by Unknown
“So you think I did it?” Shayne fumed.
“Wait a minute, Mike,” Gentry soothed him. “You see, we found that the bed had been pulled back and there was a sort of hiding place exposed. Mr. Guildford suggested you might have discovered the cache and taken the captain’s papers away to examine privately.”
Shayne snarled: “The hell he did! What’s his interest in it?”
“As Captain Samuels’ attorney and now his executor, I have a natural interest in the affair,” Guildford snapped.
“Come off it, Mike,” Gentry said wearily. “If you’ll tell me what you were doing there I won’t be so sure you’re holding out.”
“I told you. Miss Hastings did.”
“That doesn’t wash, Mike. Rourke told me she didn’t hit town till this afternoon. How could she have met Samuels and learned about the shipwreck story?”
“Ask her?”
“I can’t find her. I’m asking you. Did you get any stuff from the bedroom?”
“I wasn’t in the bedroom.”
“But Miss Hastings was,” Guildford reminded him triumphantly. “And I suggest she found his papers and looked through them while we were in the other room with you and the body. And I further suggest that was how she learned about the shipwreck and her agile mind framed the excuse she gave us for your presence there.”
Shayne stood up and balled his bony hands into fists. “I suggest that you get out of that chair so I can knock you back into it.”
“Lay off, Mike. You’ve got to admit it’s good reasoning.”
Shayne swung on Gentry angrily. “I don’t admit anything. Is a two-bit shyster running your department now?”
Guildford said: “I resent that, Mr. Shayne.”
Shayne laughed harshly. “You resent it?”
Gentry said doggedly: “I’m running my department but I don’t mind listening to advice. Are you willing to swear you and Miss Hastings just dropped in on the dead man by accident?”
Shayne said: “Put me on the witness stand if I’m going to be cross-questioned.”
Gentry compressed his lips. He started to say something, then tightened his lips and got up. He and Guildford went out.
Shayne stood by the table until the door closed behind them. Then he strode to the telephone and asked for the Crestwood Hotel.
He frowned across the room and tugged at his left earlobe while he waited. When the hotel answered, he asked for Miss Myrna Hastings. Without hesitation, the clerk said: “Miss Hastings is not in.”
“How the hell do you know she isn’t?” Shayne growled. “You haven’t rung her room.”
“But I saw her go out just a moment ago, sir,” the clerk insisted.
Shayne told him: “You must be mistaken. I happen to know she just went to her room.”
“That’s quite true, sir. She came in and got her key not more than five minutes ago, but she came downstairs almost immediately with two gentlemen, and went out with them.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive, sir. I saw them cross the lobby from the elevator to the front door.”
“Wait a minute,” barked Shayne. “Did she go with them willingly?”
“Why, I certainly presumed so. She had her arms linked in theirs and I didn’t notice anything wrong.”
“Can you describe them?”
“No. I’m afraid I didn’t notice—”
“Was one of them short and the other one tall?”
“Why, now that you mention it, I think so. Is something wrong? Do you think—”
Shayne hung up, went into his bedroom and got a short-barreled .38, which he dropped in his coat pocket. Then he went into the kitchen and tried the back door. Myrna had locked it behind her when she slipped out.
He turned out the kitchen light and strode across the living room, crammed his hat down on his bristly red hair and went out.
en minutes later Shayne parked in front of Henry Renaldo’s tavern. He shouldered his way through the swinging doors and found half a dozen late tipplers still leaning on the bar. Joe was in the back with a mop bucket, turning chairs up over the tables, and the paunchy bartender was still on duty in front.
Shayne went up to the bar and said: “Give me a shot of cognac, Monnet.”
The bartender shook his head. “We got grape brandy—”
Shayne said: “Monterrey will do.”
The bartender set a bottle and glass in front of the detective, keeping his eyes secretively low-lidded. Shayne poured a drink and lifted it to his nose. He shook his head angrily and said: “This stuff is grape brandy.”
“Sure. Says so right on the bottle.” The bartender’s tone was placating.
Shayne shoved the glass away from him. “I’ll have a talk with Henry.”
“The boss ain’t in,” the bartender told him hastily.
“How about his two ginzos?”
“I dunno.”
Shayne turned and went along the bar to the back. Joe pulled the mop bucket out of his way and turned his head to stare wonderingly at the set look on Shayne’s face.
He knocked on the door of Renaldo’s office and then tried the door. It opened into darkness. He found the light switch and stood on the threshold looking about the empty office. He strode to the rear door through which the two gunsels had entered earlier, and found it barred on the inside. It opened out directly onto the alley.
He relocked it and went out of the office, back to the bar. The bartender was lounging against the cash register. He said, “I tol’ you,” and then backed away in alarm when Shayne bunched his hand in his coat pocket over the .38.
“Where,” asked Shayne, “do Blackie and Lennie hang out?”
“I dunno. I swear to God I don’t. I never seen ’em in here before tonight.” He was frightened and he sounded truthful.
“Where will I find the boss?”
“Home, I guess.”
“Where’s home?”
The bartender hesitated. He pouched his lower lip between thumb and forefinger and said sullenly: “Mr. Renaldo don’t like—”
Shayne said: “Give it to me.”
The bartender wilted. He mumbled an address on West Sixtieth Street.
Shayne went out and got in his car. He started the motor and hesitated, with his big hands gripping the wheel. He got out and went back into the tavern. The bartender looked up with naked fear in his eyes and put down the telephone hastily.
Shayne said: “Don’t do it, Fatty. If Renaldo’s been tipped off when I get there, I’ll come back and spill your guts all over the floor. The name is Shayne if you think I’m kidding.”
He went out again and swung away from the curb. He drove north a dozen blocks and stopped in front of a sign on Miami Avenue that said, CHUNKY’S CHILI. It was crammed in between a pawnshop and a flophouse.
Shayne went in and said, “Hi, Chunky,” to the big man picking his teeth behind the empty counter. The long, narrow room was empty save for the proprietor.
Chunky said, “Hi, Mike,” without enthusiasm.
Shayne asked: “Any of the boys in back?”
“Guess so.”
Shayne got out his wallet. He extracted the ten-dollar bill and folded it twice lengthwise. Chunky kept on picking his teeth. Shayne extended the bill toward him. “Blackie or Lennie in there?”
Chunky yawned. He took the bill and said, “Nope. Ain’t seen either of ’em tonight.”
“Working?”
“I wouldn’t know. Gen’rally hang out back when they ain’t.”
Shayne nodded. He knew that. Chunky’s chili joint was a front for a bookie establishment in the back that served as a sort of clubroom for the better-known members of Miami’s underworld. He asked: “Seen John Grossman around since he was paroled?”
Chunky took the frayed toothpick from his mouth and squinted at it. “A guy’s on parole, he don’t hang out much with the old gang. Not if he’s smart.”
“Have you seen him around?” Shayne persisted.
&
nbsp; Chunky put the toothpick back in his mouth and chewed on it placidly. Shayne grinned and got out his wallet again. Chunky watched him fold another bill twice lengthwise. He took it and suggested: “Might ask Pug or Slim. They usta work for John, some.”
“Are they in back?”
Chunky shook his head. “Went out ’bout an hour ago.”
Shayne said: “Tell them I’m passing out folding money.” He went out and climbed into his car, drove north to Sixtieth and turned west.
Henry Renaldo’s address was a modest one-story stucco house in the center of a block containing half a dozen such houses. It was the only one with lights showing through the front windows.
Shayne drove past it to the end of the block, swung around the corner and parked. He got out and walked back, went up the concrete walk lined with a trim hedge on both sides, and rang Renaldo’s doorbell.
He got the gun out of his pocket while he waited.
He showed the weapon to Henry Renaldo when he opened the door. Renaldo was in his shirtsleeves with his vest hanging open. The cigar in his mouth looked like the same one he had been chewing on some hours previously. He blinked, wrinkled lids down over his eyes when he saw the gun in Shayne’s hand, and backed away, lifting his hands, palms outward, and mumbling: “You don’t need to point that at me.”
Shayne followed him in and heeled the door shut. The living room was small and crowded with heavy overstuffed furniture. A gas log glowed in the small fireplace at one end. There was no one else in the room.
Shayne gestured with his gun and asked: “Where’s Miss Hastings?”
Renaldo rolled up his wrinkled lids and looked at him stupidly. “Who?”
“The girl who left your place with me.”
“I sure don’t know anything about a girl,” Renaldo told him earnestly. “Look here—”
Shayne’s eyes were bright with a fierce light. He palmed the gun, took a step forward and hit Renaldo in the face. He staggered back with blood oozing from a cut lip.
Shayne said coldly: “Maybe that’ll help your memory.”
Renaldo took another backward step and sank down on the red divan. He got a handkerchief from his hip pocket and dabbed at his cut lip. He moaned: “Before God, Mike—”
Shayne rasped: “Where are your two gun-punks?”
“Blackie and Lennie?” Renaldo shook his head from side to side. “How should I know?”
“They grabbed Miss Hastings from her hotel half an hour ago.”
“I don’t know about that.” Renaldo looked at the blood on his handkerchief and shuddered. “I haven’t seen them for two hours.”
“Didn’t you have them tail me when I left your place?”
“What if I did? But I didn’t tell them to grab any girl.”
Shayne narrowed his eyes. It sounded like the truth. He said: “I’ll search this dump anyhow.”
Renaldo got up slowly. There was a certain dignity in his posture as he objected: “This is my house. If you haven’t got a search warrant—”
Shayne said: “I’m not the police.” He turned toward a passageway leading to the rear of the house.
Renaldo moved in front of him. He folded his arms stubbornly. “My wife and kid are asleep back there.”
“We’ll take care of him, boss,” Lennie’s voice rapped out behind Shayne.
Renaldo’s eyelids twitched and his eyes showed frantic terror. “I told you to stay in the kitchen, Lennie.”
“To hell with that. Drop the gat, shamus,” he rasped.
Shayne dropped the gun on the rug. He turned slowly and saw Lennie hunched forward and moving toward him from an open door. Blackie sauntered through the door after him.
Lennie had a heavy automatic in his right hand and his eyes glittered. His face was twisted and tiny bubbles of saliva oozed out between his tight lips. He was coked to the gills and as dangerous as a maddened snake. He glided soundlessly across the rug, and the muzzle of his .45 was in line with Shayne’s belly.
Renaldo said: “Wait, Lennie. We won’t want any trouble here.”
Lennie’s hot eyes twitched toward the tavern proprietor. “He come here lookin’ for trouble, didn’t he? By the sweet Jesus—”
“Hold it, Len,” Blackie said coolly from behind him. “Stay far enough back so’s you can blast him if he starts anything.” He moved around Lennie on the balls of his feet, one hand swinging his blackjack in a short, lazy arc.
hayne jerked his head back and it struck him on the side of the neck just above the collarbone. It was a paralyzing blow and he hit the floor before he knew he was falling. He heard Renaldo cry out: “Watch it, Blackie. Keep him so he can talk. If he croaked the old man he’s maybe got some info.”
Blackie said: “Sure. He’ll talk.” He drew back his foot and kicked Shayne in the face.
The detective saw the kick coming but he couldn’t move to avoid it. He closed his eyes and lay inert, pushing with his tongue at two loosened teeth.
Blackie put his heel on the side of his face and twisted it viciously with a downward thrust. It tore flesh from his cheekbone and the pain brought knots in his belly muscles. It also drove away the paralysis that had numbed him.
He sat up with blood streaming from his face and pulled his lips away from his teeth in a wolfish grin.
He asked thickly: “Didn’t you bring your pliers along this time, Blackie? I’ve got ten fingernails to work on.”
Blackie hit him viciously with the blackjack again.
Shayne toppled over and he heard Lennie laughing thinly somewhere off in the background.
Somebody got a pan of cold water and dumped it in his face. He lay quiescent and listened to Renaldo and Blackie arguing fiercely about him. Renaldo gave Blackie hell for knocking Shayne out so he couldn’t possibly talk if he wanted to, and Blackie angrily reminded him of Shayne’s reputation for toughness. Lennie put in an aggrieved voice now and then, begging for permission to finish him off.
It was all pretty foggy, but Shayne didn’t hear any of them mention the girl. He gathered that they had followed him from the tavern to the little house on Eighteenth and had seen the police come. If they had followed him back to his hotel and tailed Myrna from her fire escape exit, it was evident that they were keeping that fact from Renaldo for reasons of their own.
“We gotta get him out of here,” Renaldo said at last. “You boys’ve messed the hell out of this whole thing and the only way I see now is to finish him off.”
“He pushed his face into it,” Blackie muttered.
“Sure he did,” Lennie said eagerly. “Don’t worry about him none, boss.”
“We’ll take him out through the kitchen to our car.” Blackie was placating now. They withdrew a short distance and began talking further together in low voices. Shayne kept his eyes closed and gathered together the remnants of his strength.
They came back after a time and he heard Lennie saying happily: “Once in the heart to make sure is the best way. We don’t wanna muff this.”
Shayne saw the glitter of a knife in Lennie’s hand as he uncoiled and rose from the floor. He saw Blackie’s mouth drop open just before he hit him in the belly with his shoulder. They went to the floor together and Shayne kept rolling toward the kitchen door. He stumbled through it just as Lennie’s gun roared in the living room behind him.
CHAPTER FOUR
BOTTLED DEATH
ith a rush, Shayne jerked the back door open, staggered out into the night. He leaned against the side of the house and hoped Lennie or Blackie would follow him out. A light came on in the house next door and an irate voice bellowed: “What’s going on over there? Was that a shot?”
Shayne tried to call back but his throat muscles were queerly knotted and he couldn’t utter a sound.
He shambled down the alley to the street where he had left his car, and got in. He started the motor and drove away, made a circle back to Miami Avenue and drove to his apartment hotel. He didn’t feel like tackling the side stairway, so he went i
n through the lobby toward the elevator.
The clerk hurried out from behind the desk when he saw the detective’s condition. He exclaimed: “Good God, Mr. Shayne! What happened? … Here. Lean on me.”
Shayne put his arm around the clerk’s shoulders. He croaked: “It’s O.K., Dick. More blood than anything else.”
Dick helped him into the elevator and rode up to his room with him. Shayne was an old and privileged client in the apartment hotel and the clerk had seen him in bad shape before, but never quite in this condition. He took Shayne’s keyring and unlocked the door, then stared around in amazement when he turned on the light.
“Good Lord!” he ejaculated. “Did the fight start here in your room, Mr. Shayne?”
Shayne looked around the room with bleary eyes that refused to focus on any object. Things seemed to be in a sort of jumble but he didn’t see why the clerk was so excited. He pushed past him toward the center table and stared down stupidly at the drawer that was pulled all the way out. He knew he had left it closed—with the things he and Myrna had brought from Captain Samuels’ house. His fingers closed around the neck of the brandy bottle still sitting where he had left it, and he used both hands getting it up to his mouth. A long pull at it relaxed his throat muscles and cleared the film away from his eyes. He looked around the disordered room and then at the clerk.
“Have I had any visitors since I went out, Dick?”
“Just that tall man with Chief Gentry—he came back right after you went out. He didn’t stop at the desk, but went straight up. He came back almost immediately and went on out and I thought he’d come back hoping to catch you and found you’d already left.”
Shayne took another slow drink of cognac. It brought the warmth of life back to him. “Was he up here long enough to do this?” He waved his hand around the room.
Dick wrinkled his forehead. “I don’t think so, but I wouldn’t say for sure. You know how it is. It’s hard to judge time. It didn’t seem as if he were up here more than a few minutes.”
Shayne nodded. He said, “Thanks for coming up with me,” in a tone of dismissal. He stood with the bottle in his hands until Dick went out and closed the door. Then he held it to his lips and drained it. He went out to the kitchen and set the empty bottle carefully on the sink beside the two glasses Myrna had put there on her way out. He tried the back door and found it unlocked.