Alvarez said beneath him, “If they come in here, please be careful and do not move. Even the smallest movement can be heard.”
The office door opened and closed. A thin line of light came through the cracks around the trap door, and Shayne saw a shallow wooden box, pushed back against the front wall. He listened carefully. Hearing nothing, he changed position and struck a match. The box was fitted with a hasp and a padlock, and the lock hung open. He hitched himself forward till he could reach it. The match burned his fingers. He shook it out and struck another.
When he satisfied himself that the box was empty, he took a long pull at the rum, screwed the cap back on and settled down to wait.
Five minutes later he heard the door open in the office beneath him. The Camel’s voice said, “But search, by all means. Look in the wastebasket, under the rug. Here is a bottle of ink. Perhaps I am hiding a genii in it.”
There were sounds of movement. A chair scraped. Shayne, above, was being careful to lie very still.
A British voice said, “Very well, he is not here. You were warned. This is becoming monotonous. I have suspected that one of our people is secretly on your payroll. Would such a thing be possible, do you think?”
“A policeman? In the pay of the notorious Luis Alvarez, who owns a nightclub? A shocking suggestion, Sergeant.”
“I agree with you, and one worth investigating.”
“I do not understand any of this,” Alvarez said. “Tell me who you are looking for, and perhaps I can help you.”
“I’m sure you could help me,” the sergeant said sarcastically, “but somehow I don’t think you will. We’re looking for an American named Michael Shayne. I wouldn’t say he’s the type of person you’d forget seeing, however briefly. His red hair, for example, should make an identification easy. Tall. The look of a heavyweight fighter. Amazingly enough, your bartender and your waiters can’t recall if they served such a man or not. Fortunately some of your customers have better memories. They distinctly remember seeing him dancing with one of your entertainers.”
“Yes,” Alvarez said thoughtfully. “I think I do remember him. But if I had any connection with a man being sought by the police, I would not let him do anything as conspicuous as to dance with such a charming girl in such a daring dress.”
“That may be. That may be. Or it’s possible that you didn’t know he was wanted. I’ll give you a word of advice, Alvarez. I’ve got downwind of one or two of your small transactions lately. Business is business, and that kind of business doesn’t concern me much. I’ve passed on what I know to the American authorities, and if you want to take that as a warning, you’re welcome to it.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Alvarez said stiffly.
“I’m talking about smuggling, as you bloody well know. You’ve imported luxury items which you haven’t sold locally, and which I assume you haven’t been giving away. Smuggling doesn’t turn into a crime until the goods pass the American customs, and that’s out of my jurisdiction. But a man has been murdered, and that, Alvarez, is very much within my jurisdiction.”
Alvarez sniffed. In his hiding place Shayne heard the supercilious little sniff clearly. “I hope you don’t think I could do anything so stupid.”
“Not personally. But if Watts was working for you, if he broke a contract and you had him killed, I intend to see that you hang for it, even if somebody else actually used the knife.”
“That Watts was working for me?” The amazement in Alvarez’ voice seemed genuine to Shayne.
The policeman continued, “I don’t think he was stabbed on the street where he was found. I think he was stabbed in a car, and dropped where he was because the murderer knew that no one in that neighborhood would give any cooperation to the police. From that day to this, we’ve done nothing but follow blind leads. I, for one, am tired of it. So I’m taking in a few of your people. With any luck at all I can hold them for twenty-four hours. I don’t know how this Michael Shayne fits into the picture, if he fits into it at all, but perhaps in twenty-four hours I can get them to admit he was here.”
The Camel’s voice was suddenly choked and ugly. “You are making a mistake, Sergeant.”
“That may very well be,” the other responded. “We will find out.”
There was a quick clatter of footsteps. Alvarez said urgently, “I will speak to them. Why should they not admit the American was here? He means nothing to me. One word will clear it up.”
“Tomorrow, Alvarez.”
A little scuffle followed, and the Englishman’s voice came again. He said coldly and quietly, “Take your hands off me.”
Shayne made an interested face in the darkness. He had a cramp in one leg; in another minute or two he would have to move, no matter what stage the argument had reached below. But that ended it. There were more footsteps. The door slammed. Alvarez swore angrily in Spanish and kicked over a chair. He went out, and Shayne at last was able to roll over. He moved his wrist so he could see his watch. It was ten minutes to eleven. If the radio schedule had indicated an eleven o’clock appointment, it was rapidly approaching.
Again the door opened and closed. “Shayne?” the Camel’s voice said. “Come down now.”
Shayne lifted the trap-door and lowered himself. As his feet touched the desk, one leg caved in and he nearly fell.
“You—you—” Alvarez said incoherently. “Why couldn’t you call on the phone and tell me quietly? But no. You had to get out on the dance floor so only a blind man could fail to see you.”
“I didn’t know they had a Wanted sheet out on me already,” Shayne said, massaging his leg. “You ought to put an air mattress up there. What’s the charge, did the guy on the phone say?”
“Armed robbery.”
Shayne chuckled. “Could be worse.”
He reached up into the little attic for the rum, then worked the door back into position. After he got down from the desk, Alvarez wiped off his footprints with his silk handkerchief.
“What I should do,” Alvarez said, “is wash my hands of the whole thing. You make trouble for me, I knew that the first minute I saw you.”
He looked at his watch again, and clapped his hand over his wrist. “I could choke you with these hands! A mess you make of this, you blundering imbecile!”
English was not a flexible enough language to express his feelings, and he fell back on Spanish. He took a few nervous steps, and returned to the desk. He looked searchingly at Shayne, who was unscrewing the cap of the rum bottle.
“Something wrong?” the redhead said innocently.
“Wrong! One works everything out carefully, takes all possibilities into account, and then a large stupid North American lumbers in like a bull in a parlor—”
He broke off abruptly. “Can you drive a car?”
Shayne raised his eyebrows. “Sure.”
“Then I will do you a service and get you off the island. But first you will do a service for me. The two men I could trust, they are now, thanks to you, in jail. You will have to take their place.”
Shayne balanced the bottle lightly in both hands. “Better tell me something about it, amigo. I like to know what I’m doing.”
“It is nothing so complicated, after all. You are to follow me in a car and pick me up when I tell you. Then we go another place, and after that, directly to the dock and you leave St. Albans before you get me into more trouble, God forbid. First the bullets, please.”
He put out his hand. Shayne gave him the clip for the .45 and watched him load the gun.
“You don’t just want a driver,” the redhead said, settling himself on the desk. “Even an American imbecile like me can figure that out.”
The Camel’s mouth was twitching again. “That is true,” he admitted, and continued reluctantly, “I meet a certain person tonight. I am not altogether sure I trust this person. I would not wish an accident to happen. No special exertion on your part is necessary. It will be enough if you are present.” He added more
sharply, “And are you in any position to refuse?”
“I’m not refusing,” Shayne said. He fished out a cigarette and a match, and struck the match on his thumbnail. “But when the cops showed up, you bumped the tariff from fifteen hundred to twenty-five. Now let’s be reasonable. Make it an even thousand and I’m with you.”
Alvarez looked at him with distaste. “So. It is a bargain. Although you exaggerate the value of your service, Mr. Shayne. It is merely insurance against an unpleasantness. I am delivering a car. You are to follow me closely. I will leave the car in a garage, and you will take me where I tell you. There I will exchange the keys to the car for a sum of money. That is all.”
Shayne laughed and stood up. “It’s a hell of a complicated way to run a railroad.”
“But it is not your railroad, is it? I begin to think that I will be relieved to see the last of you, Mr. Shayne. Now,” he said with the spinsterish primness that seemed to be habitual with him, “here is what you must do.”
6
Michael Shayne, cigarette dangling from his lips, switched out the light after Alvarez left the office. Going to the window, he adjusted the slats of the blind and raised it all the way. The window was already up as far as it would go. Kneeling and keeping close to the window frame, he looked out cautiously.
He would have only a three-foot drop to a cobblestoned alley. A cat was prowling along it, a big yellow tom. Seeing Shayne, the animal froze and gave him a look of intense suspicion—possibly wondering, Shayne thought wryly, if the American was actually wanted for armed robbery by the Florida police.
He heard an automobile motor. It idled a moment, then stalled. That was the signal. When it took hold again, Shayne swung one of his long legs over the sill. At his first move, the cat whirled about and disappeared. The redhead let himself down to his full length and dropped to the cobblestones as a small British car with Alvarez at the wheel turned the corner. The motor and transmission seemed very loud to Shayne in the narrow alley. As the car braked, the door swung open. Shayne backed in.
Alvarez snapped, “Get down. They may have another man in back.”
“What do you mean, get down?” Shayne growled. “I’m down as far as I can go.”
But by putting his head between his shoulders and twisting sideward, he managed to slide a little farther. Alvarez accelerated rapidly. The tires squealed as he turned the corner.
“Not yet!” he said, as Shayne started to raise his head.
After a few more blocks he gave Shayne permission to get up on the seat. They were leaving the narrow, twisting streets of the Old Town, Shayne saw, heading inland. The Camel’s eyes darted busily back and forth between the road ahead and the rearview mirror. Presently he swung to the right and pulled up beside another of the little cars which, with the exception of bicycles and carriages, were the only means of transport on the island.
He gave Shayne a key. “For the ignition. Do not follow me too closely. When I pull into a garage, stop fifty feet behind, but keep the motor running. I will leave the car and start walking. Come up to me and I will get in.”
“What if a cop sees me? I’d better carry the gun.”
Alvarez mopped his forehead with his silk handkerchief. “The shooting of a policeman—that is all we need. No, if you are seen and they give chase, our arrangements are off. Go where you please from then on. But I do not think that will happen. We have few policemen, and they are busy elsewhere.”
“O.K.,” Shayne said, his voice resigned. “Where’s the starter on these bugs?”
Alvarez showed him. The redhead transferred to the other car. Alvarez waited till he found the necessary pulls and switches, and had the lights on and the motor turning over. When Alvarez pulled away, Shayne put the Hillman in gear and followed, watching for sign-posts and trying to memorize the route in case he had to follow it again. He had to resist an impulse to drift over to the righthand side of the road, where he felt he belonged. They left the settled part of the town. Well out in the country, the tail-lights ahead turned abruptly onto a dirt road. Shayne followed. Coming to a hard-surface road again after a little more than four kilometers, they soon were in a suburb of little detached villas, each with its own brick wall and garden. Since leaving the nightclub, they had met only two cars. Shayne shielded his face, as though dazzled by the headlights.
The red brake lights flashed on the Camel’s car. The directional arrow was blinking for a right turn. This seemed to be the place. When Alvarez came to a full stop, Shayne swung over against the curb. He was on a slight downward slope; he set the emergency and shifted into neutral. There was only an occasional streetlight in this part of town, but Alvarez had left his headlights on full, and Shayne saw him get out of the Hillman and hurry to unlock the door of a one-car garage, set back from the street just far enough so the doors would be flush with the sidewalk when they were open. Alvarez opened first one, then the other, ran back to his car and drove into the garage. He cut the motor and the lights.
Shayne glanced at his watch; it was 11:20.
In the stillness, the panting of the Hillman’s motor seemed very loud. Shayne saw only one or two lighted windows in nearby villas—this was clearly a neighborhood where people went to bed early. He started a cigarette and hunched over the wheel, one hand on the gearshift lever, watching the open doors of the garage.
For a man in a hurry, Alvarez was taking his time. The garage doors remained open. No light or sound of movement came from within. It occurred to Shayne that he hadn’t heard the car door slam. He drew deeply on his cigarette. He let another minute pass. The conviction was growing inside him that something had happened, something not on the schedule.
He turned off his motor. The night was full of small noises; none of them interested Shayne. He took off the emergency and coasted silently down to the garage, leaving his lights on high-beam. He leaned across to the open window on the inner side and called in a low voice, “Alvarez.”
There was no answer. The night noises continued around him.
Getting out of the car, Shayne warily approached the garage. In the side-glow from his headlights, he could see that the front door of the other car gaped open. The hood was up. There was a small window in the back wall of the garage. When he saw that that, too, was open, Shayne knew what he would find even before he stumbled over the body.
Alvarez, in his neat blue business suit, lay face down on the front seat. Shayne flipped away his cigarette and squatted beside him. A monkey wrench, partially wrapped in an oily rag, lay nearby. All the lines on Shayne’s face were deeply etched. When Alvarez drove the car into the garage, someone had been standing in the corner where he would not be seen in the headlights. Alvarez had turned off the lights and started to get out of the car; his assailant had stepped forward and hit him with the monkey wrench from behind.
That much was clear. Straightening, the redhead dusted his fingers lightly and went to the open window. There was a gravel path outside. Again he listened carefully, but heard nothing.
The interior of the luggage space was in deep shadow, but he knew without checking that whatever Alvarez had brought was no longer there. The key was still in the lock. He left it and went back to the Camel’s body.
Stooping, he took Alvarez under the arms and dragged him out from the car so he could close the door. After he had done that, he rolled the unconscious man on his back, supporting him under the shoulders. He was breathing harshly. Shayne felt for a pulse. It was irregular and very fast.
Suddenly Alvarez sat up with a shout, seizing Shayne’s lapels, his eyes staring. He screamed something in Spanish and struck out wildly. His doubled-up fist caught Shayne on the mouth. It was more of a push than a blow, but the American was sitting back on his heels and it knocked him off balance. He fell backward on his hands. Alvarez, released, rolled on one elbow, and when Shayne looked at him again, he saw that the Venezuelan had snatched out his gun.
“Cut it out, for God’s sake,” Shayne growled.
; “Where is the—”
Shayne interrupted roughly. “Use your head. You were slugged getting out of the car. I wasn’t anywhere near you. Somebody was waiting when you drove in.”
Alvarez looked at him stupidly, and Shayne said, his voice heavy with anger, “Put it away. If I slugged you, would I still be here?”
Alvarez touched the back of his head, wincing. Then he twisted suddenly and saw the raised hood. “Look in the luggage space. See if—”
“It’s gone,” Shayne said. “The window’s open back there. If you don’t know what happened by now, that crack on the head must have scrambled your brains. You’ve been robbed, and not by me.”
Alvarez thought for a moment. “I must telephone.”
“It also might be a smart move to get the hell out of here,” Shayne said.
Going to the front of the Hillman, he slammed the hood and took out the keys. As he came back, Alvarez made an effort to rise, but slumped back on his elbows.
“If you’re going anywhere, walk,” Shayne said coldly. “Don’t expect me to carry you.”
Alvarez tried again, and succeeded in getting to one knee. Shayne made a disgusted sound, put an arm around his waist and helped him out to the other car. After putting him in, the redhead went around and got behind the wheel.
“You want to make a phone call. That’s o.k. with me. But I hope you remember that you and I still have a deal on the fire. Don’t let it slip your mind.”
“I’m not forgetting,” Alvarez said weakly.
He groaned and his head fell forward in his hands. Shayne started the motor, but hesitated a moment, thinking, before putting the little car in gear. When Alvarez made his phone call, Shayne wanted to be where he could hear it.
He headed downhill in what he hoped was the right direction. When he recognized Bay View Road, he made the turn. Alvarez raised his head.
“Where are you going?”
“I’ve got a cottage out here,” Shayne said, putting the gas pedal on the floor. “Be there in two minutes. You need a shot of something to get the buzzing out of your ears.”
Murder Takes No Holiday Page 6