“I don’t understand what all the argument is about,” said Mark Dustin, his forehead knitted. “If an insurance company wants to offer a reward, why isn’t it legal for anyone to collect it who can return the bracelet?”
“Simply because it constitutes collusion with criminals, and that’s a felony,” Painter shouted. “I tell you I suspect Shayne knows where your bracelet is cached this very minute, and he’ll keep possession of it until a large enough reward is offered. You don’t realize it, Mr. Dustin, but this sort of thing has become a regular racket here in Miami and on the Beach. Men like Shayne take advantage of insurance companies faced with a large loss and eager to settle for less than the face value of the policy.”
“If it’s illegal for you to collect a reward from the insurance company,” said Dustin to Shayne, “perhaps the chief won’t object if I hire you to recover my property. Would that be collusion, too?”
“Better ask Painter,” Shayne said with a shrug. “He’s the lad with all the answers.”
“It’s practically the same situation,” Painter snapped. “It amounts to putting a premium on successful thievery. There are duly constituted authorities to enforce the law.”
“It sounds to me,” Dustin told Shayne, “as though it’s practically illegal for you to earn a fee. How does a private dick earn a living in Miami?”
“I get along,” Shayne answered.
The telephone rang and Celia Dustin answered it. She hung up and told her husband. “The ambulance is here to take you to the hospital, dear.”
Dustin finished his highball and winced with pain as he came slowly to his feet. “I wish you’d call me tomorrow, Shayne. I’d like to keep in touch with things.” His back was turned to Painter, and his left eyelid dropped in a wink as he made the suggestion.
Shayne said, “Glad to, Dustin. Good luck with that hand.”
Celia touched her husband’s left coatsleeve lightly as they went to the door. The others followed them into the corridor.
Peter Painter edged up to Shayne and said, “I want you to understand that I’m not at all sure you didn’t engineer the hold-up tonight. I intend to check every movement you’ve made and every person you’ve contacted since you witnessed the purchase of that ruby bracelet last Monday. If it turns up in your hands, I’m going to know how it got there.”
Again Shayne ignored him, and said to Voorland, “I’ll drop in your store in the morning, Walter, and get all the dope you can give me on the bracelet. I’ve an idea there’s going to be some money in this, somehow, for me.”
Chapter Seven
BODY WORK A SPECIALTY
Michael Shayne drove away from the Sunlux Hotel slowly, his forehead furrowed with thought. A couple of years had elapsed since he had operated professionally in the Miami area, and a great many changes had taken place. Changes, particularly, in the organization and identity of the mobs ruling the resort city’s underworld. Two years ago, he reflected morosely, it would have been a cinch to contact the present holders of the ruby bracelet. There wasn’t any doubt in his mind that it had been a professional job, the sort of thing Ray Huggins might have planned and executed in previous days. A word dropped in any one of half a dozen saloons would soon have reached Huggins, and negotiations for the return of the stolen gems would have begun promptly.
But Ray Huggins had slipped from power eighteen months ago and there had probably been two or three uneasy successors since then, men who might not even know Mike Shayne except by reputation, and who certainly had no way of knowing he was back in business at the old stand.
Shayne’s belly muscles tightened as these vagrant thoughts drifted through his mind. Was he actually back in business in Miami? He hadn’t publicly announced any such intention, for he hadn’t made up his mind yet. But he knew, as he drove meditatively along beneath Miami’s golden moonglow that the decision had been made for him tonight-by Peter Painter.
He knew without going into involved thought processes, that he had accepted the challenge of the Miami Beach detective chief. It was Painter’s own fault for dragging him into the case. He had no intention of being told what he could or could not do. The threat of arrest on charges of complicity if he dared arrange a deal for the return of the bracelet would be laughable had it come from anyone except Painter. It was the sort of statement any cop might toss off in front of an aggrieved citizen, but from anyone else it would have been accompanied by a sly wink to take away any sting from the official warning. Everybody in the know fully understood how such matters were arranged. It was, in a sense, a kind of tribute levied by the underworld, and one played along with it whether he liked it or not.
Shayne didn’t like it himself, but he had picked up some nice fees that way in the past, and the insurance companies were glad to pay a moderate reward instead of sustain a huge loss. A case such as this, involving a fortune in gems which could not be fenced to advantage, was perfect for a fix. The important thing was to get oneself into it as a go-between who could be trusted by both parties. The thing now was to figure out a way to contact the jewel thieves in a hurry before someone else got to them with a proposition.
He turned off on one of the side streets before reaching Fifth and drove slowly, sitting erect behind the wheel and watching each side of the quiet street calculatingly.
A few blocks from the ocean he stopped in the middle of the block. The houses on both sides of the street were dark and there were no cars in sight in either direction. A gravel drive led off to the right, through stone gateposts into the landscaped grounds of a moderately large estate.
He was driving a light sedan which he had bought secondhand when he learned that Lucy Hamilton was coming to Miami. It was of pre-war vintage, but he had given it a new black paint job and it glistened now in the moonlight.
Shayne backed up a few feet, put the sedan in second gear and rolled smoothly toward the entrance of the estate, keeping close to the left-hand side of the drive. Directly opposite the stone gatepost, he wrenched the steering-wheel sharply to the left and there was a loud grating crash as the fender was crumpled against solid stone.
The sedan shivered and rocked to a halt. He calmly put it in reverse and backed out onto the macadam, then went forward and around a corner and on southward past Fifth to South Beach. He parked inconspicuously on a dimly lit side street, got out and hurried to the garish boardwalk, the Coney Island of southern Florida.
There, among hotdog stands and shooting-galleries, he hastily entered a hole-in-the-wall barroom and moved swiftly back behind the row of occupied stools, catching the proprietor’s eye as he passed the cash register and jerking his head significantly toward the rear.
The proprietor was a thin, tubercular looking man with pallid cheeks and small eyes sunk far back beneath bulging brows. He nodded his head slightly in response to Shayne’s signal, rang up a sale and made change, then slid off the stool behind the register. He said something to the nearest bartender, and strolled to the rear where Shayne awaited him.
“Haven’t seen you around much,” he began casually. Shayne seized the man’s thin arm and said, “I’m in a jam, Bert. A hell of a jam.” He paused to lick his lips and went on hoarsely, “Ran into a guy up the street a few minutes ago. I wasn’t going too fast, but it knocked him ten or fifteen feet.”
“Hurt bad?” Bert Haynes pursed his thin lips and looked concerned.
“Hell, I don’t know. Afraid so.” Shayne shrugged and went on rapidly, “I didn’t stop to find out. You know the way I stand with Painter here on the Beach.”
Bert nodded. “I know he’d like to hang something on you, all right.”
“My crate’s parked up the street. Busted fender and headlight. If they pick me up my garage will tell ’em it was all right when I took it out tonight.”
“Tough,” Bert murmured with commiseration.
Shayne’s big hand tightened on his arm. “I’ve been out of circulation a long time, Bert. There must be some place where I can get a fast job done o
n that fender without any questions.”
Bert Haynes blinked both eyes and tightened his bloodless lips against his teeth. “Try Mickey’s Garage. Down near the end of the beach and over a block.” He gave Shayne explicit directions. “I hear around that they know how to keep a buttoned lip on the sort of work they do.”
“Hot stuff?”
“I wouldn’t know. Wait a minute.” He caught Shayne’s sleeve as the redhead started away. “You’re not working?” he asked anxiously. “You wouldn’t work me for a tip with a phoney come-on?”
Shayne laughed shortly. “Have I ever pulled a fast one like that?”
“No. You ain’t for a fact,” he agreed.
“But I am working again,” Shayne said quietly. “You can pass that along to anyone who might be interested.” He hurried out of the small barroom and back to his damaged car, got in and drove around to a neon sign that read: Mickey’s Garage. Gen’l Repairs, Body Work a Specialty.
The wide wooden door leading into the garage was closed. Shayne turned off the street and stopped with his front wheels on the sidewalk. He got out and found a button on one side of the door with a metal plate above it that read: Night Bell.
He put his finger on the button and held it down until the door slid open enough to let a man come through. He wore grimy coveralls and a greasy mechanic’s cap. He scowled inquiringly at the man who had disturbed him, blinked in the glare of the single headlight of Shayne’s car and said, “Yeh? Whadya want?”
“Had an accident.” Shayne gestured toward his car. “I need a fast job before the cops pick me up.”
“I dunno.” The mechanic came through the aperture and went to study the damage to the fender and head light. He shook his head and said, “Rush jobs come high.”
“I don’t give a damn about the cost.” Shayne had his wallet out and began pulling out twenty-dollar bills. “How much to fix me up with a new fender and headlight?”
“Trouble is, we’re busy.” He furtively considered the bills fanned out in Shayne’s hand. “Anybody hurt bad?”
“I’m not paying for a lot of questions,” Shayne countered. He added another twenty to the four in his hand, then, more slowly, another. He closed the wallet and returned it to his pocket. “It won’t be hard to match this new paint job of mine.” He smoothed the six bills together, folded them lengthwise, and slapped them against his palm.
The mechanic nodded and reached for the money. “Drive on in. I’ll get on yours just as soon as I finish the job I’m on.” He stepped back and slid the door all the way open.
Shayne drove inside a big room with half a dozen cars parked around the wall in various stages of dismantlement. He waited just inside while the mechanic closed the door and said, “This doesn’t look too good. If the cops come around-”
The mechanic stepped on the running-board beside him and grinned widely, showing a gap in his front upper teeth. “Never you mind about the law, buddy. Drive straight ahead and turn in between them white lines on the floor.”
As Shayne drove in he neared a solid ten-foot panel that rose slowly to admit passage onto a rickety freight elevator.
The mechanic chuckled at the detective’s surprise when the panel closed soundlessly behind them when the sedan was on the elevator. He stepped from the running-board and pressed a button and the elevator descended slowly to the floor below, which was brightly lighted and resounded with the thumping sounds of a wooden mallet on sheet metal.
“Pull it off over here,” he directed Shayne. “We’ll get to you just as soon as we finish up this other one.”
Shayne drove off the elevator onto a clear space in the underground workroom and cut the ignition. The mechanic strolled over to say a few words to his fellow workman, who was pounding out dents in the right front fender that had been removed from a black limousine.
After lighting a cigarette, Shayne got out and strolled over to the workman to ask casually, “How much longer will you be on that job?”
“Quarter of an hour, maybe. All you got to do is sit tight and you can drive that hack of yours out of here fixed so nobody in God’s world’ll ever know you been in an accident.”
Shayne said, “Fair enough.” He walked around the limousine, looking at it with casual disinterest, memorized the number of the Dade County license plate, then returned to the mechanics and said enthusiastically, “That’s the kind of crate I’d like to own. I suppose a guy would have to be a millionaire to get one like it these days.”
One of them grunted some noncommittal reply, and they both went on with their work.
“I always wondered,” Shayne went on, “how it felt to sit behind the wheel of a buggy like that.”
Neither of the men said anything, but went on with their hammering as though their lives depended upon getting the job finished within a few minutes.
Shayne shrugged and dropped his cigarette to the concrete floor and ground it out with his shoe. He yawned and strolled back to the limousine and leaned inside the front window to study the rich upholstery and the gleaming dashboard.
Glancing at the mechanics, he saw that neither of them was paying any attention to him. The windshield of the big car appeared to be faintly opaque, and Shayne felt the window glass between his thumb and forefinger. It seemed extra thick, and he had a hunch it was intended to be bulletproof.
He unlatched the door and slid onto the soft cushion behind the wheel, switched on the dashlight and pretended interest in the speedometer and various other gadgets.
There was a single key in the ignition lock, and Shayne pressed a button on the glove compartment to search for some clue as to the car’s owner. It came open easily, and he was groping inside the small opening when two men appeared on a wooden stairway leading down from a room upstairs.
The men came slowly toward the limousine, halted, and glared at him. They were both neatly dressed in dark suits, and the slimmer one was quite young. He had thick lips and his eyes bulged a trifle, giving his face an expression of boyish astonishment. His companion was heavier and some twenty years older. He had a thick black mustache and looked like newspaper photographs of Molotov.
He said, “What the hell you doing in there?” and put his right hand inside his coat pocket.
Shayne straightened up and withdrew his hand from the glove compartment. “Sorry,” he said nervously. “Wasn’t anybody around and I didn’t think it’d hurt any to sit here a minute and pretend I was a big shot like the guy that owns this heap.”
The bulky man stopped beside the car and opened the right door with his left hand. He said, “Get out.” He reached inside and slammed the glove compartment shut. “So you didn’t think it’d hurt any if you snooped, huh?”
Shayne slid out from behind the wheel and closed the door on his side. The younger man came around the front of the car and looked at him intently. He said excitedly to his companion, “Listen, Blackie. Ain’t this the dick that had his pitcher in the paper last week?”
Shayne started to turn away, but Blackie caught him by the arm and peered suspiciously at his face. “By God,” he snarled, “you’re right, kid. It’s Mike Shayne. That tough shamus from across the bay. I heard he was back in town lookin’ for trouble.” His right hand was in his coat pocket. He let go of Shayne’s arm and took a backward step. “Shake ’im down, kid.”
Shayne lifted his arms to let the kid shake him down. He said mildly, “I don’t care what you do just so you don’t tell the cops I’m in here getting a busted fender fixed.”
The kid felt over him carefully and said, “It’s okay, Blackie. Do you think-?”
“I think he’s too damned curious,” Blackie said angrily.
“You can see for yourself.” Shayne nodded toward his sedan. “I can’t go out on the street till that’s fixed.”
“Had an accident?”
“Little bust-up on Collins Avenue. You know I don’t stand in with the Beach police, and I’d just as leave not have Painter ask me any questions about that fender
and headlight.”
Blackie’s eyes were narrowed and suspicious. “I’ll just check on that, shamus. Watch him, kid.” He turned aside to a pay telephone against the wall, put in a nickel, and called police headquarters.
He got the traffic bureau and said, “I’m checking on an accident this evening. Anything reported in the last couple of hours?”
He listened a moment, hung up, came back with an ugly scowl on his heavy features and both hands planted deep in his pockets.
“You’re lying, Shayne. What’s the big idea?”
Shayne shrugged and said, “It could have something to do with a ruby bracelet.”
The kid’s eyes widened with anxiety. Blackie’s scowl grew deeper yet. He muttered, “Wise guy, huh?”
“I’m just trying to tell you that I’m back in business and I’ve got the same in with the insurance people that I always had. If you know anybody that’s got a ruby bracelet for sale, I’m ready to make an offer. Just pass the word around. That Mike Shayne is in the market and can be reached at the same old place.”
“Jeez, Blackie,” said the kid uneasily. “I don’t think-”
Blackie said, “Keep your trap shut and watch him.” He went back to the telephone and dialed another number. This time he put his mouth close to the mouthpiece and talked in a low mumble which Shayne could not hear.
He hung up after a time and came back to the detective with a pleased smile on his dark features, pushing his Panama hat up on his forehead.
Shayne said, “No hard feeling. I don’t blame you-”
Blackie’s left hand came out of his pocket in a swinging arc. Light was momentarily reflected from a pair of brass knucks before they connected solidly with the side of Shayne’s chin. He went down and out under the smashing impact.
Chapter Eight
WHAT IN HELL GOES ON?
Blood on the Stars ms-15 Page 6
