“I’ll make it up to you, Michael,” Martha called. “I’m—”
It ended in a moan. She was hurried away. The flashlight disappeared around the building, and Shayne was left alone in the dark. Car doors slammed. One motor roared, then the other, and the little cavalcade moved away very fast. He tried to determine which way they turned at the corner, but from where he lay it was impossible to tell.
In a moment Shayne’s eyes had adjusted to the absence of artificial light. The night was clear, without a moon. He seemed to be lying at the foot of a gently sloping concrete ramp. He could probably succeed in wriggling to the top, but even if he could roll in among the low palms before the cops arrived, they would have no trouble finding him. His one chance was to make enough noise so he could wake up somebody in the hotel and get them to untie him.
He jack-knifed about, struggling into a sitting position. Hitching sideward, first moving his legs, then leaning backward so he could support his weight on his clenched fists, he reached the doorway. He backed through into the blackness.
He tried to remember the arrangement of the laundry facilities, as he had seen them briefly in the feeble glow of the paper match. There were stationary tubs along one wall, a bench off to the left, an indoors clothesline, shaped like the ribs of a huge umbrella. Somewhere on the floor near the bench he thought he had glimpsed a squat, two-handled utensil, a wash basin of some kind. He hitched painfully across the rough concrete in what he hoped was the right direction.
The line was cutting his wrists cruelly. Each time he moved he had to use more effort than the time before. Lying full length, he tried rolling. He rolled twice, splashing through a puddle of brackish water. Twisting around, he lashed out with both legs. His shins struck something sharp, and the bench went over with a crash and a ring of metal. Shayne kicked the bench out of his way and tried to find the basin. He reached it after a moment’s floundering. One heel struck against it with a resounding clang.
He rested for a moment, breathing hard. But time was passing. He maneuvered into a position where he could raise his legs and swing them against the basin. The noise seemed very loud, echoing back and forth between the cinder-block walls. With each kick the basin moved a few inches and he had to shift position. From time to time he stopped to listen, but except for the sound of his own panting breath he could hear nothing. If he had succeeded in awakening the desk clerk, the old man was afraid to come down to the basement to see what was going on.
Shayne kicked at the basin twice more. The second kick sent it spinning out of reach. He hitched himself after it, and knocked over the pole holding the inside clothesline. The whole awkward contraption came down on top of him. The heavy pole missed him narrowly, but the web of ropes was all around him. He tried again to reach the basin, and the ropes tightened. As he backed away, trying to work free, he cut the back of one hand against the bottom of the pole. He felt the stab of pain and swore deep in his throat. Then, realizing in a flash what had happened, he maneuvered cautiously backward to bring his wrists against the sharp edge. The metal binding around the base of the pole had been knocked loose, exposing a jagged corner of metal a quarter of an inch across. The little spur of metal raked the back of his hand again. He worked it very carefully between his wrists and began rocking backward and forward.
Then he heard the car.
It came around the corner, tires screaming. The driver shifted into high only an instant before he had to slam down hard on his brakes. He came to a noisy stop in front of the hotel. Biting down hard on the gag in his mouth, Shayne continued to saw away at the jagged piece of metal. But Alvarez had told them exactly where they could find him. He heard running footsteps on the concrete ramp. The line broke as two cops with flashlights burst in through the back door.
There was nothing Shayne could do now but lie still. The circles of light played rapidly around the room until they found him. A voice warned him not to move, or he would be shot. One of the flashlights held steady on him while the other stabbed here and there until it picked out the light switch. A third man came past the other two. All three, Shayne saw, had pistols showing. A naked 150-watt bulb flooded the room with light.
The two cops with the flashlights were natives, wearing their full dress-up uniform, blue and red, with white Sam Browne belt and white helmet. The only thing they had dispensed with was the gloves. The third was an Englishman in a simpler uniform. Shayne noticed upside-down chevrons on his arm. He was short and red-faced, with a full mustache. His collar seemed too tight.
He strode across to Shayne and looked down. “That’s the man,” he said with satisfaction.
Shayne made a small sound. He brought his hands out in front of him and tried to untie the gag. The only way he could get out of this was to talk his way out, which was impossible so long as he had a handkerchief in his mouth.
The native cops put away their flashlights, but their guns were still out. The sergeant kicked the basin out of his way.
“Well, you bastard,” he said in an unexpectedly deep voice, “you’ve kept us all up after our regular bedtime, and don’t expect us to be friendly. You’re under arrest. I’ll omit the warning because you won’t be charged in my jurisdiction. You really got yourself tangled up, didn’t you?” He motioned to one of his men and said, “Cut him loose.”
The cop produced a pen-knife. Wielding it delicately, he cut the fishing line that bound Shayne’s ankles. After that he cut the line around his mouth. The redhead spat out the handkerchief, but picked it up again to wrap around his cut wrist. The cop helped him free himself from the clothesline, and quickly went over him to see if he was carrying a gun.
“Get up,” the sergeant said, “and don’t give us any trouble.”
Shayne did as he was told. He stamped one foot to get the circulation going. When he tried to speak, he only succeeded in bringing forth an unintelligible croak. He cleared his throat and tried again. This time the muscles worked.
“Do you want to know who murdered Albert Watts?”
For a moment the sergeant looked at him in silence. Then he said, “Don’t tell me you did.”
“He turned in a customs tip on an American named Paul Slater before he was killed. Slater was caught and fined, and came back to St. Albans. So maybe Watts wasn’t killed by a native, after all. Does any of this interest you?”
“Right now,” the sergeant said, “whether I’m interested or not is neither here nor there. If you want to buy your way out of this with information, you’re talking to the wrong man. You can take it up with the inspector in the morning.”
“It won’t be worth anything in the morning,” Shayne said. “There’s a large-scale smuggling operation underway on this island, as I think you know. If you move fast you can break it up while the inspector’s still asleep. And while you’re doing that you can find out who murdered Watts.”
“You are feeling talkative, aren’t you?” the sergeant said. “But let’s wait and have a stenographer take it all down.”
“I just said it can’t wait,” Shayne told him impatiently. “By the time everything’s signed and witnessed and all the documents have been filled out in triplicate, Alvarez will be in some other country.”
“Who did you say?” the sergeant said, pushing his head forward.
“You heard me. Luis Alvarez. Use a little imagination and you can put him out of business for good. Law enforcement around here will be easier when that son of a bitch is behind bars.”
“Where does Alvarez come into this?”
“Slater was working for him as a courier,” Shayne said. “That tip from Watts was as bad for him as it was for Slater. There’s been some fancy double-crossing going on tonight. Slater was about to take off for the States in a chartered plane. Alvarez kidnapped his wife and threatened to kill her unless Slater got off the plane and came in to explain himself. Do you follow that, or do you want me to go over it again?”
“Where are they, at Alvarez’ nightclub?”
; “No. I don’t know where they are, but maybe we can figure it out.”
The sergeant hesitated. “Kidnapping, double-crossing, blackmail,” he said suspiciously. “What are you saying, exactly? That Alvarez killed Watts?”
“I don’t know who killed Watts. I do know that he was killed because of the tip he turned in on Slater.”
“Do you have some evidence of this that you’d like to tell us about?”
Shayne skipped quickly back over the few hard facts he had picked up in the last few hours. “No. Nothing definite. Alvarez has an illegal shipment he was supposed to pass on to Slater tonight. You arrested Alvarez’ driver, and he took me along instead. Something went wrong. He was knocked cold and the shipment was highjacked. Not by me.”
The sergeant smoothed his mustache with his fingertip, in a gesture that for some reason reminded Shayne of somebody he knew well.
“A shipment of what?” he said.
“How should I know?” Shayne said, becoming increasingly impatient. “It had to be contraband of some kind, because of the way it was delivered.”
The sergeant persisted, “Did you see it?”
“No! We don’t have time for all this detail, but if you can’t live without it—he drove into a private garage. I think I can take you to it, but later, for God’s sake! The stuff was in the trunk of his Hillman. Somebody was waiting in the dark and as soon as the headlights went off, stepped up and conked him. When I went in to see why he didn’t come out, he was taking the full count, with a lump on the back of his head. The back window in the garage was open, the trunk hatch was up. Goddamn it, how much more do you want?”
“A great deal more. He believed his assailant to be this American, Paul Slater?”
“Yeah, and it looks that way to me too. The meet was set for eleven. Slater’s plane was set to take off at twelve. It looks like a time-table the same person worked out.”
“I see,” the sergeant said slowly. “The procedure in assault cases is for the aggrieved party to come in and make a complaint. It is then our duty to investigate, even if the victim is an unsavory character like Alvarez, who deserves to be knocked on the head repeatedly, in my humble opinion. But—” and here his head shot forward again—“this entire story is rather flimsy, my friend, and I don’t believe it for an instant. What I seem to see here is a falling-out among scoundrels. No doubt it was the estimable Señor Alvarez who trussed you up like this and told us where we could lay our hands on you. You bear him ill-will, and would like to use the police for your private revenge. I have been in this business long enough to know that such little fallings-out often have most fruitful results for honest men. In the morning we will have it out with the inspector, and you can give us all the corroborating details which you have apparently been skipping over.”
“The morning—” Shayne began hotly.
“Will be too late,” the sergeant said. “I believe you told us that already. But we have nobody’s word for it but yours, do we? And your bonafides are hardly of the best.”
He nodded to the two policemen, who had been standing alertly, one on either side of Shayne. “Take him in.”
Shayne whirled, a dangerous look on his scored face, his hands well out from his sides.
The sergeant said, “I wouldn’t recommend any resistance. My men are picked for both strength and dexterity.”
“Yeah,” Shayne growled. “But I can give them some trouble. You can make it easier on all of us if you listen to me for a minute. Alvarez and a bunch of goons—including one really vicious type whose first name is José, another named Pedro, the bartender from that pirate joint of Alvarez’, and one more whose name I didn’t find out—picked up Martha Slater ten minutes ago. They’re giving her and her husband a going over somewhere in the country, half an hour’s drive from the airport. You’ve got some of the Camel’s boys in jail. Lean on them a little and find out where this place is.”
“We don’t lean on people down here.”
“Then say please!” Shayne exclaimed in sudden exasperation. “There’s a big chunk of dough tied up in this deal. Play it too cool and you’ll end up in the morning with a couple more killings. Alvarez was talking about taking Mrs. Slater out for a one-way sail. Doesn’t that sound a little like the Luis Alvarez you know?”
The sergeant seemed half-convinced. “I would need a warrant.”
“You’ve had a murder. How many more do you need before you can get a judge to issue a search-warrant? Bring in the whole bunch and ask some questions. One of them is the killer, or I’m crazy.”
“Now, that,” the Englishman said coldly, “is an interesting possibility. And what is your motive in all this? Are you really naive enough to think that you can persuade us not to turn you over to the American authorities?”
“Raid this place before anything happens, and I don’t care what you do to me. If you need a motive, I don’t want to see anybody twist Martha Slater’s arm. She’s a good-looking blonde and an old friend of mine.”
The sergeant shook his head decisively. “And what am I to tell the inspector in the morning? That I kept my men up all night, blundering about the island in the dark on some wild-goose chase—and on the unsupported word of an American crook? No, thank you. I am not quite that wet behind the ears.”
He brushed at his mustache again in that oddly familiar gesture.
“You don’t need to tell him where the information came from,” Shayne said. “Take a chance. What can you lose?”
“Perhaps nothing, perhaps quite a lot. I know too little about this to act intelligently. I’m not convinced there is such an overwhelming need for haste. We’ll go into it in the morning, never fear. I’ll have Alvarez picked up, as well as this Slater chap, and we’ll see what exactly is what.”
Shayne’s time had run out. He had only one other card to play, and like the Wanted circular, it could easily turn into a firecracker and go off in his face. He said, speaking evenly and fast, “That flier on me was a fake. I’m not wanted by the cops in Florida, or anywhere else. I’m a private detective from Miami. Mrs. Slater knows her husband will be suspected of killing Watts, and she’s retained me to find out who did it. I also checked with the American customs before I came down. Alvarez and Slater have worked out some fancy way of beating the import duty. I dreamed up this gimmick with the picture and the police description, so I could get close to Alvarez in a hurry. It was taking a big chance, but it worked.”
The two native cops stood still. One of them had both hands on Shayne’s upper arm. The British sergeant looked at the redhead blankly, his mouth open.
“Are you trying to maintain that this was all a trick?”
“It didn’t do any harm,” Shayne said. “All it did was cost you some sleep. I still don’t know much about this set-up, but I know a lot more than I did. For one thing, I know that Alvarez keeps his contraband in a locked wooden box in an airspace over the desk in his office. I was up there over your head when you were looking for me. I know how he makes contact with his couriers. I went along on a delivery. I couldn’t have done any of this by barging into his office and showing him a private detective’s license.”
The sergeant closed his mouth with a snap. “I don’t believe you.”
“Is your name Brannon?”
“What of it?”
“How did you find out I was at the Pirate’s Rendezvous? Somebody called you, right?” He quoted: “‘I’ve got some information for you, and you can have it free because I want to pay off this guy.’ Words to that effect.”
Sergeant Brannon’s face turned perceptibly redder. “That was you?”
“That was me,” Shayne told him, watching the slowly reddening face. “I can’t show you my credentials, because I don’t have them. But would somebody who was really wanted by the cops call them and tell them where they could find him? And if you still don’t believe me, put in a call to Miami. The head of the customs there is a man named Jack Malloy. Maybe you’ve heard of him. This is a big thin
g for Malloy, and he won’t mind if you get him out of bed.”
“And what is your real interest in this, Mr. Shayne?” Brannon said through stiff lips, apparently having difficulty pronouncing Shayne’s name.
“Money,” Shayne said promptly, because by this time any other answer would have been too complicated. “I’m shooting for the fifty thousand bucks.”
“And you think—” Brannon said thickly—“you think you can walk into the British Commonwealth and defy established authority, flout and trick and trample on individual liberty, break laws right and left, the way you undoubtedly do at home? You think you can hoodwink Her Majesty’s police, bring them out after midnight on a fool’s errand, and come out of it unscathed? You are mistaken! You—are—very—much—mistaken!”
“Make up your mind,” Shayne said. “Which would you rather do, yell at me, or catch a murderer?”
“I’ll do a great deal more than yell at you!” Brannon yelled. “I’ll put you in my most primitive cell and forget about you until somebody brings you officially to my attention! I think you have finally decided to tell me the truth. I think you are actually what you represent yourself to be—a cheap, money-grabbing, conscienceless private detective. I know all about your kind. But you may come to regret that it ever entered your mind to play ducks and drakes with our backward little provincial constabulary. What you need is time for reflection, and I’m the man who can give it to you!”
Shayne, too, was beginning to get angry. “Did you ever hear of a writ for habeas corpus?”
“Often. You Americans stole it from us, you know. But I don’t think it will apply in your case. We have arrested a notorious American fugitive, who is wanted for unlawful flight to evade prosecution, in the language of an apparently official circular we received through the usual channels. We will notify our American friends that we have captured you, and let them begin extradition proceedings. We will send off this notification the first thing tomorrow, as soon as the proper forms can be made out, by the slowest available boat. We will address it to the FBI, who won’t have heard of your harmless little deception, will they? Oh, I foresee many interesting delays. You will have a marvelous opportunity to study the cracks in the ceiling of that cell.”
Murder Takes No Holiday Page 10
