He stopped her with a frown. “I’ll tell them Will Gentry knows where I am, and why. But I don’t actually want to bring Will in on it until I’m sure it won’t endanger Tim. Apparently he hasn’t kept on the right side of the law all the way through this, and I may have to do some covering up for him. That makes you my ace in the hole, baby. Don’t press the buzzer except for me. In two hours—I mean exactly two hours—I want you to call Will and dump it all in his lap. And meanwhile, there are a few angles I want covered. Try to locate a guy named George Yoseloff in Philadelphia. He works for All American Protection, but I don’t know his home address or phone. If he’s busy, ask him to recommend some other agency man who can do a job for us right away. I want all they can get in a hurry on Carla Adams. She claims she went to Swarthmore, and gives Philadelphia as her home town. Blonde, blue eyes, 21 or 22, not tall, nice diction, nice figure.”
“I see you kept your eyes open,” Lucy said coldly.
Shayne swept on, “I want to know if she has any record or is known to the cops, if she actually went to Swarthmore, and any dope on her family and why she left town. It all has to be done by phone, because I’ve got to have it tonight. Have him call you here. Next, get in touch with the city editor of the News—what’s his name?—” He snapped his fingers.
“Dirksen,” she supplied.
“Yeh, Dirksen. I always forget. Tell him to relay anything he gets, as fast as it comes in. And here’s the main thing I want to know. Was Tim looking for anything particular on this so-called vacation? I know they hoped he’d come back with something more than a travel series. But was there any specific assignment? Did they get any messages from him to show how the story was shaping? Keep after it till you’re sure you’ve got it. There could be an angle that wouldn’t mean anything to Dirksen, without our information. I think that’s all.”
He stood up, managing to grin. “Keep supper warm. And make some more of these.”
He scooped up a fistful of the tiny canapé’s, bent over as he passed her chair and kissed her lightly, and was already chewing as he went out.
CHAPTER 13
It was getting dark.
He picked up a cab in front of a bar two blocks from Lucy’s apartment. The driver was an old acquaintance, having carried him many times to the same destination, Shayne’s apartment hotel on the north bank of the Miami River.
The cab dropped him at the side entrance of his hotel. As Shayne paid the fare, the driver remarked, “Home early tonight, Mr. Shayne. Going to get a good night’s sleep for a change?”
“You don’t know it,” Shayne told him bitterly, “but you just made a very funny joke.”
Before he went back to the garage for his car, he glanced into the lobby to see if any messages had been left for him. Pete, the night man at the desk, signalled him frantically.
“I’ve been trying to reach you, Mr. Shayne,” he said as the redheaded detective approached. “I called Miss Hamilton’s, but nobody answered.”
“What’s the crisis?” Shayne growled.
“I thought you’d want to know,” Pete said defensively, “that somebody’s been in your suite.”
“And not for the first time,” Shayne said angrily. “By God, with two men on duty, you’d think—”
“It wasn’t our fault, Mr. Shayne,” Pete protested. “If you’d only take a suite on a higher floor we could give you more protection. But you insist on staying where you are, and when people come in the side entrance I don’t see how I can be expected to spot them from here.”
“I know that,” Shayne said gruffly, “and I didn’t mean to jump on you, Pete. I know you and Jack do your best. But I need this kind of set-up. Sometimes I have to get a client in or out without publicity.”
The night clerk grinned knowingly. “I know the kind of clients you mean.” He made a flowing motion with both hands, shaping a feminine figure in the air. “And you attract them, believe me. That’s the thing about being a private detective, as I was saying to Jack not ten minutes ago. Okay, you run into a tough group of people, and the odds are, not wishing you bad luck or anything, that sooner or later you’ll stop some lead. But meanwhile, you’re living it up.”
Shayne suppressed a surge of anger. People had funny ideas of the way he made his living.
“Okay, Pete,” he said good humoredly, “when they knock me off you can take over my office and goodwill.”
“Not me, Mr. Shayne! I’m not the type. Nobody knows it better than me.”
Shayne’s grin faded. “Now what about these visitors of mine?”
“Here’s the way we figure it,” Pete began eagerly. “I and Jack. A guy came in to ask about vacancies. He wanted a full list of specifications, and did it have a view of the bay, and so on. He kept me talking for ten minutes, which was okay because it was a slack time on the switchboard, and I try to be polite with these characters if it kills me. He was one of those very, very finicky people. He wouldn’t go up and actually take a look at the location—I had to describe it for him. In the end he said he’d have to consult his wife, and took off. I said to myself, I’ve seen the last of him, and good riddance. Then Jack brought the elevator down, dashed out to the street, and looked both ways. It seems he dropped a party off on second, and he saw somebody come out of your door and beat it down the side stairs. We figured the first guy went through that song and dance to distract me.”
Shayne pushed his hat back from his forehead. “Describe him for me, Pete.”
“I made a notation, in case it got dim in my mind,” the night clerk said, bringing out a slip of paper. “Black hair, slicked down. Maybe five foot seven. Black eyes. Mole on the right cheek. Some kind of South American, I made him. He spoke English better than I do, only with a little sort of an accent.”
“That’s nice work, Pete,” Shayne said, bringing a glow to the night clerk’s face. “Jack didn’t get much of a look at the other guy?”
Pete shook his head regretfully. “He says he looked sort of husky through the shoulders. I know that isn’t much help.”
“Thanks. I’ll take a look around upstairs and see what’s missing.”
Shayne went back to the stairs and took them two at a time. He wasn’t surprised to discover, after unlocking his door, that these rooms, too, had been searched swiftly and thoroughly, but without any unnecessary destruction. The detective looked around, his hat on the back of his head, whistling soundlessly. His eyes were gray and smoky, his cheeks deeply trenched. He knew only one thing. Whatever they had been looking for, they hadn’t found it here.
Locking the door behind him, he went back down. His gaunt face expressionless, he waved to Pete from the bottom of the stairs. He went behind the hotel and got out his sedan, crossed the river by the drawbridge, and drove south on Miami Avenue. He was cursing softly, in a monotonous mutter. He was in no position to complain—they had been orderly and considerate, and being searched occasionally was one of the professional hazards involved in being a private detective. But he didn’t like the idea that the same hands had pawed through Lucy’s bureau drawers, feeling obscenely among her clothes. As soon as this was over, he promised himself, as soon as he located Tim Rourke and found out a litle more about the activities of Miss Carla Adams, he would have to do some hard and straight thinking about Lucy. And he would have to follow through on it, wherever it led. He knew that he had made that same vow at other times, and nothing had come of it. But the sight of Lucy trussed up like an animal, sobbing helplessly on her bedroom floor, had brought it home to him as nothing ever had before.
As these thoughts passed through his mind, he had speeded up imperceptibly. Now he was going dangerously fast for the state of traffic on the avenue. He was too close to the car ahead. He forced himself to ease up and fall further behind. An accident would do nobody any good.
Miami Avenue swung to the southwest, following the coast line, and after a dozen blocks, Shayne turned right where Miami crossed 37th SW. He was looking for house numbers.
He recognized the house from Carla’s description even before he spotted the number. It needed a coat of paint, and a few shutters hung askew. The grounds had been badly neglected.
The detective drove past and parked on the next cross street, finding an open space in front of a cab whose driver was reading the Hialeah results in the News. Shayne walked back, studying the big frame structure as he approached. It had an ominous look.
Nearly all the windows were lighted, upstairs and down. The house was capacious enough to hold any number of fugitives from the undeclared war to the south, men who lived by violence and were fanatically devoted to their leader and their cause. He had a sinking feeling. If Tim was in there, it would take more than one man to get him out. Shayne had an hour and forty-five minutes before Lucy sent in the cops. But if he couldn’t blast Tim out by himself, he might be able to protect him when the guns began going off.
He passed through the iron gates and started up the walk, fully aware of the odds he was bucking. Ignorance was his worst handicap. Were these people criminals or patriots? If they were criminals, what was their crime?
His jaw set hard, he leaned on the doorbell. He heard no answering sound from within the house, so he banged on the door. Then he stepped back, and instinctively he rolled his shoulders, loosening his muscles like a fighter before the bell.
The door opened and a dark young man was looking out at him. Shayne checked him against the night clerk’s description. His hair was black, plastered down. He stood about five feet seven. There was a mole on his cheek. This was the one.
“Professor Quesada,” Shayne said.
“Yes? On what business, please?”
“Police business,” Shayne snapped.
The youth was puzzled. “But you are not a policeman. In that case, there would be two of you.”
“Not always,” Shayne said. “I want to keep this confidential.”
He took out the leather case containing his private detective’s license, and flashed it quickly. Beyond the youth, he saw a wide hall running the length of the house, ending at a carpeted flight of stairs. A light burned dimly over a mirror. It was a quiet neighborhood, a quiet house.
“Unluckily,” the youth said, with no effort to make it sound convincing, “Professor Quesada is out of the city at the present moment. He is expected back in four days’ time.”
“I’m surprised to hear that,” Shayne said evenly. “I saw him out at the International Airport about two hours ago. He wasn’t going anywhere then.”
The youth was standing in a dancer’s pose, lightly balanced on the balls of his feet. He was half a head shorter than Shayne, who outweighed him by fifty pounds. But something, perhaps his quietness, told the redhead that he was dangerous.
“I fear you were mistaken,” he said. “It could not have been Professor Quesada. What are your reasons for wishing to see him? Perhaps there is someone else who could help you.”
“I doubt that,” Shayne said, “but I don’t mind telling you that I’m trying to get some information about a kidnapping, two cases of breaking and entering, one case of personal assault with malicious intent, not to mention assorted smuggling and gun-running. I may have shown my license a little too fast. I’m Michael Shayne. Do you know the name?”
The young man’s eyes widened. “Very well. I follow your exploits with the closest attention. So typical of your countrymen, I think. Aggressive, but not without a certain crude reasoning power. I am unhappy to say, however, that not even for Michael Shayne can I produce Professor Quesada out of thin air.”
Shayne made a grimace of disappointment. “Then I’ll have to take it to the cops. I hate to do that, because of the money involved. I’m sorry to miss the professor. I had a personal message for him from a girl named Carla Adams.”
He took a step backward toward the edge of the porch, half-turning. He dropped his left shoulder and shifted his balance, thinking that his best bet would be to hit the Latin American with a charging block, catching him just below the breastbone.
But the attitude of the young man had changed slightly.
“Carla Adams?” he said. “Then I think perhaps I can materialize Professor Quesada for you, after all, Mr. Shayne. Please step in, and I hope you will forgive my small deception. The Professor is here, as a matter of fact, but he is most busy. It is my job to protect him from cranks and curiosity-seekers.”
“I accept your apology,” Shayne told him. “But I’m busy too, so hurry it up, will you?”
The young man stepped out of the doorway, and again Shayne had an impression of great strength in the graceful body.
“Perhaps you will wait in here,” he said. “I think the Professor will see you in a moment.”
He showed Shayne into a library. Bookshelves lined the walls, from floor to ceiling, and a sliding ladder was necessary to reach the upper shelves. Shayne silently counted to ten after the door closed, then went back to the hall.
A man in a blue suit had been posted inside the front door, but his orders were apparently limited to seeing to it that Shayne didn’t leave the house. He didn’t interfere as the rangy detective looked into first one room, then another. At last Shayne was rewarded by the smell of cigar smoke and the sound of English being spoken. He stepped into a bedroom and closed the door.
The bed was unmade. One man had a game of solitaire laid out on a drop-leaf desk, and he was leaning intently over the cards. The second man had one leg hooked over the arm of an old-fashioned wing chair. He was leafing idly through a magazine. He looked around at the sound of the closing door, and Shayne stopped breathing for a moment. Here he was. Broken-Nose, the man he was looking for.
The other man, at the desk, looked vaguely familiar to Shayne. He wore a small mustache. A cigar was clamped at an angle in his mouth. He was fifty-odd, his face seamed and pouchy.
“Mike Shayne,” he said in a gravelly voice. “Nobody’s collected the bounty on you yet?”
“A few people have tried,” Shayne said. “Do I know you?”
“Sure you know me. Think back.”
Shayne’s eyes glinted. “Harry Mann. I thought you were in Atlanta.”
“That was only a five to ten, Shayne. I’ve always been the clean-nosed type, and I had good behavior. So here I am again. And get that anxious look off your kisser, detective. They rehabilitated me up there.”
“Yeh,” Shayne said sarcastically. “But I never thought I’d see you back in Miami.”
“This is just a visit, just a visit.” He played a red Jack on a black Queen. “Look at my head carefully. See any holes?”
Nobody had ever observed holes in Harry Mann’s head. At one time he had run the gambling in a big night-spot on the Beach, and he had never had any trouble until his tax returns were put under the microscope, which could happen to anybody. In the ensuing trial, Mann’s reputation for cleverness had worked against him. The jury had assumed that he had actually bribed the tax collector, the crime he was charged with.
Shayne sauntered over and looked down at the cards. “How about the red nine?”
“I’m holding that back for insurance,” Mann said. “And let’s not put our noses in other people’s business, shall we?”
“Let me ask one personal question,” the detective said. “I never heard you were interested in Latin American politics. What are you doing here?”
Mann didn’t look up. “At my age it’s healthy to develop new interests, or so they tell me. This professor sends me. With a few breaks he could be the president of his goddam country. And you know what they say about a new broom. He’d have to have a new cabinet, new generals, new management in the casinos—”
“And I understand they don’t have any income tax down there,” Shayne said.
“No income tax. No collectors with their hands out. It’s a little country, Shayne, but they get a lot of tourist business. I’ve seen the figures on their joints. Plenty of action.”
“So you’re backing the professor?”
&nb
sp; “In my small way, Shayne. In my small way. Move a little, will you? You’re in the light.”
Shayne stepped to one side. There was nothing unlikely about Mann’s explanation, but it was a little too quick and pat. And there was no logical reason why he should let Shayne into his secrets.
Broken-Nose, after his first flicker of interest, had gone back to his magazine. Shayne moved between him and the reading lamp. He looked up in annoyance.
“And meat-head here?” Shayne said softly.
“You’re making with too many questions, Shayne,” Mann said, with his first sharpness. “Sammy’s my associate, and if you want a piece of advice, you’ll quit when you’re ahead.”
The redhead continued to look down at the lounging hoodlum. “In the days when you wore a tux, Harry, how many of your customers quit when they were ahead? I’ve been hearing about Sammy all evening. I understand he’s pretty tough.”
Reaching down, he turned over Sammy’s left hand. He saw the even pattern of teeth-marks where Lucy had bitten his wrist.
Shayne stepped back quickly, not releasing Sammy’s hand, and jerked him erect. He planted a solid right in the hoodlum’s jaw. His balance wasn’t right for a really paralyzing blow, but Sammy went unconscious for an instant, hanging across the short arm of the chair long enough for Shayne to get in a left. It landed high, cutting Sammy’s forehead and hurting Shayne’s hand.
“Pretty tough,” Shayne repeated through set teeth. “Especially with girls and cripples.”
He was aware of movement behind him. As Sammy slid to the floor, Shayne whirled. Mann had produced a .38, holding it by the barrel. He was already committed to his swing. The butt passed beside Shayne’s head, moving in a short murderous arc, and glanced off his shoulder. Shayne took the older man by the waist in both hands and slammed him against the wall with a crash that shook the solidly built house.
Mann’s face was gray.
“Shayne, for Christ’s sake—”
“Yeh?” Shayne said happily.
He slammed the gambler against the wall again. It was one of the best ways he knew of attracting attention, and he wanted to attract attention in large amounts. The door opened. Two men looked in. Still holding Mann’s wrist in a punishing grip, Shayne rushed him at the doorway, knocking the newcomers into the hall.
Fit to Kill Page 11
