Geely and Hatchet-face marched Shayne past the table toward the desk sergeant in the rear while all the card players stared at the sight, and Shayne twisted his head to snarl a single sentence to the reporter: “Get Tim Rourke.”
Geely shouldered him forward roughly as he spoke, and Shayne set his teeth again and went with them in stony-faced silence to face the sergeant whom he had also known for years and who carefully avoided looking at him while he was officially booked for speeding, resisting arrest, and attempted bribery.
Shayne gave his name, address and occupation in a steady voice, demanded permission to telephone a lawyer and was told he could do that later. The reporter, Edwards, was loudly clamoring for a word from him and an explanation of the charges from the two arresting officers, but he was rudely shoved back and Michael Shayne was marched back through a dingy corridor and unceremoniously locked into a cell.
He stayed in the cell three hours. During that period he smoked all his cigarettes and worked hard at the job of accepting the situation philosophically. It was the most difficult thing he had ever done, but he knew from long experience that anger wasn’t going to get him anywhere. Nor, he conceded moodily, were mere innocence and outraged denials of guilt. He had been in the business long enough to fully realize that when the police decide to frame a man, there is nothing to prevent their doing so. The sworn testimony of two police officers in court would be accepted at face value by any judge or jury against the unsupported denials of a citizen.
He knew, too, that as soon as word of his situation got through to Timothy Rourke, the wheels would be set in motion to effect his release as swiftly as possible, and that Edwards would contact Rourke at once.
So there wasn’t any use wasting time thinking about that phase of it.
The one thing that remained as a possible subject for constructive thought was the single question: Why?
His arrest hadn’t been an accident. He wasn’t naive enough to accept that answer. He knew he had been driving less than thirty miles an hour when picked up, and even if Geely and Hatchet-face were two over-zealous eager beavers who had been attracted by that slight excess over the legal limit, their further actions after stopping him were proof enough that it wasn’t merely a routine traffic pick-up.
Orders from Peter Painter were, of course, the obvious answer. He had been on Alton Road nearing the Peralta address just prior to four-thirty when the incident occurred. If Painter had known the hour of his appointment, it would have been simple enough to have the two officers planted on Alton Road to pick him up on some pretext.
But again: Why? Why in the name of God should Painter go to such lengths to keep him away from Julio Peralta? True, he and the Beach detective chief had clashed often in the past, and Painter had more than once openly sought to prevent his practicing his profession on the Beach, but a phony arrest and faked charges were going far beyond anything that had happened before.
By the time two hours and a half had passed and Shayne had smoked his last cigarette, he had achieved to a fair degree the philosophical mood he sought. Painter (if it were indeed Painter behind it) had him where the hair was short, and that was that. He couldn’t, Shayne thought, hold him in jail more than a few hours. Rourke would see to it that bond was forthcoming, and Shayne resolved to circumspectly keep his mouth shut after he was released until he could do some digging into the whys and wherefores. There was the matter of the bad manners of Hatchet-face and Geely to be disposed of, but that could well wait until later.
Michael Shayne was lying stretched out at full length on the iron bunk with a folded mattress under him when a turnkey opened the door of his cell at seven-thirty.
Shayne swung long legs over the edge of the bunk and sat up, rumpling his hair and grinning. “Got a cigarette on you, Bud?”
“I don’t smoke and my name ain’t Bud and front and center with you,” the turnkey said surlily, holding the cell door open.
Shayne went out and down the aisle to a small, brilliantly lighted room where Timothy Rourke was pacing nervously up and down, and a small, neat gentleman sat quietly on one of the wooden benches enjoying a cigar.
Rourke hurried to meet Shayne with a woried frown. “What in hell have you stepped into this time, Mike? Goddamn that black Irish temper of yours.”
Shayne grinned and said, “Give me a cigarette, Tim.”
“Sure. Keep the pack.” Rourke extended a battered pack and waved to the small, neat gentleman. “Mr. Belknap, Mike. He’s counsel for the News, and arranged your bond.”
“How much?” Shayne shook out a cigarette, lighted it and inhaled deeply.
“A thousand bucks. Everything is set for you to walk out, Mike, except Petey wants us in his office first.”
“Painter?” Shayne frowned down at his cigarette, then asked the lawyer complainingly, “If the bond is fixed, can’t I tell him to go fly a kite?”
“I don’t advise that course of action, Mr. Shayne.” Attorney Belknap had a surprisingly deep and resonant voice. He stood up and flicked ashes from his cigar. “This way, please.”
He turned and went sedately through a door and Shayne shrugged at Rourke with lifted eyebrows, then followed him. They went down another corridor to Peter Painter’s private office, where Belknap entered solemnly and sat in a chair near the door. Painter sat importantly at his desk in the center of the room flanked by Cleve Edwards of the Herald and another reporter whom Shayne knew slightly as a wire-man for one of the news services.
Painter was a slender, dark man who sat very erect behind a big desk. He had a pencil-thin black mustache and very black eyes which glittered as Shayne entered with Timothy Rourke.
He said swiftly, “I’ve asked these gentlemen of the press to be present, Shayne, so they’ll be able to report objectively that there is no personal animus whatever behind your arrest this afternoon.”
Shayne thrust his hands in his pockets, dragged deeply on his cigarette and said nothing.
“You are a mere citizen like any other man, Shayne,” said Painter severely. “We have laws here in our municipality and officers to enforce those laws. Your license as a private detective gives you no special privileges in Miami Beach. I want you to know, and I trust it will be fully noted in the public press, that I am officially commending officers Harris and Geely for courageous and impartial discharge of their duties in connection with your arrest this afternoon.”
“So Harris is the name of the guy who slapped me,” said Shayne, lazily. “Thanks. I’ll remember that.”
Blood came into Painter’s thin, dark features. He raised a small fist and thudded it lightly on the desk in front of him. “Officer Harris is especially commended for meeting with physical force your efforts to resist arrest.”
“If he’d sapped a defenseless man,” asked Shayne with interest, “would he have got a promotion?”
Painter half rose from his chair. His narrow shoulders were shaking with wrath and he pointed a trembling finger at Shayne: “You’re out on bail and I advise you to watch your step, Shamus. You know now that my men are incorruptible and not at all impressed by newspaper stories of your physical prowess. You will be well advised to steer clear of the honest indignation that has been aroused in the entire force here on the Beach by your brazen effort to buy your way free this afternoon. Think that over before you come across the Causeway again.” He sank back into his chair and waved a hand. “That’s all. I hope I’ve made myself clear.”
Shayne said, “Quite clear, thanks.” He turned and strode out of the room on hard heels with Rourke troting along beside him.
“What’s it all about, Mike?” demanded Rourke as they went out into the night air from a side exit. “What the devil has Petey got his tail up in the air about this time?”
“That,” said Shayne, “is what I’m going to try and find out. And God help Harris and Geely if they get in my way again.”
He stopped beside his parked car to draw in deep breaths of night air and drive away the last vest
iges of murderous rage that still lingered after he had forced himself to accept Painter’s tongue-lashing in silence.
He leaned forward after a moment to see that his keys were still in the ignition, then asked Rourke: “Your car here?”
“No. Belknap drove me over.”
Shayne said, “Get in and I’ll drive you back.” He grinned crookedly as he got under the wheel and started the motor. “I’m over three hours late for my appointment with Peralta now, so another half hour shouldn’t matter.”
As he backed away, his grin widened when he noted another car backing out at the same time. In the rear-view mirror he watched it pull into the street behind him and start following at about fifty feet distance, and he warned Rourke through set teeth, “Watch for traffic signs as we go along. We’ve got a tail and I want you for a witness this time that I’m not exceeding any limits.”
“Sure,” said Rourke, not quite understanding yet. “It’s twenty here. You’re only doing eighteen.”
Shayne’s face was set grimly as he tolled the car along at that speed toward 5th Street. A procession of other cars with impatient drivers sped past in the same direction doing from ten to twenty miles over the limit, but the sedan from the police station remained doggedly fifty feet to his rear.
After a few blocks of progress at the comparative snail’s pace, Rourke said diffidently, “You mean the whole thing this afternoon was a frame-up and you’re afraid they’ll pull it again if you go one mile over the limit?”
“They’ve got my license number,” Shayne told him moodily as he turned left on 5th toward the County Causeway. “Without a witness, I doubt if I’d have to go a mile over the limit to get pulled in again. That’s why I’m borrowing your heap as soon as we get to Miami,” he went on.
“If we ever get there,” groaned Rourke, settling himself in his corner while Shayne carefully hugged the right-hand lane and held the speedometer needle a couple of miles below the legal limit. “You think Painter’s going to all this trouble to keep you away from Peralta, Mike?”
Shayne said, “I don’t know any other reason. Relax and enjoy the scenery,” he went on cheerfully. “Those two cops behind us aren’t any happier than you about this. I’ll bet it’s the slowest they’ve driven since they put on uniforms.”
3
It was almost five o’clock, and Lucy Hamilton was preparing to close up the office and go home. To what? she asked herself as she placed a cover over the typewriter and tidied up her desk.
Well, to a quiet evening alone in her pleasant second-floor apartment. She knew there were a couple of lamb-chops in the freezer, and the makings of a salad. Two or three drinks before dinner, she told herself, while the chops unfroze and she wondered whether Michael would call and suggest they go out together.
Most likely he wouldn’t, she told herself sternly. She would take the chops out and start thawing them as soon as she reached home. Because she had recognized the symptoms when he talked to Mr. Peralta this afternoon. He was suddenly interested in a case, and that meant he most probably wouldn’t be interested in an evening with his secretary at the same time.
Michael Shayne was like that. Lucy recognized and accepted the fact after several years in his employ. He was one of the sweetest and laziest guys in the world. When he wasn’t working they had fun together, but the basic trouble in that was that Lucy always had a guilty feeling that she should urge him to get back to work.
So, she told herself firmly, she should be very glad that he was interested in recovering Mr. Julio Peralta’s emerald bracelet. Even if it meant a long, lonely evening at home alone for her, and even if the pictures of Mrs. Peralta in the newspapers had been so damned attractive. Not only attractive, but … well, suggestive.
She sighed, wishing Michael weren’t quite so susceptible to suggestive women. Honestly, she told herself, she wasn’t jealous. Not one tiny mite. In the first place, she had absolutely no right to be. Her relationship with her employer was quiet and dignified and friendly. They did have fun together … and sometimes when he kissed her lightly.…
Lucy heard a tap on the door of the office, and whirled about in front of her desk behind the low railing, her cheeks flaming, to see the door pushed open cautiously.
The man who stood in the aperture blinked at her behind thick-lensed glasses, and slowly removed a dark Homburg from his head. He was medium height and thick-set, with a solid, intelligent face, and wore a dark suit that looked a little warm for the Miami climate.
Lucy’s first impression was that she faced a nonentity. A pleasant, fairly intelligent man, but not a pusher. Not a doer. A man who had safely come to grips with life and who accepted the terms and the limitations placed before him.
She was aware of the color in her cheeks which came from her thoughts about Michael, but she wasn’t bothered by it because she was quite sure her visitor did not notice her as a human being. Her appraisal of him was that he would regard any secretary in a business office as impersonally as he would regard any other piece of furniture.
When he spoke, his dry and precise voice bore out this first impression:
“Is Mr. Shayne in?”
Lucy Hamilton said, “No,” glancing openly at her wristwatch. “I don’t expect him back this afternoon.”
The man said, “Oh, my!” in a voice of definite disapproval.
Lucy repressed a silly desire to giggle. She and Michael had a private joke about the two words the man had just uttered, and the subject matter was so very far removed from the sort of man he appeared to be that it struck her as utterly ludicrous that he should speak them.
“It is extremely important,” he told her, “that I should see Mr. Shayne at once. Or contact him over the telephone at the very least. Do you know where he can be reached?”
Lucy hesitated. He still stood in the doorway with his hand on the knob. She said, “Won’t you come in and have a seat?” She moved her own typing chair out and sat down in it on her side of the railing as he entered the anteroom and perched himself on the edge of one of the straight chairs lining the wall.
Lucy said, “It’s possible that I could reach him by phone, but I wouldn’t want to bother him unless it’s very important. Can you tell me what it is about?”
He settled his hat on his thighs and told her earnestly, “I want to speak to him about an emerald bracelet.”
“The Peralta bracelet?” she asked in astonishment.
“Yes. It is imperative that I talk to him before he discusses the case with Mr. Peralta.”
Lucy said, “I’m afraid that will be impossible. His appointment with Mr. Peralta was half an hour ago.”
“Perhaps it isn’t too late yet.” He leaned forward eagerly. “Could you telephone him there? Allow me to speak to him.”
Lucy hesitated. The baldheaded, precise-voiced man baffled her. Her first impression of him had subtly changed. She asked, “Do you have the bracelet? Do you have information about it?”
“Miss.…” The voice was still precisely enunciated, but it had become sibilant and somehow dangerous. “If you will be kind enough to tell Mr. Shayne that I wish to speak to him about the recovery of the bracelet, then your function in the matter will have been performed.”
Lucy reached for the telephone. Before lifting it, she asked stubbornly, “Who shall I say is calling?”
“My name doesn’t matter. If you will get him on the telephone, please …?”
Lucy compressed her lips, lifted the receiver and dialled the Peralta number on the Beach. A masculine voice answered almost at once. She said, “This is Michael Shayne’s office calling. His secretary. May I speak to Mr. Shayne, please?”
She listened and a frown furrowed her smooth brow. She said, “One moment, please,” and covered the mouthpiece with her hand. To her visitor, she explained, “Mr. Shayne has not arrived yet to keep his appointment. They are still expecting him.”
“Splendid! Excellent. Have him call you immediately on his arrival. Before he confers wi
th Mr. Peralta. Say nothing about the bracelet.” His voice was harsh now. His eyes gleamed behind the thick lenses. “Simply say that Mr. Shayne must telephone his office on an urgent matter upon arrival.”
Lucy kept her hand tightly over the receiver. She spoke calmly, though her heart was pounding angrily. “I don’t think I like the way you are issuing orders to me.”
“Orders?” He jumped to his feet, worried and distraught. “I did not intend … forgive me, Miss. It is because it is so urgent. I beg you to have Mr. Shayne call you at once.”
She took her hand from the receiver and said, “Please have him call his office.” She replaced the telephone and said composedly, “I’m willing to wait ten minutes or so. No longer than that unless you explain the urgency.”
“But I have explained it.” He sank back into the chair and settled his hat on his thighs again. “About the bracelet.”
“Did you steal it?”
“I? Steal it?” he sputtered. “Whatever gave you that idea?”
“But you do have it?” persisted Lucy.
“No. That is … not precisely. Am I to be cross-examined because I wish to speak to Mr. Shayne?”
Lucy said calmly, “Many people wish to speak to Mr. Shayne. As his secretary, it is my job to keep a lot of those people from wasting his time. I’m beginning to think you are one of them.”
“Indeed, my dear Miss … ah …?”
“Hamilton,” she told him sweetly. “Lucy Hamilton.” She pushed back her chair and stood up. “Perhaps it would be best if you explained to Mr. Shayne personally in the morning. I’m sure he will be in soon after nine.”
He made no move to get up. He studied her very earnestly for a moment, and then nodded seriously. “Of course. It is after office hours and you are young and pretty and have affairs of your own.” He cocked his head on one side and essayed a wintry smile, taking a thick wallet from his breast pocket. “There is no need for you to remain. I will answer the telephone when Mr. Shayne calls. If you will accept this for the trouble I have caused …?”
Murder in Haste Page 20