Shayne staggered, half turned back toward the street, then slumped down on the concrete sidewalk.
The sedan lurched away in a screaming circle, darted north to mingle with the midnight downtown traffic.
A crowd gathered, and Shayne lay still. Police whistles shrilled through the night, and an ambulance siren shrieked, and the shriek died to a moan as brakes squealed and white-coated young men leaped out. After a hasty examination Shayne was placed on a stretcher, and the siren rose to a shriek again as it tore off toward Jackson Memorial Hospital. The crowds dissolved. There was only a red stain on the concrete to show where Shayne had lain. Then the hotel porter came and washed that away, and there was nothing.
Shayne stopped groaning and began joking with the ambulance riders as they drew up at the entrance. They stripped his long-muscled body and found that two .45 slugs had ripped through his right shoulder, smashing the collarbone. Another had grazed the ribs on his right side, and the fourth bullet had bored cleanly through the flesh just below his right ribs. He asked for a cigarette while they cleansed and dressed the wounds, and cursed amiably when he was informed he would have to wear a cast for at least two weeks and must avoid strenuous exertion.
He had lost a lot of blood, and the doctor in charge of the emergency ward said he had better spend the night there and go home in the morning.
Shayne said he’d be damned if he’d sleep on one of those cots. He winced with pain but sat up doggedly and asked someone to call him a taxi.
Another ambulance came screeching up with an accident victim. No one paid any attention to Shayne as they gathered about the stretcher to see whether fate had been kind and delivered them an interesting case to practice on.
An orderly who had been on the second ambulance sauntered over to Shayne and asked him for a light.
Shayne gave it to him. The orderly said, “You’re Michael Shayne, the detective, aren’t you?”
Shayne admitted his identity. The orderly was a young fellow with an agreeable smile. He said admiringly, “They can’t kill you, huh?”
Shayne said they hadn’t so far but he didn’t want to take any chances on getting sliced up by staying in the emergency ward all night.
The orderly thought that was very funny and he had a good laugh. Then he said, “Business seems to be picking up in your line, Mr. Shayne. Two murders in two nights. Miami’ll grow up into a city if we keep on.”
Shayne said, “Yeah,” without much interest, but the orderly wasn’t to be put off.
“Funny about them having another killing up at the same place where that woman was murdered last night.”
Shayne stiffened. His tongue licked out to wet his lips. “Brighton’s?”
“Yeah, that’s the place. I was talking to one of the fellows from a Beach hospital downtown, and he said it just happened a little while—”
Shayne interrupted hoarsely. “Who was it tonight?”
“Some girl.” The orderly wrinkled his brow and tried to remember.
“A girl?” Shayne’s left hand reached out and got hold of the young fellow’s shoulder.
“Yeah.” The youth winced and looked at him curiously. He started to say something jokingly about Shayne not breaking his shoulder, but he didn’t when he saw the detective’s face.
“I remember now. It was a nurse that’s working there. I guess she had been stepping out and was just coming in. I think they said her name was Hunt—something like that. She had just stepped out of a taxi and was going up to the door when someone bopped her twice through the head with a .25 automatic.”
Shayne exhaled slowly. His fingers loosened their grip on the white-coated shoulder. He sank back on the hospital cot as the attending physician came to him briskly, saying, “Of course, if you feel you’ll be more comfortable in your own bed we’ll be glad to arrange to have you taken there.”
Shayne shook his head. “Thanks, doc. I’ve changed my mind. I believe I’ll feel more comfortable with some company tonight.”
CHAPTER 10
AN INTERN HELPED SHAYNE get his clothes on the next morning. His wounds had been freshly dressed, and it was evident that no complications were likely. His collarbone and shoulder were in a plaster cast, his right arm in a sling.
With the exception of a painfully stiff right side Shayne felt pretty good. He bummed a ride in an ambulance to the corner of Flagler Street and Second Avenue, where he bought a morning Herald and sauntered up to Child’s Restaurant for breakfast. Ordering bacon and eggs, buttered toast, and lots of coffee, he spread the newspaper out with his left hand and began to catch up on the events of last night.
The murder of Charlotte Hunt had pushed the attack on Michael Shayne out of the headlines, for which he was duly grateful. He read the account of her death slowly and with great care, grimacing at the repeated mention of a possible love angle and the reiterated assumption that she was returning from an assignation in Miami when killed.
The only real basis for this assumption was the small caliber of the “death weapon,” which suggested a woman and probable jealousy. It wasn’t much but it was all the authorities had to work on. At the time of going to press the taxi driver who brought her home had not been located, having driven away from the estate before his passenger was murdered. Peter Painter was prominently quoted as positively asserting the murder would be solved as soon as the driver was located and it was learned from him where he had picked up the nurse for her last ride.
There was nothing at all in the front-page story to indicate the police believed there was any connection between the murders of Mrs. Brighton and Charlotte Hunt, but merely a brief paragraph commenting on the apparent coincidence of the two deaths. Another brief item on the front page mentioned that Phyllis Brighton had not yet been apprehended and was still being sought for questioning in connection with her mother’s murder.
The waitress brought Shayne’s order as he began reading a somewhat casual account of the attack upon him. According to the story, newspaper reporters had been turned away from the hospital where he lay at the point of death. There were no clues to the identity of his attackers except their method, which pointed to a gang reprisal. Mention was briefly made of his anti-criminal activities, and it was suggested that he had been put on the spot by persons whose enmity he had aroused in the past.
Shayne munched a piece of toast and ate a strip of bacon as he turned to the second page which was given to pictures of the Brighton estate and photographs of the various persons involved in the two killings, together with statements by local and state officials. The state, it appeared further, offered a thousand-dollar reward for the arrest of Mrs. Brighton’s murderer or murderers. Shayne chuckled aloud as he read another lengthy, obviously dictated statement by Peter Painter promising an immediate arrest and offering two hundred and fifty dollars as a personal reward for information leading to the apprehension of the miscreant or miscreants. But his face was grim as he laid the paper down and belatedly went on to eat the rest of his breakfast. He reflected that things were beginning to get interesting. There had been over a grand laid on the line so far. And those offers, he reminded himself, had all been made before the second murder. If they hooked the two killings together and still didn’t get an arrest, he calculated the chances were good for the amount of the rewards being doubled.
When he had finished his eggs and ordered more coffee he turned to the editorial page. A scathing editorial there took cognizance of the double murder on the Beach; asked pointedly if there might not be some connection between the two; and sarcastically inquired what, if anything, the man in charge of the Beach detective force intended to do to make the lives of the other residents safe.
Shayne pushed the paper aside and chuckled grimly. He drank his second cup of coffee, paid his bill, and went out. It was only a block and a half to his hotel.
The staff and guests of the building gathered excitedly about him in the lobby, but he brushed aside their questions with the smiling assertion that he wo
uld live and that he was on the trail of the persons who had shot him down.
There was a lengthy night letter in his mailbox. He read it as he went up on the elevator. It was from a customs officer in Laredo, Texas.
HENDERSON ARRIVED LAST EVENING BY TRAIN AND CHARTERED PRIVATE PLANE TO CONTINUE TRIP TO JACKSONVILLE FLORIDA WHERE HE WILL MAKE CONNECTIONS WITH PAN AMERICAN AT NOON TO MIAMI STOP HE DECLARED FOR ENTRY ONE PAINTING VALUE FIVE HUNDRED BY R M ROBERTSON WHO IS WELL KNOWN IN ART CIRCLES AS IMITATOR OF RAPHAELS WORK STOP COMMUNICATE IF I CAN HELP FURTHER
Shayne unlocked his door, went into his apartment, and laid the message on the table. Everything was as he had left it last night. His first, almost inevitable action was to go to the cabinet and take a stiff drink of cognac. After that he sat down, uncomfortably, and lit a cigarette. Things were evidently coming to a head, but the pattern as he saw it didn’t make any sense. After a time he read the message carefully a second time, then got up and went to his coat in a closet. There he got the cablegram he had taken from Mrs. Brighton’s handbag the night of her death. Back at the table he laid the messages side by side and read first one and then the other while he finished his cigarette. Finally he got up decisively and went to the telephone.
He called a number and waited. A hoarse, accented voice answered. He said, “Tony? This is Mike—Shayne.”
“Mike? I read in the papers that you was dead, maybe.”
“Not quite. I’ve got a job for you, Tony. Get this straight. It’s plenty important.”
“Yeah. I get it, Mike.”
“There’s a man named Henderson coming in on the Pan American plane that leaves Jacksonville at noon. You can check on what time it gets in here.”
“I’m listening.”
“He may not be using his right name on the passenger list. I’ll leave a picture of him in an envelope in my mailbox downstairs. You can pick it up this morning. There’ll also be five C’s in the envelope. This guy has got a painting that’s worth that much to me. Get it from him and leave it down at the desk for me.”
“A painting, boss?”
“Sure. A picture. You know—painted on canvas.”
“What kinda picture, boss?”
“Hell, I don’t know. Maybe it’ll be a picture of a man, maybe a mule. Or a mountain, or maybe a Goddamned apple. He’ll only have one picture with him. Get it for me.”
“Yeah.” Tony sounded doubtful. “Is it a big picture? In a swell frame, maybe?”
“I don’t know. It may not even be framed. It doesn’t matter. Doesn’t half a grand talk?”
“Oh, sure, boss. I get it for you. No rough stuff, huh?”
“No more than necessary. I don’t want him hurt. And don’t, for God’s sake, let me show in it at all.”
“Oh, sure not. You know me, Mike.”
“Yeah. I know you. That’s the reason I’m warning you to go easy. This is dynamite, Tony.”
The voice assured him again that he would be very careful in carrying out the assignment, and Shayne hung up.
He took another drink, put the cablegram and telegram in his pocket, got the photograph of D. Q. Henderson which Gordon had given him and the two bills which the square-faced man had paid him as a retainer. Going down to the desk he got an envelope and scrawled Tony on the front of it with his left hand. Putting Henderson’s picture inside, he passed the unsealed envelope and the two thousand-dollar bills across to the clerk.
“Get one of those bills broken and put five hundred in the envelope and seal it,” he directed. “Leave the envelope in my box for a mug named Tony who will be in to get it sometime this morning. Put the other fifteen hundred bucks in the safe for me. Tony is supposed to leave a package for me sometime this afternoon. I don’t know how big it’ll be. Put it in the safe if it’s not too big—and put it some place where it’ll be safe if it’s too big.”
“I understand, Mr. Shayne.” The clerk took the envelope and the two bills.
“And forget it,” Shayne instructed further.
The clerk said he would, and Shayne went out to the hotel garage and got into his car. By devious maneuvering he backed it out with only his left hand, got it in second gear and left it there until he had passed all the traffic lights and was headed north on Biscayne Boulevard.
Then he shifted to high and drove across the causeway to Miami Beach.
At the Brighton estate he parked his car where he had on previous occasions, but did not go up to the front door. He followed the driveway instead, going along the south side of the house to the garage. One of the doors stood open, and he could see a car inside, but the chauffeur did not make an appearance as Shayne stalked directly to the stairway and climbed up to the chauffeur’s quarters.
He tried the knob at the top without knocking. The door opened inward. He went in and looked around. It was not a large room, plainly furnished with an old couch, several chairs, and a rough writing-desk.
Two doors opened off the rear of the room. The one on the right was closed. The other stood open.
He went to the open door and peered in at an accumulation of odds and ends of discarded and broken furniture. Grimy rear windows looked out over the Atlantic Ocean, and cobwebs were festooned on the ceiling and walls. A thick layer of dust lay on all pieces of furniture.
There was a small clear space directly in front of the door. It had been swept clean of dust very recently.
Shayne stood on the threshold and studied the interior of the room a long time, finally getting down on his knees and examining faint scratches on the newly swept boards. They extended across the threshold, and he moved out on his knees, following the dim marks across the floor to the outer door. They appeared to have been made by dragging some heavy object recently from the storeroom out to the steps.
He got up, dusted off his knees, went to the closed door and jerked it open.
It was Oscar’s bedroom, but the chauffeur was not to be seen.
Shayne went in and looked things over. It was furnished with a single bed, an old dresser, two straight chairs, and there was a lavatory in one corner. A closet in another corner held two cheap suits, an overcoat, a raincoat, a chauffeur’s uniform, and a pair of much-washed coveralls. There was a cobweb clinging to one of the coverall sleeves, and the knees were dirt-stained since it had been laundered. Shayne knelt stiffly and turned down the wide cuff at the bottom. Sand spilled out. Not dirt. Fresh, clean beach sand.
Shayne backed out of the closet, breathing hard. A wooden tool chest stood at the foot of the bed. It opened readily. Inside was a bewildering assortment of wrenches, hammers, hacksaws, and the accumulated nuts, bolts, and odds and ends which a mechanic tosses into his tool chest. Shayne fumbled through them, lifted out a cloth-wrapped roll which he untied and spread out on the floor. His expression did not change as he found himself looking down at a complete set of burglar’s tools.
He tied the roll up again, replaced it, and put down the lid. In the front room, he hesitated a moment, then went out. A deep scratch led from the doorway to the top of the stairs.
He started down and saw Oscar come around the corner of the garage. The chauffeur stopped and stared when he saw Shayne.
The detective paused on the bottom step and awkwardly got a cigarette between his lips with his left hand. He lit it as Oscar moved nearer.
Oscar’s face was a curious study in conflicting emotions. Fear and anger were there, but they were overlaid by a placating smile. He wet his thick lips, and his gaze was fixed on Shayne’s injured arm in its sling.
“Say,” he rumbled, “I didn’t do that, did I?” All of Shayne’s face except his eyes smiled. He said, “I don’t know. Did you?”
He stepped off onto the ground and looked levelly into the eyes of the man who had kicked him in the face yesterday.
“I—didn’t think so,” Oscar mumbled. “I didn’t see that your arm was hurt when I left you in your car on the causeway.”
Shayne said placidly, “Your foot’s pretty heavy, Oscar.
It’s dangerous business, kicking people around like that. You can’t tell what complications will develop.” The smile left his face. His nostrils flared at the base as his breath came faster.
“Well, say, I—I guess I got mad yesterday.” He dropped his gaze. “I—hadn’t oughtta done that.”
“No,” said Shayne softly, “you really hadn’t oughtta, Oscar.”
“Well, I—I’m sorry.”
“You’re going to be a hell of a lot sorrier,” Shayne said in the same level tone.
Oscar’s big hands doubled into fists, and he took a step forward.
Shayne said, “Better not, Oscar. Don’t push your luck too far.”
“I hate cops that come messing around,” Oscar said heavily.
“I hate lugs who don’t keep their feet where they belong.” Shayne turned and went toward the house while Oscar stood and looked after him with his mouth open.
Going in the rear door, Shayne passed an open door leading in the kitchen. He stopped and spoke to a fat Negress who was rolling out pie crusts and humming “Jesus Loves Me.”
“Hello, Mammy. I’m looking for the gardener.”
She ceased humming and rolled her eyes at him. “Dey ain’ no gahdner heah dat I knows ’bout.”
“Who takes care of the lawn and flowers? Does the chauffeur do it?”
“Dat Oscah man? Lawsy, no.” Her fat body shook with mirth. “He don’ do nuffin, ’cep’ walk aroun’ lookin’ mad an’ skeerin’ folkses.”
He thanked her and went on thoughtfully, meeting no one on his way to the library where he peered in. Clarence was sprawled out in a deep chair with his back to the door. Shayne stepped back and went on without being observed. He went up the rear stairway that Phyllis had shown him that first night. At the top he stopped and listened. An oppressive silence gripped the house. A heavy, unnatural silence. The silence of death, Shayne told himself wryly.
He went quietly down to the sickroom at the end of the hall and opened the door without knocking. A girl in a nurse’s uniform was sitting in a rocking chair by the window.
Dividend on Death Page 10
