He passed three cars in a bunch, cut back and touched his brakes as the lights of the mainland approached. At the end of the causeway he pulled over to let the cars behind him pass. He knew the odds were against him. He might have taken too long to get started. They might, after all, have had a reason for going into Miami Beach. And would he know the car when he saw it? The town was full of gray sedans.
At that moment it went by, one of the clump of three he had passed in his last reckless rush. There were only two men in it, one at the wheel and one in the back seat.
The man in back glanced at him as they passed. The eye Shayne had knuckled was red and swollen. The man was smiling happily, but the smile froze as he recognized Shayne.
Shayne blinked his directional signal and fell back into line, the second car behind the Dodge. His lips were drawn back in a savage grin. This was his town. His Buick had just come out of the garage with new valves and points, and everything tinkered up into racing condition. Unless the Dodge had a specially souped-up motor, he knew he had them.
They tried to hang him up on a red light at Biscayne Boulevard, but he bulled through, his horn going. When they took the curving ramp up to the North-South Express way, the Dodge leaned more than it should; probably there was something wrong with the front suspension. It came off the ramp too fast and barely recovered.
The big man shattered the rear window with a gun butt. Shayne dropped back, letting another car slip in ahead of him. He was watching for the buggy-whip aerial and markings of a police car. There were usually two or three patrolling this stretch. When he saw one across the divider, traveling north, he swung into the left-hand lane, honking his horn and snapping his headlights. They saw him, but they would have to go on a few miles, to the 79th Street connection, before they could turn. The Dodge was cutting in and out, doing eighty. Shayne stayed one or two cars back. The big man waited, on his knees behind the broken window, hoping for a shot.
When the lanes began to separate for the great 39th Street cloverleaf, one stream heading for the Julia Tuttle Causeway to Miami Beach, the other to the Airport Expressway, Shayne was not surprised to see the Dodge lean to the right, toward the airport. Shayne let it pull ahead, knowing he could come up with it again on the straightaway. He lost it for a moment. When he saw it again it had drifted to the left. The lean became more and more pronounced as the cloverleaf sharpened. The brake lights came on, too late, and the brakes grabbed unevenly. One wheel hit the low curb.
The Dodge stopped fighting the curve and plunged over a low embankment to another level, into a stream of traffic going the opposite way. Brakes and tires shrieked. Then came the inevitable rending crash.
Shayne was well past. He left his Buick on the approach to the 12th Avenue ramp, lights blinking, and worked his way back on foot along the divider, to see if there were any survivors. A siren screamed above on the Expressway. A crowd was beginning to gather when Shayne reached the wreck. By some miracle, it was only a one-car accident. The Dodge had rammed a concrete pillar, folding shut on the two men trapped inside. At some point the big man in the back seat had been jolted part way out the broken window, and the impact with the pillar had dragged him back in. He was beyond help. The concrete was slick with blood.
Shayne looked in at the driver. He was a boy in his early twenties, with a blotched complexion. He was skewered on the broken steering post.
Shayne went for his Buick. By the time he circled back to the scene the cops had arrived, including one he knew, a red-faced veteran named Squire. The redhead nodded to him.
“Anybody live through it?”
“God, no,” Squire said. “The one in front we’re going to have to take out with a can opener.”
“I suppose it’s a stolen car?” Shayne said casually.
Squire’s eyebrows rose. “Yeah. My partner spotted it right away. He’s a memory nut, thinks if he recovers enough stolen cars they’ll make him detective. Little does he know.” He fished out a cigarette. “You have anything to do with this, Mike?”
“I walked in on something out on the bay. I don’t know what, except that they didn’t want to be bothered. They got away from me there but I picked them up again on the causeway. Believe it or not, that’s all I know.”
“I didn’t say I didn’t believe you,” Squire told him. “As soon as we get an identification, if we do, we’d better talk about it some more.”
“Sure,” Shayne said. “I’ll call in.”
Squire started to say something, then nodded. “Make it tonight, though, will you? Don’t let it go till morning.”
3.
ON NORMANDY ISLE, BEACH POLICE were stopping traffic on Bay Drive and sending it around the golf course. Shayne wanted to find out what had been done with the unconscious Negro, but it would have to wait. Because of the unreasoning enmity of his old antagonist, Chief of Detectives Peter Painter, he had as few dealings as possible with the cops on this side of the bay.
He followed the directions of the red flashlights without objecting. A few minutes later he pulled into Harry Bass’ gravel driveway on the bay side of the island.
The house was lighted up. As he went up the front steps he heard a typewriter clacking busily inside. A chime sounded when he rang the bell. The typewriter stopped. In a moment a girl came to the door.
Harry had been married twice, and his second divorce had just become final. He had always had good taste in girls, and on the evidence of this one it seemed to be getting even better. She was blonde, probably in her late twenties, though Shayne was no longer much of a judge of women’s ages. She was wearing horn-rimmed glasses. A pencil with a large eraser was stuck in her hair and a light cashmere sweater was thrown carelessly over her shoulders. All Harry’s women had been sexy-looking. She was no exception, but she also looked interested and intelligent. That was new.
“You’re Michael Shayne,” she said, opening the screen door. “I’m Mr. Bass’s secretary, Theo Moore.” She looked at a small wristwatch. “He’ll be back in a minute. I’m supposed to find you a drink and make myself agreeable.”
She smiled at him when he stayed where he was. “Come in, Mr. Shayne. I won’t bite.”
“Does Harry still drive that Ferrari?” Shayne asked.,
She laughed. “No, these days he’s much more sober and sedate and respectable. They sold him a Cadillac, no less, with backseat television and a refrigerator. I was afraid it might change his personality, but he still seems to be the same man.”
Shayne said grimly, “Was anybody with him?”
She reacted immediately to his tone. “Yes, a man named Billy Wallace. Is anything wrong?”
“If Billy Wallace is colored,” Shayne said, “wearing a white cap and a gun, yeah, something’s wrong. Somebody slugged Billy and set the Cadillac on fire.”
She took a quick breath. “On fire! I heard the siren but it never occurred to me—Mr. Shayne, wasn’t Harry there?”
“No. It looks as though he’s been jumped. Do you know where he was going?”
She shook her head too quickly. “I really don’t.”
“I don’t want to waste time going up blind alleys,” Shayne said roughly. “You must have some idea.”
She hesitated. “I think he was taking money to somebody. I try not to know about that part of his business, but I can’t put stoppers in my ears. Apparently a football team won this afternoon when it was supposed to lose—or lost when it was supposed to win, I don’t know which. That’s why he wanted to talk to you. The phone kept ringing for two hours straight. I was in the office, typing up some things that have to be signed before Monday, but I did hear him say once, “How much do you need?’ He went up stairs and brought down a suitcase. Billy put it in the car. Mr. Shayne, what shall we do? The police—”
“Not yet. I want to check something first.”
When he started down the steps she came with him.
“Stay here in case the phone rings,” he told her.
She shook her head and s
aid stubbornly, “No, I want to know what happened.”
She got in beside him. They were halfway down the driveway when a car turned in from the road.
“There he is!” Theo cried with relief.
Shayne backed up to the doorway, letting the other car into the turnaround from the opposite direction. It was a black Thunderbird. The man who got out wasn’t Harry Bass.
“Hey, baby,” he said to Theo as she stepped out of Shayne’s car. “Where’s the boss, inside?”
Shayne recognized him in the light from the porch. His name was Doc Waters. He had recently returned to Miami after several years in the Caribbean and had bought into the lucrative Collins Avenue bookmaking, a district that included the biggest hotels. He was a short man, overweight, with a bright resort wardrobe. Too much exposure to the sun had turned his face yellow. He had sharp, agile eyes and a narrow hairline mustache.
“Mr. Waters, did Harry talk to you?” the girl asked in a worried tone.
“Sure he talked to me. That’s the whole point.” He peered through the Buick’s windshield, his eyes narrowing. “Mike Shayne?” He put out his hand, which Shayne shook through the open window. “Glad to see you, man. It’s been years. And what goes on around here, please? Those cops on the road?”
“Harry had an accident,” Shayne said briefly. “Was he on his way to see you?”
Waters considered briefly, flicking his little mustache with his thumbnail. “An accident. I don’t like that. I knew when I woke up this morning it was going to be one of those days. Yeah, he was on his way to see me. I gave him an hour and then thought what the hell. He’s been getting very chintzy lately, since he moved up here—I’m supposed to stay strictly away, we conduct our business in automobiles. Common people like me would lower the real-estate values, right? Listen, honey,” he said to the girl in a more guarded tone, glancing in at Shayne. “How did Harry come out of this accident, OK or not?”
“I don’t know!” she said helplessly. “I don’t know anything about it yet, except that it happened.”
“You’re his secretary. You’ve got a right to talk to the cops and ask them. He was bringing me a package, understand. It could be wrapped up in paper, or in some kind of little suitcase. Watch for it. If you see it, kind of latch onto it, know what I mean? It’s Harry’s property, but if the cops get hold of it, ten to one Harry won’t see it again.”
“I don’t think I could do that,” she said.
“Then get a receipt for it,” he insisted. “In front of witnesses. Shayne, you advise her.”
Shayne grinned at him. He pressed the Drive button and they began to move. The girl called back, “The liquor’s on the terrace.”
Shayne remarked, “Doc hasn’t changed much since I saw him last.”
“I knew there was money in that suitcase. Harry doesn’t use names on the phone, but he has a special tone of voice when he’s talking to people like that.”
Shayne turned left at the foot of the driveway. She looked at him in surprise.
“The sirens were on the other side of the island.”
“They’re stopping cars,” Shayne told her. “I’m going in across the golf course.”
There was a Saturday night dance at the Normandy Shores clubhouse. The building was ablaze with light and activity, and surrounded by parked cars. A boy with a flashlight waved them into the parking lot. Shayne cut all the way through, stopping when his headlights picked up a line of battery-powered golf carts in front of the professional’s shop.
“I can’t walk in these heels,” Theo said doubtfully.
“Nobody walks in Miami,” Shayne said.
He took a three-cell flashlight out of his glove compartment and left his headlights on so he could see to start one of the little carts and back it out of line. The girl perched beside him. He saw red flashes in the sky from the revolving beacon on one of the pieces of fire apparatus, and he set his course by that.
“Do you think they—killed him?” the girl asked quietly.
“Maybe,” Shayne replied, steering around a tree. “People sometimes get themselves killed for a couple of bucks, and Harry must have been carrying a lot more than that. But he’s not that easy to kill.”
They jolted across a rough furrow. She grabbed the rail.
“If there was just Billy and the Cadillac, maybe they kidnapped him.”
“No, I followed their car and Harry wasn’t in it. They took a curve too fast. When the cops pry the car open they may find the money, but I doubt it. There’s a third man I haven’t accounted for, and he probably has it.”
“Mr. Shayne,” she said brokenly, “if anything really bad has happened—I’ve tried to tell myself gambling money was no different from other kinds. People can bet at the race tracks, it’s encouraged, for heaven’s sake! If the police really wanted to stop illegal betting they could do it in a minute, couldn’t they?”
“Sure. Don’t hold your breath till it happens.”
She turned toward him, her face pale in the reflected light from Shayne’s flashlight. “It sounded like a dream job when I heard about it. Something different all the time, quite a lot of responsibility. Good pay. It didn’t take me long to talk myself into it. I went into it with my eyes open. He’s a tremendous man. Oh, God, I hope he’s not—”
Cutting across the rough between two fairways, Shayne swerved to avoid a menacing hollow and Theo was thrown against him. She grabbed him to keep from falling. Shayne held her with one arm while he tried to keep the cart under control with the other. Her weight shifted as they hit another bump. His hand closed on her breast. It was the wrong way to be holding her on short acquaintance, but he couldn’t move his hand without letting her fall. The flash light bounded away. Shayne stamped at the floorboard, trying to find the brake, but it wasn’t in the logical place. She clung to him and he felt her breath on his cheek.
As soon as they were back on level ground she freed herself and returned to her seat. “Sorry,” she said in a small voice. “That was my fault.”
Shayne found the flashlight. It was still alive. “This seems to be my night for reckless driving,” he said. “What football game did Harry want to talk to me about?”
“Mr. Shayne, I just don’t know. He was watching it on television, and he kept calling me in to see what I thought. It looked legitimate to me, not that I know all that much about football. And there was a horse, too, at Tropical Park. I think the two things together made him think that neither one was entirely a matter of luck.”
Cutting his speed, he threaded his way carefully between sandtraps guarding the approach to a high green. Now they were approaching the stone wall near the burned-out Cadillac. Only one piece of fire apparatus remained, a small chemical pumper. The wind was blowing off the bay. The smell of scorched metal was strong and unpleasant.
Shayne cut the switch. As the motor died he heard a low moaning in the darkness between the cart and the wall.
Theo cried, “Harry?” and jumped down. Her heel went into the soft turf of the green. She fell. Swinging the flash light without getting down from the cart, Shayne began to rake the beam back and forth across the intervening space.
Something moved. The beam jumped toward the movement and picked up the figure of a man, with wildly waving arms.
Theo stumbled again and Shayne passed her. He flicked the flashlight across the face of the man staggering toward them. It was dirty and bloodstained, with staring eyes, but it was unquestionably Harry Bass. Shayne closed with him quickly. Harry swore and batted the flashlight away with a flailing blow. He aimed another swing at Shayne’s head, missed and went sprawling.
“Take it easy, Harry,” the redhead said in a conversational tone. “Mike Shayne.”
Harry came to one knee, panting. Recovering the flash light, Shayne pointed it at his own face. Then he turned it on Theo.
“You’re among friends.”
Harry said heavily, “Where the hell are we?”
“On the Normandy Shores golf
course. I’d say about the eighth green. Did you have fire insurance on your Cadillac?”
Theo said quietly, “We have to get him to a doctor.”
“Hell with that,” Harry rumbled. “I need a drink. Been trying to climb that damn wall. Bastards over there wouldn’t listen to me.”
He came to his feet. Theo caught him, both arms around his chest, as he began to topple.
“I’m OK,” he said.
“Oh, yes, you’re fine.”
“How do you want to do it, Harry?” Shayne asked. “You can sit down and we’ll cover you up, and I’ll go back and call an ambulance. But if you don’t want to talk to the cops or sign a complaint right away, we’ll give you a nice bumpy ride out in a golf cart.”
“Mr. Shayne, be serious,” Theo said. “Look at him.”
Harry pulled away. “Not the first time in my life—”
Shayne caught him as he pitched forward. “All right, we’ll take the golf cart. You’ve put on some weight.”
“Hell I have,” Harry mumbled. “Maybe a couple of pounds.”
Shayne turned him so he could look at the flashlight. “How many lights do you see?”
Harry stared at the flashlight, then waved in disgust. “How can I count them when they keep moving around?”
Shayne laughed. “All you need is a couple of weeks in bed and you’ll be out here swinging a golf club.”
He supported the gambler to the cart and helped him up. Harry slumped forward, his head on his folded arms. Theo stood on the ledge behind him, to hold him in.
“How much did you lose, Harry?” Shayne asked before starting the motor.
For a moment he didn’t think Harry had heard him.
“Two hundred G’s,” Harry said softly.
4.
SHAYNE STOPPED HIS BUICK behind Doc Waters’ Thunderbird. Waters had been watching for them. He came down the porch steps, a drink in his hand.
Murder Spins the Wheel Page 2
