Free A Taste for Violence by Brett Halliday

it gently between his stubby short fingers and fat palm, turning aside to say to Seth Gerald:
    “And I want to congratulate you on behalf of AMOK. It’s a wonderful triumph. A smashing victory. I confess I’ve been worried. We’ve watched developments with deep concern, and some of us feared… but that’s beside the point now. The strike is broken. All’s well that ends well, eh?” He was chafing Elsa’s hand between his palms. She drew it away and looked angrily at its redness.
    “I’m afraid I don’t quite understand,” said Gerald stiffly.
    “Don’t you know?” His tone was incredulous. He drew his stocky body to its full height of five feet six. “Good God, man, haven’t you heard? The strike is broken. The men have just announced they’re going back to work tomorrow. The news was all over town as I drove through.”
    Shayne stretched his legs out comfortably and sipped cognac between long drags on his cigarette. His eyes were very bright, his features relaxed, his wide mouth upquirked at the corners.
    Mr. Persona turned gracefully on his small feet to address Elsa Roche. He was apparently too absorbed in his own triumph to notice Seth Gerald’s silent consternation. He said, “You will forgive me, Mrs. Roche. What I’m saying can’t possibly lessen your personal grief, but in the years to come it may be a consolation to realize your husband did not die in vain. The repercussions of this fiasco will be felt throughout the country… the whole world. People who have been cold will be warm.
    “Besides,” he continued, “think of the lasting effect upon our national economy. There will be international reverberations, I assure you. The miners have been taught a drastic lesson. In the future they’ll think twice before following the arrogant and stupid leadership of a man like George Brand. I consider the victory largely due to your excellent handling of the situation,” he continued, turning on the ball of one foot to face Seth Gerald. “Your appeal to the miners in the local paper was a masterly stroke. It caught them off balance.”
    Persona turned again on the ball of his foot. He saw Michael Shayne, and for the first time seemed to realize the presence of a stranger in the room.
    Gerald said, “What I did seemed the obvious thing to do.” He saw, then, that Persona had turned and was looking at Shayne. He said, “This is Michael Shayne… Mr. Persona, Mr. Shayne.”
    Shayne didn’t get up. He nodded and said, “How do you do, Mr. Persona.”
    “Shayne is a private detective,” said Seth Gerald.
    Mr. Persona went over to Shayne and extended his hand. Shayne took it and felt a rock-crusher grip on his knobby fingers.
    “Mr. Shayne is a private detective who just drove up from Florida,” Gerald continued smoothly. “Perhaps you’ve heard, Shayne, that Mr. Persona runs AMOK.”
    “So?” Shayne’s bushy red brows rose a trifle. He studied the swarthy man curiously, and added, “Often?”
    Both Gerald and Persona looked puzzled. Then, Seth Gerald chuckled. He said, “I think I see what you mean. A sort of joke. A-M-O-K.” He spaced the four letters carefully. “Associated Mine Operators of Kentucky. Mr. Persona is the chairman of the Board, with headquarters in Lexington.”
    “It seems to me that right now murder runs AMOK,” said Shayne gravely.
    Persona glanced inquiringly from Shayne to Gerald. Jimmy Roche strolled up to join them.
    “Jokes,” said Persona, “are definitely out of place and in bad taste in so serious a situation.” He had apparently missed the play on the word. “Bringing in strikebreakers won’t be necessary now, for at least a year. You mark my words.”
    “Mr. Shayne is not here to bring in strikebreakers,” Gerald interposed hastily. “He came to Centerville in response to a personal letter from Charles who had a premonition of being murdered. Unfortunately Mr. Shayne arrived too late to prevent it.”
    “Or fortunately?” Shayne looked at the