“It’s all right,” he said reassuringly. “It’s the only way I could get in. Those guys in front aren’t cops.”
One hand fluttered to her forehead and she reached out with the other for something solid to hold onto. “Mike, I feel so—”
“Don’t faint!” Shayne said sharply. “There’s no time for that. Here.”
He grabbed a large towel from the nearest rack and held it out. Her eyelids trembled. She tried to say something, but her breath came out in a sigh and she fell forward. He caught her under the arms, suppressing the profanity that sprang to his lips, and dragged her to the bedroom. He laid her on the bed, wet as she was, and toweled her roughly. She was only unconscious a moment. The cool air of the bedroom brought her back. She sat up and seized the towel.
“Just what do you think you’re trying to—” she began indignantly, but he cut her off with a peremptory gesture.
“No, Rose. That’s another thing there’s no time for.”
He saw her red robe thrown over the back of a chair. He got it for her. “Put this on. Never mind about getting dry first. Put it on. Right away, please.”
She put an arm into one sleeve, still trying to hold the towel in front of her. In Shayne’s opinion it was a little late for that.
She whispered, “What happened? Everything turned upside down.”
“You weren’t expecting anybody,” Shayne said. “There was too much steam in there. Never mind that now.”
Letting go of the towel, she put her arm in the other sleeve. She still seemed dazed. She looked down at herself suddenly, and snatched the robe together.
“Don’t worry about it, Rose,” Shayne said. “I’m over voting age. Did they try to get in?”
She nodded. “The doorbell rang. They’d seen me through the window, and I knew they’d think it was funny if I didn’t answer, so I turned on the shower. Then I thought I might as well actually take a shower. But if they aren’t police, who are they?”
“That’s what I want to find out. Can you stand up?”
She put her feet on the floor and leaned forward. Remembering that her hair was still up, she pulled several pins and it tumbled down almost to her shoulders. Supporting herself on the footboard, she came to her feet. She swayed dizzily. Shayne caught her arm before she could fall.
“They probably heard the shower go off,” he said. “They’ll give you a couple of minutes to get dressed before they ring the bell again. I want you to be on your feet and functioning.”
He helped her to the living room. He let her go for a moment, ready to catch her again, but she was able to stand by herself. She smiled at him weakly. He knelt beside the Venetian blinds at the big front window, and carefully lifted one of the flexible slats a half inch and looked out.
The man in the open doorway of the sedan drew deeply on a cigarette. Shayne had a better view of him from here, but he still couldn’t classify him. His skin was the color of paraffin, and he didn’t look as though he spent much time in the sun, or even outdoors. The man at the wheel, behind him, might have been a Cuban. He was dark, with a hair-line mustache.
Shayne motioned to Rose. She knelt beside him, with one hand on his shoulder, and peered out.
“No, I’ve never seen either of them before,” she whispered.
Shayne was thinking. By now Joe Wing’s cops ought to be waiting. They could be summoned by a phone call. He studied the heavy, unshaven face of the man in the front seat. To Shayne he didn’t have the look of a man who would blurt out his life history to the first cop who asked him. He had probably been questioned by cops before. There was only one way to find out why he was waiting to see Rose and who had sent him.
“We’ll take them one at a time,” he said.
He reached the door in two long strides. He turned the knob carefully and eased it open, enough so the latch was free. He gave her instructions in a low voice. She went to the bedroom.
Shayne looked out again through the blinds. The man in the front seat said something to his companion and flicked his cigarette into the grass. As he came out of the car, leaving the door open, Shayne saw that the driver was playing nervously with the ignition key. The other crunched up the path toward the front steps, prodding his shirt into his belt. Shayne glanced around and faded into the bedroom with Rose. She was at a dressing table, facing a large triple mirror. He stepped behind the door, which he left open. Looking through the crack, he found that he could see the front door. Rose was fiddling with a hairbrush.
Shayne got her attention and signalled to her to do something about the neck of her robe. She adjusted it so more of her shoulder was showing. He shook his head and went on directing her, and didn’t say when until most of one breast could be seen in the mirror. She raised her eyebrows. Shayne made a circle with his thumb and forefinger. He wanted the man to come inside and close the door, and unless he was completely wrong about what he had seen in the unshaven face, this should do it.
He heard footsteps on the porch. The chimes sounded.
“Come in,” Rose called.
She began applying lipstick. Shayne watched the door through the crack. The peal was repeated.
“Come in,” Rose called more loudly. “It’s not locked.”
The man pushed the door open and looked in. “Mrs. Heminway?”
“Put it down anywhere,” Rose called. “How much do I owe you?”
He came a step into the room, holding the doorknob. Rose swung around on the low bench, and her breath caught. The quick movement pulled the robe further off her shoulder. Shayne, watching the man’s face, saw it change.
“I thought you were the cleaners,” she said. “Come in and shut the door. I’ve got the air-conditioning on, and you’re warming up the house.”
She gave him a slow, provocative look, accompanied by a slight smile. Her breast had almost escaped entirely from the robe. “I don’t think I know you, do I? But do come in. I hate to shout.”
The man’touched his bottom lip with his tongue and swallowed. He held up one finger, signing to his friend that he would only be a minute. He took off his hat and let the door swing shut.
“Are you selling something?” Rose said gayly, and went on without waiting for a reply, “I know this is unconventional, but I want to finish brushing my hair. Come in and give me your sales talk.”
The man approached the door, holding his hat in front of him. “My name’s Cole. I wanted to find out if your father’s name was Chadwick? If you used to be married to George Heminway?”
“Why, yes! Did you know George? I don’t think I ever heard him mention anybody named Cole.”
“We were old friends.”
Now the open door concealed him from Shayne, but the redhead knew from his tone that he was watching the reflection in the mirror. Shayne was watching it himself. She leaned forward as though to adjust a slipper. The voice on the other side of the door sounded strained.
“Jesus, I’d like nothing better than to kill a little time here, but I’d be taking a hell of a chance, no matter how you look at it.”
“What are you babbling about, Mr. Cole?”
Cole took another step forward. “I hate like hell to do this to a dish like you, baby, but that’s how it is.”
He moved his hat, and Shayne saw a pistol, a long-snouted Lüger, equipped with a silencer. His shoulder lifted slightly, and his jaw muscles tightened.
Without conscious thought, Shayne chopped at his arm and spun him around. Cole must have caught the movement in the mirror, for he was already turning, trying to bring the gun between them. Shayne stepped in fast, hitting him with a hard low left to the body. He started to crumble, and as his head sagged forward the redhead clubbed him with a right behind the ear.
The gun thudded to the floor. Cole went down to both knees. His head rocked backward, his eyes showing only the whites. Shayne caught himself before his follow-through could take him off-balance, and came back with a slashing downward left that met Cole’s jaw forward of the hing
e. There was a crisp little click of contact. They wouldn’t be bothered with Cole for some time to come.
Shayne caught him before he was all the way down, turned him and got his wallet. He looked up. Rose was still sitting at the dressing table with a hairbrush in her hand.
“Adhesive tape,” he said. “Quick. As much as you’ve got.”
There was over five hundred dollars in the wallet. Shayne left the money alone and shucked the cards and papers on the floor. The man’s name, if his driving license could be believed, was actually Cole, Albert Cole. He was a member of the Diner’s Club and Carte Blanche, and he had a union card, a credit card entitling him to friendly treatment at a chain of gas stations, and pictures of two young children. The only thing Shayne learned in the quick once-over was that his last address had been Baltimore.
Then Rose was back with two spools of adhesive tape. Shayne taped Cole’s wrists, ankles and mouth. He left him on the floor and picked up the gun, a murderous weapon which would have blown a hole through the wall. He snapped on the safety.
“No fooling this time, Rose,” he said. “Who is he?”
Except for her lips, her face had lost all its color. She was staring with horror at the gun.
“I don’t know! Mike!” she cried as the realization broke through. “He was going to shoot me!”
“That’s how it looked,” Shayne said grimly, taking off the silencer.
Her knuckles were pressed against her mouth. “What have I gotten myself into, Mike?”
“That’s what we’d all like to know. I think it’s going to turn out that killing people is this guy’s business. Why would anybody want to kill you?”
She made a helpless gesture. “I can’t even begin to guess. I’m the original innocent bystander, Mike. All I did was go to the police to find out why they weren’t taking any action on Norma’s letter.”
Shayne looked at her for a moment, then went to the phone and dialed the number of Beach headquarters. “Joe Wing,” he snapped, and to Rose: “Have you ever fired a gun?”
Her eyes widened. “No. You don’t mean you want me to shoot—”
“No, no,” Shayne said, and spoke into the phone. “Joe. I’m in a hurry, and this has to be done right. I need five minutes. Is your squad car in position?”
“Yeah, do you want it?”
“Not yet. Five minutes from now I want them to turn on their siren, good and loud. Keep that up another minute, and then come down to the island. Mrs. Heminway has somebody we want you to look at.”
“How about the Ford?”
“Let it go by. I want to see where it goes.”
He slammed down the phone. He held out the Lüger, and Rose took it gingerly in both hands. The long barrel was trembling.
“Point it the other way!” Shayne said. “This guy outside is just the wheel-man, and I think he’ll stay in the car and try to be patient. If he tries to get in, shoot him.”
“I couldn’t any more shoot anybody, Mike—”
“There’s nothing to it. The safety’s off. Just point it and pull the trigger. When you hear the siren, fire twice out the bathroom window. This is a bottleneck here, and he’ll want to get out of it in a hurry.”
“But Mike—”
He gave her a reassuring wink and let himself out the back door.
Chapter Seven
Captain Prideaux saw him coming at a run, and had the motor turning over when he reached the boat. They left the dock in a long easy curve, the engine throttled down all the way. Other boats were passing, one with a noisy outboard, and in another moment Shayne thought it was safe to open up.
He nodded to Prideaux, and the powerful boat shot toward its home pier. The redhead checked the time as they went, wondering if five minutes was cutting it too close. Prideaux cut the power and brought the boat in along the charter docks, and at that moment Shayne heard the siren from the causeway. He leaped onto the dock and sprinted for his Buick.
A minute or so later he was pulling into the plaza at the end of the causeway. He made a full U-turn, ending up pointing away from the bay. He could follow the wail of the siren as the police car raced along the causeway and down onto the Bay Harbor islands. When the black Ford showed up in the line of traffic, coming fast, Shayne eased forward and parked.
He unfolded a road map. He had his face behind it when the Ford pulled past him. Shayne threw the map aside and followed. A Pontiac, leaving the toll station, crowded in ahead of him, but it didn’t matter. Scared by the shots and the siren, the Cuban in the Ford was taking his time, keeping within the speed limit.
He made the turn onto Collins. Shayne kept him in view, without doing anything to attract attention himself. On Dade Boulevard, the Ford dropped out of the traffic and parked near a large drugstore. The Cuban was careful to feed the parking meter after leaving the car. Shayne pulled up in an open space by a fire hydrant, and when the Cuban went into the drugstore, Shayne got out, unlocked his trunk and opened a suitcase he kept there for occasions like this one.
He took off his checked jacket and replaced it with an inconspicuous gray tweed. He had a light straw hat in the back seat, and he put this on. As soon as a legal parking slot opened up ahead of him, he moved into it, after which he strolled past the drugstore, spotted the Cuban leaving a phone booth inside, and went back to the Buick.
Then he waited.
A few minutes passed. The Cuban emerged and went to the corner of Alton Road, where he stepped off the curb and began waving at taxis. An empty cab slowed for him. Timing his moves, Shayne was the second car behind the taxi as it went along Collins and some minutes later turned in at the St. Albans, one of the big new hotels. The Cuban thrust a bill at his driver and walked briskly through the revolving door. Shayne knew the doorman here. He jammed on the emergency brake.
“Take care of it, will you, Frank?” he said, giving the man a dollar. “And I may want to put my hands on it in a hurry.”
“Sure, Mr. Shayne.”
Shayne went into the vast modernistic lobby, under the golden dome. This was the tail-end of the tourist season and the big conventions were underway; the St. Albans was usually rented to capacity at this time of year. Shayne began to circle, looking for the Cuban.
“Mike!” somebody called.
Shayne waved amiably and pushed through the crowd. He spotted the Cuban waiting for an elevator with several short, fleshy men, each of them wearing a large lapel badge shaped like a truck-tire. The Cuban had seen Shayne run out of Mrs. Heminway’s house, and though he had had only that one rapid glimpse, the detective didn’t want to use the same elevator. There was no way it could be avoided, however, and he crowded in with the rest, letting his shoulders slump and keeping his chin in against his chest. There were no women in the car, and he kept his hat on. This elevator served the floors from ten to fifteen, and the Cuban got off at twelve. Three others got off with him, one of them Michael Shayne.
There were more of the big lapel badges in the corridor, and Shayne had had a chance to study one in the elevator. These were delegates to the convention of the I.U.D.T.H., initials which stood for International Union of Draymen, Truckers and Handlers. As Shayne followed the Cuban, his thoughts were busy. Albert Cole, who had been pointing a gun at Rose Heminway just before the ceiling fell in on him, had carried a membership card in this same union, which was noted, among other things, for the ex-convicts among its organizers and officials. Apparently the entire 12th floor had been taken over by the delegates, and not many had brought their wives. From the looks of things, Shayne wasn’t the only one here who had been up all night.
Three delegates came out of a room with drinks in their hands. They were friendly, in fact over-friendly, and they wanted the redhead to join a quartette to sing the old favorites. By the time Shayne untangled himself the Cuban was gone.
There were three doors he might have used. The first was locked. Shayne tried the next. A man wearing pajama bottoms sat up in bed and roared, “Get out of here! I want a l
ittle privacy!” The woman in bed with him giggled. Shayne retreated and tried the next room.
This was the sitting room of a one-bedroom suite. There were four men in shirt sleeves sitting around a low coffee table. They all had drinks. One was thumbing through a card-index. Another, with a sheaf of papers attached to a clip-board, seemed to be checking names.
They all looked at Shayne.
“They don’t knock around here?” one of them said.
“Looking for a friend of mine,” Shayne said, and started for the bedroom.
One of the men got up so fast his chair went over. He had a large bald head, but his features were crowded together near the middle of his face, with not enough space between them. His shoulders and chest bulked very large.
“Uh-uh,” he said.
Shayne smiled agreeably and kept going.
“Who is this mouser?” the man with the clipboard said.
“Hell, it’s Mike Shayne!”
The fourth man hooted. Getting up off the sofa, he gave the redhead a friendly blow on the muscle of his nearest arm. He was built close to the ground, broad, compact, and as solid as a truck, and until Shayne caught the blow on his muscle he hadn’t recognized him. This had been an old habit of Harry Plato, who had just put in a turbulent two-year term as president of the international. He had changed since Shayne saw him last. His hair was snow-white and his face had been deeply seared by time and trouble.
“I forgot you operated in this town, Mike,” he said. “Long time no see, huh? This is Shayne, the private badge,” he explained. “A good guy. Maybe he don’t look it, but plenty of stuff up there under that red fuzz. He handled a case for me once when I had the New Orleans district. Earned a nice piece of scratch for himself, as I recall. What brings you, Mike? You wouldn’t be looking for business, by any chance?
“Have you got some for me?” Shayne said, looking past him into the bedroom.
“I’ll always find a spot for a good man. Who’s this friend you’re looking for?”
“Al Cole,” Shayne said.
Murder in Haste Page 6
