“Where will you be, Michael? How can I get in touch with you?”
“I don’t know.” He got up and began pacing the floor, his head bent forward and his left hand tugging at his ear lobe. “I’m going home now and wait for something to break.”
Lucy Hamilton watched him for a moment, got up, and went to him and stopped his impatient pacing by putting her hands on his shoulders. “Try to get some sleep,” she begged. “And don’t worry about Tim. He’s been involved with women before, but he has never murdered a husband. Or has he?” she added lightly.
Shayne’s arms clasped her waist, and his wide shoulders drooped. “If he has,” he said bitterly, “he covered his tracks better than he did this time.” With a sudden, fierce move he held her to him, resting his gaunt cheek against her hair. “Let’s hope Will Gentry doesn’t decide to question Betty Jackson himself and find you guarding her in a nurse’s uniform.”
He let her go abruptly and stalked across the room to get his hat. The telephone rang before he reached the door.
“It’s probably for you, Michael,” she said. “You’d better wait.” She answered the ring, listened for an instant, then covered the mouthpiece with her palm to ask, “Shall I say you’re not here? It’s some man.” Shayne recrossed the room speedily, took the instrument, and said, “Shayne speaking.”
“I called your hotel, Mr. Shayne,” a man said, “and was given this number as one where I might possibly reach you.” The voice was smooth, cultivated, pausing inquiringly on the last words.
“All right. You caught me.”
“Am I correct in assuming that you have the documents from Bert Jackson in your possession, and that the police have not been told about them?”
“The police don’t know anything about them,” said Shayne flatly. “They weren’t in my office or apartment, so you can assume whatever you wish.”
“Then I judge they are still for sale,” said the voice confidently.
“Are you making an offer?” Shayne countered.
“Is the price still twenty-five thousand?”
“The value has not depreciated. In fact—”
“No. Of course not,” the voice broke in hastily. “If you will bring all of Jackson’s material to the Beach at once, the money will be waiting for you.”
“Where on the Beach?”
“Do you know whom you’re speaking to, Mr. Shayne?”
“Frankly, no. I felt that the sales value would be higher if I didn’t break the seals and dig into something that’s actually no concern of mine.”
“Good. I’ve always heard you were a square dealer, Shayne,” the voice said with weighty relief, then went on vigorously. “Drive across the County Causeway to Collins Avenue. Then turn north. Take it slow as you approach the old Firestone estate. If you’re alone and not followed, I’ll contact you thereabouts, and we can close this up fast.”
“I’ll start rolling right away,” Shayne said. He dropped the receiver on the hook and turned to Lucy Hamilton, took one look at her pale face and round, frightened eyes, looked past her, and said, “I guess this is it. They’re ready to pay cash since they didn’t find the stuff stashed in my office or apartment.”
“Who is it, Michael?” Lucy gasped.
“I still don’t know. This is my one chance to find out.”
“It’s a trap, Michael,” she cried, her voice sharp with fear. “Why should anyone pay you money and trust you to keep quiet? Wouldn’t it be more sensible and safer for them to just—k-kill you, too?”
Shayne pretended not to notice her small clenched fists and the sudden pallor of her face. He grinned reassuringly and said, “Of course it’s a trap. But you know how I am about traps, angel, unless—”
“You won’t go, Michael—not until you call Will Gentry and set a trap of your own.”
“Will and I decided to go in different directions this trip. I’ll bait the trap myself,” he said, his voice cold and remote. “How in hell else can I hope to win?”
“You’re a crazy, quixotic fool, Michael,” she cried, throwing her arms around his neck and clinging to him, tears flooding her eyes and bitterness in her tone. “You just love walking into danger and you don’t care what happens.”
“That’s not true, Lucy. It’s the only way I know how to handle a thing like this. If I sit back on my dead butt and demand a police escort to protect me—”
“But you don’t even have an excuse,” Lucy Hamilton persisted tearfully. “You don’t have a client. You don’t even have a prospect of a fee.”
Shayne gathered her in his arms and, with his lips bent close to her ear, said, “Don’t forget—I have a friend.”
Lucy relaxed and stood very still for a brief moment. Then she drew away from him and said, “Tim,” looking up into his gaunt face and bleak eyes.
“Do you still have that thirty-two automatic I gave you?”
She smiled. “It’s in my top bureau drawer, Michael.” She held the smile until she turned her back. Her mouth was tight and her eyes wide with fright when she glanced in the mirror before opening the drawer and taking the pistol out. Deliberately she composed her features, turned with her shoulders set and her head high, and went back to the living-room.
“Here it is, just the way it was when you gave it to me.”
Shayne said, “Thanks,” and pressed the catch that released the clip, slid it out far enough to make certain it was fully loaded, then replaced the clip and drew the slide back to throw a cartridge into the firing-chamber. He pushed the safety on and dropped the weapon into his coat pocket.
Turning toward the door he said gruffly, “Don’t worry about me. You’ve got a job of your own to do. Call me as soon as you can get anything sensible out of Betty Jackson.”
Lucy watched him stride to the door, open it, go out, and close it without looking back. Then she went into the bedroom and got dressed, feeling certain that she would be the first customer in Burdine’s department specializing in nurses’ uniforms.
Chapter Eleven
MR. SHAYNE BITES
SHAYNE FELT PHYSICALLY REFRESHED from the cognac-laced coffee, satisfied with the arrangement for Lucy to act as nurse to Betty Jackson, alert after the telephone call from Mr. Big, the mystery man, but he couldn’t yet see how anything had been gained by Bert Jackson’s murder.
He pulled the brim of his Panama low to shut out the sun’s glare when he got in his car, gunned the motor, and drove away, a worried frown between his ragged brows.
The telephone call was the break he had anticipated, his sole justification for keeping important facts from the police. So long as he could keep up the bluff that the incriminating documents were actually in his possession he felt fairly safe. Mr. Big would be a fool to have him knocked off until the papers were actually produced.
But why kill Bert Jackson?
Had the reporter played his cards badly? Or had someone else blundered in handling the assignment? Someone whose finger was a little too fast on the trigger of a .22? The small caliber of the murder weapon in itself was a strong indication that the bullet had come from some source other than the man Bert was blackmailing.
The sort of man and the sort of big-time graft that Jackson had implied was sure to include professional gunmen, and such hoodlums didn’t bother with .22’s. The brutal bludgeoning of the elevator operator was more in their line.
Inevitably the thing he was trying to ignore came back to torment him. There was no escaping the fact that Timothy Rourke did own a .22 target pistol and that his claim of its being stolen and the theft unreported to the police was too thin for serious consideration.
Shayne jerked himself angrily erect and thrust that line of thought from his mind as he hit the traffic circle at 20th Street, deserted at this early hour, and rounded it to speed past silent warehouses and docks eastward onto the causeway. He held to the middle of the three right-hand lanes, pressing hard on the accelerator and watching the needle climb to 75. The high speed matched his moo
d, and he had a sudden feeling of suffocation, a lack of air.
He leaned across to crank the right-hand ventilator open and let the salt-tanged air blow in. When he straightened he frowned heavily at the sight of a car in the rearview mirror coming up behind him fast. A glance at his speedometer showed eighty, and the heavy old sedan wasn’t capable of more than that.
Shayne reacted instinctively and from years of experience, realizing that it might be coincidence. Although he was far from the appointed meeting-place, he pushed the accelerator down and grimly watched the car come on. The showdown might be coming sooner than he expected. There was no real reason why it should wait until he approached the Firestone estate on Miami Beach. It could just as well take place here on the lonely causeway if a car had been stationed at the causeway entrance, waiting for him to pass.
When he realized that his top speed could accomplish nothing, Shayne eased his big foot from the accelerator and slowed.
For a few moments the car behind him continued to close the gap between them with unabated speed, and he began to think his hunch was wrong, but this thought died swiftly as the driver of the car also slowed.
Shayne slumped behind the wheel and assumed a careless, lounging position, but his big hands gripped it, and his gray eyes were narrow and alert. His speed diminished to forty, and the following car which could now be distinguished as a big black Cadillac, slowed to the same speed, but it had swung out and was traveling in the outer lane as though to pass him.
Swiftly calculating the strategy his pursuers would likely take, he glanced ahead. The sweeping curves did not allow a clear view for any considerable distance, and the two men in the front seat of the Cadillac seemed content to maintain their position for the time being.
In another half mile the causeway straightened out on a long tangent leading directly onto the peninsula. If it was clear of traffic, Shayne felt certain that the interception would come there. He visualized the guard fence along the dirt shoulder near the edge of the twenty-foot fill. It was strong enough to withstand the sidelong impact of a skidding car and prevent it from going over the side into the bay, but was it strong enough to withstand the crushing power of a heavy car aimed directly at it at a speed of forty miles?
Watching the action of the big black car behind him, Shayne knew with grim certainty that he was going to get an answer when he straightened out at the end of the last curve and saw the long straightaway completely deserted.
He was ready when the pursuing car came up on his left with a sudden surge of power. Hunched over the wheel, Shayne stared straight ahead, apparently oblivious of the other car until a shouted warning caused him to turn his head.
The two cars were moving abreast with only a few feet between them. Shayne looked directly into the face of a hooked-nose man sitting beside the driver, motioning Shayne into the curb with his left hand and cuddling the butt of a Tommy gun with his right. The ugly muzzle protruded over the top of the lowered window and pointed directly at the head of the detective.
Shayne nodded, swung his eyes sharply back to the road as the Cadillac pressed in on his left fender. He sucked in a deep breath, wrenched his steering-wheel sharply to the right, and stepped hard on the accelerator. His sedan lunged toward the guard fence midway between two posts as he grabbed the door latch, opened it, and let the impact of the crash send his body out in a looping dive.
He catapulted through the air, clear of the plunging car, forcing his body muscles to go limp as the soft beach sand rushed up to meet him. He landed on the back of his shoulders with an impetus that knocked him breathless.
At the same moment there was a terrific crash. He dragged himself to his knees, panting for breath, and saw his car settle upside down in five feet of water with the four wheels showing above the surface.
Stunned and groggy, he reacted instinctively to carry out the plan he hoped would give him the advantage over the two gunmen. He dragged himself erect and plodded through the deep sand to the foot of the perpendicular piling supporting the roadway embankment against the bay waters at high tide.
Crouching, he waited, the automatic in his hand.
Shayne’s sudden maneuver had sent the Cadillac a hundred or more feet beyond the broken guardrail. Now, from his place of concealment he heard hurrying footsteps on the macadam above and angry voices cursing him.
“… plain goddamn scared to death when he saw my gun,” the hook-nosed man grated. “For a shamus with a reputation like he’s got—”
“Not a sign of him yet,” a surly voice cut in. “He’s drowned by this time, for sure. The boss ain’t gonna like this.”
“How can we help what the fool done? Le’s get outta here fast, Tiny. Ain’t no use hangin’ around. We been lucky so far, but somebody’s likely to come along any minute.”
“Nuts,” said the surly driver of the car. “Only a few feet of water there. We got to drag ’im out.”
“What the hell for? He’s drowned by this time.”
“He’s supposed to have that stuff on ’im,” Tiny reminded the hook-nosed gunman. “The boss sent us out to get it. We drag ’im out, see, and go through his pockets.”
“To hell with that,” growled the gunman. “The cops are likely to be prowling by here any minute. If they find us down there—”
“Rescuing a drowning man,” said Tiny. “We’re driving along and we see a guy break through the guardrail. So we stop to save him. Hell, there ain’t a mark on the Cad, and he damn sure won’t do any blabbin’, and maybe we get a medal or somethin’.”
“Maybe you’re right at that,” the hook-nosed man agreed reluctantly. “Reckon we can slide down where the fence is busted.” His voice trailed off, and Shayne waited tensely, peering around to see a shower of sand precede a body that dropped heavily down the embankment. He landed with a grunt, picked himself up, and Shayne saw the hook-nosed man whose Tommy gun had been pointed at him a few minutes ago. “Come on down, Tiny,” he called up to his companion. “I ain’t gonna stay here ’less you—”
“Stand out of the way!” Tiny yelled. “Look out!” The hook-nosed man took a backward step, glancing wildly around. He saw Shayne’s huddled figure less than ten feet away, and his hand dived toward his shoulder holster when he saw the gun in Shayne’s hand.
Shayne pulled the trigger of the small automatic. A round hole appeared directly above the hooked nose, and the man’s body fell limply on the sand, face down, his right arm crumpled beneath him, reaching for the holstered gun.
Instantly another body landed in a flurry of sand. Shayne swung his automatic to cover the driver of the Cadillac. He pressed the trigger, but nothing happened. The gun had jammed after ejecting the first cartridge.
With a savage curse he threw the useless weapon aside and lunged at Tiny who threw up a hand to protect his face when Shayne leveled the gun on him. Shayne’s weight smashed the man to a kneeling position, and they both sprawled on the sand. Bouncing to his feet, Shayne whirled to see his opponent rising slowly and jerking a blackjack from his hip pocket, and in that fleeting moment Shayne realized why he was called Tiny. He was not more than five feet two and nearly a yard wide. His long arms reached to his knees, and his eyes were set close together in a face that was ludicrously flat except for the sharp nose.
Tiny’s right hand, wielding the blackjack, described a vicious arc, but Shayne drove in fast with his head low. The blow grazed the left side of his head with searing pain, but the impact of his body threw the heavy, short man off balance, and Tiny staggered and went down, his flat, unprotected face upward. Shayne aimed his big foot at the man’s blunt jaw.
Tiny jerked his head in time to take the crushing weight on his collarbone, flung out both his apelike arms, and grabbed Shayne’s leg. The jerk brought the rangy redhead down on top of him. Shayne doubled one knee as he fell and ground it into Tiny’s groin.
Tiny gave a guttural moan of pain, but he was tough and an expert at this sort of in-fighting, and his squat body was writhing, t
wisting long arms and ironthighed legs around the detective.
Shayne fought to get one arm free as he went underneath and succeeded just in time to spread his fingers over Tiny’s face as he brought the blackjack into play again. One of his fingers found an eye socket, dug in, and there was an animal scream of pain, a sideward writhing that allowed Shayne to eel from under and stagger to his feet.
Tiny was coming up again, his face contorted, and blood streaming from his eye, his yellowed teeth snarling with atavistic hatred. Shayne plowed in, slugging full-arm lefts and rights into the flat face, the weight of his body behind each blow. The shorter man wavered dazedly under the onslaught, taking one backward step, then two, reeling from the blows and trying to lift his arms to protect himself, refusing to go down under punishment that would have killed an ordinary man.
Shayne’s breath was whistling through his teeth when he stopped from sheer weariness, leaving Tiny swaying, his face battered to a pulp, yet held on his feet by some force beyond consciousness. The blackjack had dropped from his lax fingers.
Shayne scooped it up, swung it with precision and cruel force. It struck Tiny between the eyes, and he went down like an ox felled by the blow of an ax.
Without another glance at the recumbent figures, Shayne picked up the jammed automatic, dropped it into his pocket, and scrambled up the embankment to the highway. Moving painfully, driving his tortured muscles, he went to the Cadillac, opened the door, and saw that the keys were in the ignition. He got in and sat for a moment drawing in deep breaths to ease the fast beating of his heart. In the mirror he saw blood oozing down the left side of his face and dripping onto his ripped shirt. Sand stung his eyes and was caked on his face and clothes. He blinked watery lids until most of the sand washed out of his eyes, then turned the keys in the ignition, gunned the motor, made a U-turn, and headed back to the mainland.
Slumped wearily behind the wheel, he drove slowly until he slid into the curb at the side entrance of his hotel. When he reached for the keys to turn off the ignition he felt a hard object slide against his thigh. He removed the keys and turned to look at the object on the seat.
Framed in Blood Page 10
