, regular features, handsome.

His tone was brusque and authoritative. “What the hell is going on, Angelo?”

“Fuzz, Dad. One of them is a federal marshal with a warrant. They want to talk with you.”

“Let them in — in the library.” Colletti turned and walked away.

Angelo led them into the library, scowling every step of the way. The room looked like a motion picture set depicting the library of a man of great wealth and erudition. The shelves which spanned the entire length of the room from floor to ceiling were filled with tomes of every kind, most of them in rich morocco bindings. Colletti sat in a deep armchair. He glanced from one to the other until his eyes fell on Shayne.

“I recognize no one here but you,” he told the redhead. “And you only because I was given a definitive description by Inspector Kreuger. Now, what the hell is this all about?”

Marshal Walsh handed him the paper. “A federal warrant, Mr. Colletti. We want to search the premises.”

“You do? Well, I want to fly like a bird but God had other ideas. For what, may I ask, are you searching?”

“The warrant says diamonds stolen in a robbery in Miami Beach, Dominick,” Shayne cut in.

Colletti glared hard at Shayne. “Until I determine that you and I can talk on a first-name basis, Mr. Shayne, you address me as Mr. Colletti. The chances that we may ever arrive at that station are distinctly remote. You’re a private investigator, so as far as I am concerned you have no formal authority, no police standing. Consequently I consider you a very unpleasant intruder in my home. Are you the sonofabitch that shot and killed Pete Allegretti on my boat?”

“No, he isn’t,” Sergeant Patterson said. “I shot him. And I, Mister Colletti,” Patterson added, stressing the Mister, “am Detective Sergeant David Patterson of the Fort Lauderdale Police Department. If you refer to me as a sonofabitch, I’m very apt to forget myself and break your jaw.”

Colletti nodded. “Well, I see I’m heavily outweighed, so I’ll call my attorney. Even things up a little, gentlemen.”

“We’d like to go over the premises first,” Shayne said.

“Who’s in charge of this detail?” Colletti asked, his voice rising in deep anger.

“I am,” Tom Elfmont said.

“Okay. Then you tell me what you want, not that misfit.” He pointed a forefinger at Shayne.

VIII

“Dominick,” Mike Shayne said, “your big-shot front doesn’t reach me. A dozen years ago, I was with a team of Miami Beach cops who picked you up with about fifty slips, bets on horses, that you had collected from various doormen on the Beach. You were just a runner then.

“To me, you’re still a runner, a punk taking orders from the big boys. Now, if you don’t want to be taken back to Fort Lauderdale or the Beach, get off that phony high-horse and cooperate. For your information, I represent the Monarch Insurance Company.

“A salesman was robbed and killed, and a million dollars in cut and uncut stones taken from him. I know that Pete Allegretti was involved in the heist. Probably in the murder. If you have any of the stones in your possession, you, Mister Bigshot, are an accessory to murder. Do we understand each other?”

“Lieutenant” — Colletti addressed Elfmont — “I still wish to call my attorney, especially in the face of the accusations made by this redheaded shamus.” He made a guttural sound in his throat, and spat toward Shayne. “Shamus, you stink. It will take ten grand to fumigate this room after you leave.”

“You should have had it done long ago. It’s been polluted from the moment you set foot in it.”

Angelo Colletti moved in front of Shayne. “You don’t talk to my father like that, you creep!” the young man snarled. “I’ll have you wiped out.”

Mike Shayne countered, “You’ll have me killed, little boy?” His voice dripped sarcasm. “You can’t do it, of course. Especially since Allegretti is dead,” he taunted.

“Angelo, please leave the room,” Dominic ordered. “I am quite capable of handling this. Go upstairs and tell your sister to dress, that we have uninvited company who might embarrass her.” He turned to the group, avoiding Shayne. “My daughter has been ill. I hope you will extend that courtesy to her. She’s only eighteen.”