Two men had followed her inside the room. Shayne was not aware of their entrance. He waited, staring back into her fear-dilated eyes, seeing the lips tremble uncontrollably, then part enough to allow three words to be wrenched from her throat:
“I’m sorry. I.…”
She got no further.
The two men who followed her inside had strode forward, and one of them shouldered her roughly aside, thrusting her back against the wall and moving slightly behind Shayne as he did so.
He was a big man, with hulking shoulders that strained the seams of a light brown gabardine suit-coat. Heavy-boned and black-haired wrists extended well below the cuffs, and his hands were the size of picnic hams. He had a moon-like expanse of ruddy face, with an incongruously small and pursed-up mouth beneath a wide, flattened nose through which he breathed stertorously. His eyes were small, and inflamed like those of a maddened boar as they glared down at the detective.
His companion was tall and slender and wore a conservative, pin-stripe business suit, and a natty snap-brim hat tilted low over searching black eyes. He was in his mid-thirties, with rather high cheekbones and a cleanly sculptured jaw that gave his face a curiously ascetic expression. He stood calmly in front of Shayne, no single flicker of expression on his face as the black eyes beneath the low brim of the hat carefully studied and assayed the seated detective.
Smoke curled up lazily from a cigarette in his left hand. His right hand was thrust deep in the side coat pocket that clearly showed the outline of a stubby automatic. Probably a .32, Shayne thought mechanically.
Shayne made no movement. Both hands were in front of him on the table. After his first swift glance at the bigger man, he disregarded him and gave his entire attention to the other.
He said, “I think there’s some mistake.”
“No mistake,” the tall man said. His voice was pleasant and supremely self-confident. “Want to talk to you. Outside.”
Shayne lifted his glass of brandy and took a deep swallow, eyes not leaving the other’s face. There was the briefest nod, and a ham-like fist crashed against his right temple like the kick of a mule. The brandy glass flew against the wall, and Shayne was catapulted sidewise so his body was wedged in the corner between the wooden table and the back of the booth.
From a long distance away he heard a shrilly whimpering exhalation of breath from the girl who had stopped at his booth and started to speak to him. The most beautiful girl Michael Shayne had ever seen in his life—and an absolute stranger to him.
There was no further sound in the bar-room.
Shayne set his teeth together hard and slowly pushed himself erect. The tall slender man had not moved. His face was as dangerously non-expressive as before. His black eyes continued to study the rugged features of the red-headed detective with the same impersonal interest as before.
He said, “Outside,” and took a single backward step, right hand still bunched in his coat pocket.
Shayne put his hands on the table in front of him and pushed his wide-shouldered body as erect as the narrow space between table and bench would allow.
Thus, with knees slightly bent and leaning forward from the waist for balance, he awkwardly sidled out of the booth.
As he straightened to his full height in the aisle, his left foot shot out behind him in a vicious kick aimed in the general direction of the big man’s groin, and at the same instant he dived headlong at the slender man with the gun.
The sole of his shoe struck solid flesh behind him and gave his body impetus that threw him into the other man before he could sidestep. They crashed to the floor together and Shayne had his big hand over the pocketed automatic before it was fired.
But he had missed the vital target behind him, for while he and the gunman were still rolling on the floor under the first impact of his dive, the toe of a number twelve shoe caught him squarely on the side of the neck just below the cheekbone, not quite wrenching his head completely off his shoulders.
For one brief instant everything blacked-out. It was purely by instinct that the grip of his hand on the automatic did not weaken and that his other hand found the throat of the writhing figure beneath him. Shayne’s body acted as a superb fighting machine that had been wound up and set into motion, and his reflexes took over during that brief period of unconsciousness.
Then the big man undid what he had done before by kicking him viciously again. This time the toe of his shoe landed in Shayne’s ribs as he was rolling on the floor on top of the gunman, and the impact brought him back to sharp awareness.
He was wedged half under a booth, but the automatic came free in his hand and he whirled onto his back and fired upward once at the blurred hulk of the second man stepping in for the kill.
He knew he had missed as he pulled the trigger, but the big man halted momentarily and Shayne dragged himself to his knees with the gun ready, blinking his eyes desperately to sweep the red mist of pain away, and he was barely conscious of swift movement toward him from the front of the bar—a third man hurrying in to help the first pair.
He swung his head desperately against the pull of bruised neck muscles, trying to align the automatic against the new threat, but his muscles refused to respond fast enough to save him.
He didn’t see the short length of lead pipe that clunked solidly against the side of his head. He didn’t see anything at all for some little time.
When life did come back to him he realized he was huddled half on the floor and half on the back seat of a moving car. There was someone on the seat beside him, and he heard a voice speaking from in front. It was the cold, incisive voice he had heard in the bar: “Put it back in his pocket where you got it, Mule. And don’t try to slip even a buck out of it. This has got to be a straight hit-run accident and no fooling about it.”
There was a low rumble of disgust from the man in the back with him, and Shayne felt a big hand feeling over his body for his hip pocket and slipping something into it. His wallet, he supposed from what he had just overheard.
They had made some sort of mistake, of course. The girl and the two men who had evidently followed her into the bar. This hadn’t happened to Michael Shayne. It had happened to him, of course, but not to Michael Shayne per se.
But they hadn’t wanted to argue the matter back in the bar. They hadn’t been at all interested in any explanation. The voice came from the front seat again:
“Still passed out, Mule?”
Close beside him on the back seat, a hoarse rumble responded disgustedly, “Cold like a mackerel. Hell, I didn’t kick him hard as all that. To look at him, you’da thought.…”
“Just so he doesn’t die on us for another half mile,” the pleasant voice cautioned. “Sure he’s still breathing?”
Shayne made all his muscles stay limp while his rear-seat companion fumbled for a wrist and found the pulse.
“Yeh. Sure. He’s okay.”
Neither of them said anything else. The car moved forward smoothly at moderate speed. Another half mile! Shayne had very little idea how long he had been unconscious—how long they had been driving. They were out of the city, he knew. There was country silence around them. They met an occasional car speeding in the opposite direction.
So it was all right if he just stayed alive for another half mile! After that it wouldn’t matter.
Why not?
Because he was slated to get it then in any event, of course. Whether he had returned to consciousness in the interim or not.
There was something particularly cold-blooded about that inference.
He was quite sure, now, that he didn’t wish to discuss the matter of a possible mistake in identity with this pair in the car. His instinct told him that the faintest show of returning consciousness would earn him nothing more than another sledge-hammer blow from one of Mule’s big fists.
And that he simply couldn’t take under the circumstances. Crammed down on the floor as he was with only his chest and shoulders resting on the cushion, he was in
no condition at all to argue with the man whom he had heard called Mule.
The brakes went on evenly, and the driver’s pleasant voice announced, “This looks just about right. A nice long straight stretch where we can see a car coming from either way.”
The car came to a smooth stop. The door opened on the side away from Shayne and Mule grunted, “You stay put, Gene. I’ll handle this hunk of meat easy.”
Shayne stayed a limp hunk of meat while huge hands caught his shoulders and dragged him roughly out of the car. He made his eyes stay shut without screwing up the lids while the strong beam of a flashlight sprayed over his face.
“Good enough,” said the driver approvingly. “Lucky for you you didn’t put any marks on his face back there that wouldn’t fit a hit-run. You remember how I told you we’d handle it?”
“Sure, Gene.” Mule’s voice was placating. “Long’s he’s out cold it’ll be easy. You back off, huh, and come fast? I hold him up here side thuh road like a rag-doll, see, an’ shove him out in front so the bumper hits him square. That’ll do it fine.”
As Mule spoke, he lifted Shayne’s limp body by the shoulders so his feet dangled inches above the ground. He held the detective’s hundred ninety pounds of dead weight like that for a moment as easily, Shayne realized, as a child might, indeed, hold a rag-doll aloft. Then he lowered him again to a crumpled heap as Gene warned him:
“We hold off if a car comes from either direction. Drag him back into the borrow-pit and wait till it’s clear.”
“Sure, Gene. I know. Just like you tol’ me.”
Shayne heard the car go into gear and start backing away. He stayed hunched down and relaxed while the receding headlights fanned out to encompass them on the edge of the pavement.
He doubted that Mule would have a gun. A man like Gene was unlikely to trust him with one. Not on a mission like this. Not when they couldn’t afford to have a bullet-wound found in a body to be left beside the road presumably the victim of a hit-run driver.
The receding lights were some distance away now. Crouched as he was at Mule’s feet, Shayne’s eyes were wide open and shrewdly calculating.
There was silence and darkness about them. They appeared to be on a deserted stretch of two-lane country highway, and the only headlights visible in either direction were those of Gene’s car as he backed away a sufficient distance to get up good speed before he reached them again.
He had stopped now. Some three hundred yards back, Shayne judged. And almost immediately the lights moved again. Coming forward this time. Slowly and then faster.
The swelling drone of the heavy motor became a roar in the night silence as the automobile rushed toward them at ever-increasing speed.
Mule stooped down to pick up the inert body at his feet. The oncoming headlights were bright now, rushing toward them at eighty feet per second.
Mule’s big hands gripped Shayne’s torso beneath the armpits from behind and lifted him easily.
As he came erect, Shayne put everything into one twisting motion that jerked the hands loose and brought him face to face with the big man.
This time his knee found the groin unerringly and Mule gasped and pitched forward off balance into the path of the speeding car.
Brakes screamed as Gene’s headlights lighted the roadside struggle, but it was far too late to avert the collision now.
The heavy car slewed violently, but Shayne’s shove from behind sent the big man directly in front of the bumper and there was a sickening, high-pitched scream of animal terror that was cut off abruptly by a bone-crushing thud of hurtling steel smashing into two hundred pounds of flesh and bone and cartilage.
Shayne whirled away at the instant of impact and leaped into the shallow borrow-pit, clambered up the opposite bank and through a barbed wire fence into an open field without looking back.
He ran swiftly and easily in the faint starlight, taking a course diagonally away from the road and back in the direction from which the car had come.
There was utter silence behind him now, but in his ears there still lingered the inhuman cry of agony that had been wrenched from a man’s throat as he died in the manner Shayne had been supposed to die.
2
Shayne ran steadily across the fields for fifteen minutes, slowing to a dogged trot after his first burst of speed, then to a walk when he reached another barbed wire fence that bordered a dirt road running approximately parallel to the highway behind him.
Dimly in the distance, some three or four miles, he judged, there was a faint glow on the skyline that marked the city lights of Brockton.
At least, he supposed it would be Brockton. He hadn’t noted the exact time when he stopped at the bar for a quiet drink before dinner, but it hadn’t been quite dark and he imagined it must have been close to seven o’clock.
It was fully dark now, and his watch told him it was a few minutes after eight. He had been in the bar not more than fifteen minutes, he thought, before the girl entered. So he couldn’t have been unconscious long enough to have been carried too far from Brockton. Not far enough, certainly, so he would be this close to another Central Florida town large enough to give off such a glow of light as was ahead.
He had terrific headache, and the neck muscles on the right were so numb and bruised that he was forced to carry his head slightly askew to make the pain bearable, but that was the extent of the physical damage he had suffered as far as he was able to tell.
There were farmhouses dotted along the dusty country road as he strode along toward the lights of the city, but he hesitated about going up to one of the houses and trying to arrange for a ride into town.
He was in no great hurry to get back, he told himself grimly. He had a lot of thinking to do before he reached his parked car again.
If it was still there in front of the bar where he had left it. And walking, any sort of physical exercise, was good for thinking.
There were so many unanswered questions. Who—how—why?
Who was the girl who fingered him in the bar? And the men named Gene and Mule?
Mule was a type he knew well, and who could be dismissed from real consideration. First, because he was obviously a half-witted brute who would happily kill on orders from Gene; and also because Shayne didn’t think Mule was likely to enter into the picture again—not after the sound Shayne had heard of the impact between the bumper of the speeding car and Mule’s body.
Gene was a different matter. Cold anger and a helpless sense of outrage sent a tremor up and down Shayne’s spine as he considered Gene. He had never, he told himself flatly, encountered an individual whom he so much desired to meet again. And the third man whom he hadn’t even seen?
But it was difficult to keep his thoughts on Gene and the other man more than fleetingly. Inevitably and without his volition, they returned to the Girl.
For now he was so thinking of her. With a capital G. Back and forth in his mind, he went over and over each moment that had followed her arresting appearance in the doorway.
A girl of eighteen. An exquisite beauty. With every external sign of character and breeding. Yet she had deliberately come to that bar-room, had deliberately selected him sitting at the booth as her victim, had deliberately put the finger on him for two of the most murderously inclined gents he had encountered for a long time.
Somehow, he couldn’t doubt that she had known exactly what she was doing. That she had known they were behind her, and that when she stopped and spoke to Shayne she was deliberately signing his death warrant.
Looking back on it carefully, he couldn’t doubt that. Those fleeting impressions he had received from her face as she approached him. She had known what she was doing.
But why? In the name of God, why?
Even granting that somehow, someone had divined that he would be seated in that particular bar at that time, and granting also that somehow the girl had recognized him—still, why?
He wasn’t working on any case. He had just completed a lazy week of vaca
tioning with congenial friends in Mobile, and he didn’t know a reason in the world why anyone should want to waylay him. Sure, he’d made plenty of enemies among criminals during the past ten or fifteen years—but that was in the past. Anyone who had a killing grudge against him had had many, many much better opportunities to bump him off in Miami than this crazy set-up tonight.
Twice he stepped to the side of the dirt road and concealed himself in the bushes to allow a car to pass. One in each direction. One of them could have been Gene still looking for him—and he didn’t want to meet Gene again quite yet. Not until he had oriented himself a little and gotten a gun out of the glove compartment of his car. Also, he was nearing the outskirts of Brockton now, and he still had more thinking to do before deciding how to play the queer hand of cards that had been dealt to him.
There was one faint possibility, he decided. Could be something had come up in Miami after he left Mobile that morning. Some new client whom Lucy had told that he was driving back from Mobile and wouldn’t be back until late. Some case so important that someone had gone to a hell of a lot of trouble to stop him in Brockon before he reached Miami to handle it.
A telephone call to Lucy would settle that, of course. Even if it did prove true—there was still the riddle of the Girl.
The dirt road turned into macadam, and then into a city street with small houses dotted along either side. Shayne turned off on the first side street he reached, which seemed better lighted and more thickly populated, and before he had walked two blocks was lucky enough to flag down a cab that had just dropped a fare at a house ahead.
Shayne climbed in the back and gratefully relaxed against the cushions as the cab pulled away. The driver turned his head to ask, “Where to, Mister?”
The question brought Shayne up with a jerk. Where to, indeed! How could he describe the bar-room where he had parked his car? He hadn’t noticed the name of the place, nor even the street it was on.
Death Has Three Lives Page 17
