“Don… know,” he croaked between split lips. Shayne drew back a heavy foot and kicked him solidly in the ribs, and Boal grunted and doubled up in pain.
“I’m going to stomp your head in,” Shayne told him implacably. “Where’s Lucy Hamilton?”
“In cellar,” the attorney gasped, covering his bloody face with both hands. “Don’t…”
Shayne turned away from him in disgust, the anger suddenly drained from his body. He grinned at what he saw on the other side of the Cadillac. Timothy Rourke was having a wrestling match with the blonde, and seemingly enjoying it tremendously. They were rolling over and over on the turf and her dress was all the way up to her waist with her long white limbs fully exposed to the sunlight. She was twisting and snarling beneath him as Shayne hurried around the car to see if he required assistance, but the reporter had her lithe body pinioned beneath him and he looked up with a grin, showing three parallel scratches on his cheek where her fingernails had raked him.
“She’s all mine, Mike,” he panted happily. “You tend to your own knitting and I’ll tend to mine. Bite me, would you?” he exclaimed suddenly, turning all his attention back to her. “Try that again and I’ll bite you right back.”
On the Boulevard a block and a half away, Shayne heard the shrill keening of a siren as he hesitated there.
He waited a moment, listening, heard another siren behind the first one, and the protesting screech of rubber as the leading squad car made the turn into the side street leading to the stone gateposts of Boal’s estate.
He waited just long enough to see it pull up beside his parked car and uniformed men piling out of it, and he knew that Will Gentry had quickly guessed where he was going when he slammed out of the chief’s office.
Boal was sitting up on the grass, moaning and holding his head in both hands when Shayne trotted past him, and he left him there for the cops to take care of.
Another car was parked out of sight around the curve headed down the drive. It was a 1960 Chevy with Dade County license plates. The motor was running and there was a couple in the front seat peering anxiously through the windshield down the drive as though they didn’t know what to do next.
Shayne kept on running past them toward the house with only a sideward glance. The man was big and rangy and had red hair. That’s all Shayne saw as he went by, leaving them there like sitting ducks for Will Gentry’s policemen to take care of.
He pounded up to the front door of the house, found it locked, drew back five feet and then drove his shoulder into it like a battering ram.
The lock gave under the impact and he staggered into a hallway which ran through the length of the house, regained his balance and trotted back to the kitchen where he found a door opening onto stairs leading down to the basement.
There was a light switch at the head of the stairs and he switched it on and plunged down, calling, “Lucy,” as he went to keep from frightening her further if she were really down there and could hear him coming.
She was there all right. Huddled up on the concrete floor near the foot of the stairs with her wrists bound tightly to her ankles and wide strips of adhesive tape over her mouth.
Her eyes were open and they looked up at him as he bent over her, and the message they conveyed was more eloquent than her lips could have spoken if they had been free to speak.
He squatted down beside her and got out a pocketknife to cut the hard-knotted clothesline binding her wrists and ankles, and said quietly, “It’s all over but the shouting, Angel. Miami’s Finest has got the whole gang corralled.”
18
More than an hour later Timothy Rourke was striding impatiently up and down the living room of Lucy Hamilton’s apartment consulting his notes on a wad of copy paper in his hand.
Shayne and Lucy sat side by side on the sofa and watched him indulgently. Shayne had a four-ounce glass of cognac in his left hand, and a glass of ice water sat within easy reach on the coffee table in front of him. The fingers of his right hand were closely entwined with those of Lucy’s left, inconspicuously pressed down between their two bodies where Rourke didn’t notice them. The only outward sign that Lucy’s ordeal had left on her were her bruised and swollen lips where the adhesive tape had been roughly applied as a gag. Otherwise, she was relaxed and tranquil, and obviously very happy indeed to be sitting where she was.
“I’ve only got about fifteen minutes to make my deadline for the first edition,” Rourke complained, studying his notes. “I’ve got just about everything except your side of it, Lucy. And just how you figured the whole thing out, Mike. They even found the money, you know? In a suitcase, in storage. Boal had the torn halves of the receipt in his pocket. Rexforth insists you can’t legally claim a recovery fee on it, Mike, but Will Gentry is going to bat for you on that. It’s his contention that you actually broke the case when you discovered that Lucy had been held a prisoner in that motel room. That was the turning point, says Will. So, how’d you know, Mike? That’s an important part of my story. The man and woman who had her there swear she had no chance of leaving a message for you or anything. They say she was tied up and still groggy from the knockout drops they fed her at lunch when they went there from the office and got her. Why were you so sure Lucy had been in that room?”
Shayne’s fingers squeezed Lucy’s tightly and he turned his head to smile into her eyes. He said lightly, “Let’s just say it this way, Tim. Lucy and I have been working very closely together for years, and we’ve established a very special sort of rapport. Why don’t you just say in your story that I get a lovely sort of tingle down my spine if I walk into a room where Lucy has been within the last twenty-four hours?”
“Michael!” Lucy reproved him in a shocked voice, while her bruised lips tried to smile but couldn’t.
“Well,” he asked her calmly, “what do you want me to say… for publication?”
“I guess,” she agreed in a small voice, “that’s as good as anything.”
“What else, Tim?” asked Shayne blandly, taking an appreciative sip of cognac. “Don’t forget your deadline. As soon as you get out of here, Lucy has something to explain to me!”
“Well, there’s this, Lucy. I don’t understand why in hell you didn’t get suspicious when this fellow brought your tray from the lunchroom made up to impersonate Mike. I understand there was a pretty strong likeness.”
Lucy Hamilton closed her eyes for a moment and leaned her head back against the sofa. A deep, gurgling chuckle came from her throat.
“It was the funniest thing,” she confessed, “when he walked in the door carrying my luncheon tray. I stared at him and for one crazy moment I thought it was Michael. But then I realized he was much younger and…”
“Better looking,” Shayne supplied swiftly, recalling the motel manager’s words.
“Not that, Michael.” She squeezed his fingers tightly. “But I did say to him, ‘My, but you look a whole lot like my boss,’ and he was prepared for that, of course, because he laughed and said the others in the lunchroom had been kidding him about how much he resembled Michael Shayne, and that was why they had sent him up with my lunch instead of the regular delivery boy. So I laughed about it, too, and he went out… and I ate it and suddenly began to feel drowsy and couldn’t keep my eyes open.” She sat erect and smiled wanly. “How did they get me out of the office without anyone noticing, Tim?”
“Took you down the stairway… while you were groggy but still able to navigate. Hustled you out to that motel and left you while they went back to wait for O’Keefe to come to them.”
“What went wrong?” Shayne asked curiously. “Why did they have to kill him?”
“No one seems to know, exactly. I guess no one ever will know, now. According to their confession, he suddenly jumped up and declared he didn’t believe the man sitting behind your desk was actually Michael Shayne. And he started out of the office. The pseudo Mike Shayne shouted out to the gal at Lucy’s desk, ‘Stop him. Don’t let him get away.’ And so s
he… stopped him. They disagree about which one actually stuck the spindle in his heart,” Rourke went on, “but I guess it doesn’t matter too much. All four of them are going to draw good long prison terms.”
He patted the notes in his hand and thrust the wad of paper in his pocket. “God bless you, my children. I must be off to compose some headlines.” He smiled benignly and hurried out.
Lucy sat very still beside her employer while he cheerfully savored the contents of his glass. Then she said in a small voice, “Michael?”
“What is it, Angel?”
“You did… find them, didn’t you?”
“Why, sure.” He set his glass down, reached in his pocket and withdrew a small handful of blue nylon which he shook out in front of her eyes.
“I couldn’t think what else to do,” she explained swiftly and frantically. “They were excited and frightened when they came there, and I gathered something dreadful had happened. They said they were going to take me away and all I could think of was how I could leave something behind as a signal to you that I’d been there. I was still groggy from the drug at lunch, but somehow I knew you’d trace me that far… and wonder.
“So I told them I had to go to the bathroom before we left, and when I got in there with the door closed I had only a moment to think what I could do. And… well… what else can a girl leave behind that no one can see is missing? I mean…” Her cheeks flamed scarlet under his amused gaze.
“You’ve got to come out wearing all your outer clothes. Shoes, stockings, dress, or they’d notice.”
Shayne squeezed her hand and said, “It was a terrific inspiration, Angel. You knew I’d recognize them at first glance. But there’s one thing I don’t get. By what miracle of coincidence did you have that particular pair on yesterday? When I bought them for you on Valentine’s Day, you were half-way sore and swore you’d never wear them. What on earth possessed you to wear them yesterday?”
She hung her head and sighed, and confessed, “Now you’ve caught me.”
“How have I caught you?”
“After you gave them to me, I loved them and thought they were the cutest things I’d ever seen. I went down to the same store the next day and bought six more pairs… exactly the same. I’ve been wearing them ever since.” Shayne began laughing, and he couldn’t stop. After a time Lucy joined him.
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Never Kill a Client Page 13