She opened the door and got in. Clayton jerked around abruptly. At first she didn’t know him. The sudden panic on the countenance beneath the hair with the center part gave him a totally different face. Even when he spat at her, “What are you doing here?” it seemed to be a stranger speaking, a stranger who terrified her.
Smith folded the paper and tossed it aside. “You want to see the blood splash on the sidewalk, kid?”
“Get out,” Clayton said with suppressed violence. “Get out and start walking.”
“Hell, let her stay,” Smith said from the back seat. “Sometimes a kill like this will make a babe more passionate. That could pay off for both of us.”
Clayton ignored him. “Miriam, did you hear me? Out, goddam you, out!”
She tried to speak. Clayton’s mouth twisted, showing his teeth, and he brought his fist around in a sweeping backhand blow that hit the side of her face and knocked her against the doorpost. He said something else which she couldn’t hear through the ringing in her ears. A wave of nausea rose inside her. She was probably unconscious for a moment.
Smith came forward into a half crouch. “Hey, let me hold her for you, Actor.”
“Clayt,” she said weakly.
“Goddam you,” Clayton said, “you want to attract some more attention? He’s going to come out any minute.”
“Hell, let her get some fun out of life,” Smith said.
“Are you out of your mind?” Clayton threw over his shoulder. “One more face for some creep to identify.”
“You’ve got something there,” Smith conceded. “This doll sticks out. We might as well turn on a siren. Sorry, kid. Get going before I belt you with the tommy. I’ll fix something you can watch some other time.”
“Listen to me,” Miriam said, speaking through her dizziness and pain. “Don’t you realize that he must have a police guard, after what happened last night?”
“Hold my hand, honey, I’m scared,” Smith said mockingly.
“But he does!” she insisted. “They know he’s still a target. My God, the street is probably crawling with cops.”
“How dumb do you think we are?” Clayton said, his teeth set. “Over on the other side of the street. Past the hotel, the third car from the entrance. Fran shoots out the tires as we go by, and we’re around the corner before they can get their guns out.” He exclaimed, “Here we go!”
The ignition was already turned on. He hit the starter and the motor leaped into life. Miriam grabbed at the dashboard, her heart hammering frantically, and slipped forward, knowing she had to hide.
But the Chevy didn’t move. Clayton eased the gear shift back into neutral, and said disappointedly, “Not Shayne.”
She came back up on the seat, and saw a tall man wearing sunglasses pass on the other sidewalk. Smith, who had come forward onto one knee, his elbow resting on the lowered window, sat back.
Clayton said angrily, “The cops are close enough so if I put you out the way I’d like to, they’d be down on us like a ton of bricks. Do we have any papers for the Chevy? What’s that man in the back seat got in his lap? That couldn’t be a burper, could it? We’d all of us be in bad trouble, including you. So will you get out quietly and tiptoe away?”
He was watching the entrances of the hotel, without looking at her. He fingered the gear-shift lightly. The waves of pain had receded, and Miriam saw everything around her with extraordinary distinctness. She unlatched the door, got out and closed the door quietly behind her.
She started back to the bridge, to get out of the neighborhood before it exploded into violence. The idling motor muttered behind her. She knew, with absolute clarity, what was sure to happen. As Shayne appeared, Clayton would swing the Chevy about in a U-turn, and the sound of the accelerating motor would alert the cops. To command both entrances, Clayton had had to park where he would pass Shayne first, the cops second. The tommy gun would fire, Shayne would fall, and by the time the Chevy came abreast of the radio car the cops would be ready to start shooting. And the two men she depended on to steal enough money to put her life back in order would die here on this street in a blaze of gunfire.
Her brain, which had been numbed by Clayton’s blow, began to function. There was still a way she could stop it, if she only had the courage.
She glanced back. The sidewalk in front of the hotel was still empty, the Chevy was still at its place against the opposite curb.
Without waiting to reflect, she turned to the right at the corner and began to run. There was no time to waste, and probably not much chance, she thought, that she could arrive before it happened. People looked at her curiously, but she didn’t care. She turned again at the next cross street, to circle the block and come back out on Second Avenue from the opposite direction. She was sobbing for breath as she made the final turn. It was hard to run in her high heeled shoes. The tight skirt hobbled her at the knees. Tiny dots whirled in front of her eyes.
Then all at once she was approaching the Avenue, and she slowed to a walk. Each collision of her heels against the concrete set off a small explosion at the base of her skull. She came up to the corner, and stopped close to the store-fronts. She looked cautiously along the line of cars. She saw the fire hydrant, the Chevy behind it. She was in time.
She opened her purse and looked for her reflection in the little mirror, still intensely conscious of the scene before her. She saw the two detectives lounging in the police car, bored and relaxed. For an instant she wondered if she should let Clayton go ahead, in the hope that the cops’ reflexes would be too slow. She gauged the distances. No, she decided. The Chevy was too far away.
She took out her lipstick. She was breathing hard from the run, and her breasts moved quickly beneath the thin cloth of her blouse. Men glanced admiringly at her as they passed. Miriam was accustomed to such glances. She knew she was an attractive woman, even when she was not breathing fast after a hard run. And what, she thought bitterly, had it ever got her? She renewed the color on her lips. Her cheekbone showed the mark of Clayton’s fist. She touched it with powder, but there wasn’t anything else she could do about it.
There was a small stir of movement in the doorway of Shayne’s hotel, and Miriam thrust powder and lipstick back into her purse. A woman emerged. A little later a taxi stopped in front of the hotel. A couple got out, and a boy ran out from the hotel to get their suitcases.
Miriam wet her lips.
A sailor passed, examined her appreciatively, and paused. He didn’t look old enough to be in his country’s service, but obviously he had grown-up ideas.
“Waiting for somebody?” he asked.
Miriam didn’t look at him directly. She shook her head, with an annoyed frown.
The youthful sailor refused to be discouraged. “If you want to find some place, I can help you. I know this town inside out. I been here four or five times.”
And then a tall, rangy figure came out of the hotel. His shoulders were wide and powerful, and he had the narrow hips and long legs of an athlete. His face was deeply lined. Even before she saw the red hair Miriam knew that this was Mike Shayne.
He stopped in the doorway, in the full glare of the early sun. He looked both ways, his face wearing a quizzical expression, giving the mythical Agatha Wiley one final chance to show up before he left for his office.
Miriam heard the sudden roar of the Chevy’s motor. The sailor extended a package of cigarettes.
“Have a cigarette, anyway,” he said. “A little cigarette never hurt anybody.”
Miriam brushed past him and crossed the sidewalk, beginning to run. She slipped between two parked cars and darted into the stream of traffic. She saw the sun gleam on the polished black side of the Chevy as it began the U-swing to head for the hotel. A horn blared. The cops were watching her. For better or for worse, they were alerted now. When they heard the shots they would move, and move fast.
Shayne remained in the entrance. He, too, had seen her. A traffic light changed, releasing a stream of cars. The Che
vy approached rapidly. She had to get between Shayne and the tommy gun. She knew that Clayton wouldn’t let Smith fire if it meant that she and the detective would be killed together.
Desperate, she leaped into the path of a low red sports car. The driver came down hard on his brakes and his horn. Miriam dodged on into the next lane. A truck swerved away from her, side-swiping a parked car. Then she was in the clear, knowing that she would reach Shayne before the Chevy was near enough for Smith to fire.
12
After Rourke had called, telling Michael Shayne that a female with a highly charged telephone voice was on her way to see him, the redheaded detective made a fresh pot of coffee and called down to the desk for the morning papers. When the papers arrived he read their coverage of his attempted murder, wincing at the corny adjectives they applied to him. The crime reporters on the Tribune and the Herald, after years of being beaten to Shayne news by Tim Rourke, seemed somewhat disgruntled that the attempt had misfired. Shayne grinned bleakly.
The fresh coffee had dripped through. He filled his cup, adding a slug of cognac, and went over his plans for the ambush at the Seafarer that evening, using Walter Baumholtz as bait. He sipped the coffee until it was cool enough to take in large gulps. Everything depended on Baumholtz. Shayne had had to scare him, to get him to consent to the plan. He only hoped that he hadn’t overdone it, making Baumholtz so aware of his danger that he had left town in a panic.
He picked up the phone and asked Pete, the desk clerk, to call Mr. Walter Baumholtz at the Sans Souci. Shayne held on, drinking coffee until Pete came back on to say regretfully, “Sorry, Mr. Shayne. Nobody registered there by that name.”
Shayne frowned. “Are you sure?”
“B-a-u-m? They even looked in yesterday’s check-outs to be sure. No luck. Do you want me to try the other Beach hotels?”
Shayne hesitated. “No, I’ll have Miss Hamilton do it at the office. I have to think of ways to keep her busy. Thanks, Pete.”
“Say, Mr. Shayne. About last night, I was just this minute reading about it in the paper. Do you realize that if that kid, whatever his name was, hadn’t happened to come along and try to glom your Buick, you’d be blown to pieces right now?”
“No!” Shayne said with feigned disbelief.
“Yes, you would,” Pete said. “Think it over—it stands to reason. I wouldn’t be a private detective for any amount of money. Excuse me, there goes the board.” Shayne grinned briefly as he put back the phone. He strode to the window overlooking Biscayne Bay, where he stood worrying his earlobe and staring with unseeing eyes at the sailboats and other small pleasure craft dotting the lower bay beyond the Rickenbacker Causeway. If Baumholtz had really run out on him, Shayne would have to kill the story in the News. He looked at his watch. Nine-twenty; he had another half hour before the first edition went to press. He considered calling Lucy to start her checking the hotels, but if she had followed her usual morning routine she was midway between her apartment and the office by now. Damn this Agatha Wiley, he thought. He decided to give her five more minutes.
He padded into the bedroom to put on his shoes and his coat. The ashtray on the bedside table overflowed with cigarette butts, an indication of the amount of thinking he had done before falling asleep. The damaged upholstery in the Buick was still in his mind, where he knew it would remain for a long time to come. Somehow he had to get Lucy Hamilton out of town until this duel was fought to a finish. He had come to acknowledge to himself that he could never feel the same for any other woman, but apart from that feeling, he knew that his over-riding concern for her safety kept him from moving as freely and swiftly as he should.
Five minutes passed. Shayne poured one final coffee royal, and made himself drink it slowly. And then he decided that Agatha Wiley, whoever she was, could go to hell. Rourke had said that she sounded frightened, but if she hadn’t been frightened enough to come straight to Shayne’s hotel, she could look for somebody else to solve her problems. He had given her time enough to get here from anywhere in Miami.
He went down to the lobby by the stairs that came out near the side entrance.
“I’m leaving now, Pete,” he said, crossing to the desk to speak to the clerk, a narrow-faced, sallow young man. “A girl was supposed to be coming in to see me. If she shows up, tell her I’ll be at the office. I’ll let you know where she can reach me if I have to go out. It may be important. Her name is Agatha Wiley. A blonde.”
“Another blonde, Mr. Shayne?” Peter said admiringly. “I don’t know how you do it. Oh, I’ve been meaning to ask you. Did that insurance agent get in touch with you?”
“What insurance agent?”
“He was in looking for you last week. Apparently he hadn’t had much luck getting past Miss Hamilton, and he said he might waylay you here some morning.”
“Insurance,” Shayne muttered in disgust, and started for the door.
When he was halfway there he came back. “What did he look like?”
“Who?” Pete said, the topic of a few seconds ago having left his mind.
“The insurance agent.”
“Well, that’s hard to say, really. This was last week already, and you know the number of people who come in and out. He was sort of ordinary in appearance, that’s all I can tell you.”
“Are you sure he was actually an insurance agent?”
“Oh, is that what you’re getting at, Mr. Shayne? Sure I’m sure. Having this sort of semi-public job the way I do, I get enough of them so I know the real article. He had the literature with him, and he tried to sell me a policy. To tell the truth, I was sort of tempted, because this policy had some wonderful benefits. But I’m already loaded up.”
“Okay,” Shayne said. “If anybody else asks about me, keep your eyes and ears open, will you?”
“I’ll certainly do that. Take care, won’t you?”
Shayne looked at his watch again as he went out. He stopped in the doorway. Checking the line of parked cars, he instantly picked out the squad car from the Beach. He lit a cigarette, taking his time so they could pull themselves together. He was going to let them tail him to his office. There would be plenty of time to get rid of them later.
Suddenly he saw a blonde leave the opposite sidewalk and dart out from between two parked cars. She was taking desperate chances to reach him, so this could only be the Agatha Wiley who had phoned Tim. He heard the squeal of brakes, and followed the girl in her reckless progress through the heavy morning traffic.
Tim had been right, the redhead thought grudgingly. With only a telephone voice to judge by, he had known she would be a very sexy number. He had an unerring instinct in these matters. As she paused for an instant, looking both ways, Shayne made a fast inventory of her appearance. The blouse was good, and she filled it adequately. The hair color was probably artificial, but even the most sedate girls nowadays seemed willing to dye their hair. Not that Shayne thought this girl looked particularly sedate.
A sports car missed her narrowly. There was a scraping of metal, a hiss of air-brakes, a yell from a truckdriver in the inner lane. But the girl had reached the sidewalk.
He went to meet her. She looked angry and somehow triumphant, more than frightened. Before the redhead could say anything he caught a glint of sunlight on bluish metal. Afterwards, when he had time to think back at this moment, he knew that he would never have caught it if he hadn’t been intent on the girl. Something protruded from the rear window of a black Chevrolet. Shayne, the girl and the black car were in line.
If Shayne’s heel had slipped on an oil-slick, he would have instantly made the corrections necessary to keep his balance, without any conscious thought. There was no conscious thought in what he did now. He left his feet in a hard, flat dive. His shoulder struck the girl beneath one breast, and knocked her backward. He fell on top of her, hearing her head hit the sidewalk. And then there was a harsh, ripping sound, and he knew that what he had seen sticking out of the Chevrolet had actually been a gun. He covered the girl
with his body. A sub-machine gun, his senses told him, probably a heavy American .45 caliber. These were professionals.
Tires screamed. The Chevrolet was in second gear, and as the high howl of the transmission moved down the block, Michael Shayne rolled twice, came to one knee and tried to get the license. There were three hammering shots from a hand gun, the roar of a motor. Painter’s boys had finally got off their buff, Shayne thought, and at that instant there was another tearing burst from the tommy gun, then another, and a bang as a tire went out.
Shayne ran into the street, shading his eyes. He saw the Chevy careen through a red light at the corner of Southeast Third, and swing to the right, wheels locked in a controlled skid. Then, as quickly as it had come, it was gone.
In spite of the blown tire, the cops had swung out away from the curb, the rim clanking. Then the car ceased to get gas and the motor died.
Shayne looked back at the girl. She was sitting up, dazed. Her purse had spilled on the sidewalk.
“Are you hurt?” he demanded urgently.
Her eyes seemed to have trouble focusing. “I’m not—sure.”
He went down beside her. Her blouse was badly torn, from the right shoulder almost to the hem. She must have turned her head as she hit the sidewalk, for there was a bad bruise on one cheekbone. She shook her head slightly, as though to test it.
Looking around, Shayne saw Pete, the desk clerk, and beckoned. “Take the lady into the lobby. Get Doc Willoughby, and hurry. Be with you in a minute.”
“They missed you, Mr. Shayne?” Pete said.
“Hell, no,” Shayne said, suddenly furious. “I took six .45 slugs in my chest. Luckily they don’t hurt. Come on, Pete. Move!”
“Yes, sir!” Pete cried, and bent over the girl.
With long strides, Shayne went to the police car. The driver was out in the street, looking at three evenly-spaced holes punched through the rear door. One bullet had punctured the fuel line, and gas was pouring freely into the street. The second cop was speaking into his dashboard radio. Shayne went to the window.
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