Shayne lifted his broad shoulders slightly. “Why should the police be interested in that? I’d never seen the girl before. I merely offered to share the cab with her. I didn’t kill her.”
“Maybe not. But nobody wants to get mixed up in a murder case. You mark my word, Mister, them cops turn a man inside out once they get him up to headquarters. I know what I’m talking about. Maybe you didn’t kill the dame, but the cops’re sure gonna want to know what you was doin’ in there with her them ten minutes while I waited.”
“It was closer to two minutes,” Shayne said.
“See? That’s what you’ll tell ’em,” said Wilson triumphantly. “Me? I’ll say no sir I didn’t hold no stop watch on ’em but it seemed like a good ten minutes to me. And if I tell ’em the way you two acted mad at each other an’ how it seemed like she was scared when she got out and you followed her in-” He spread out his dirty hands. “Believe me they can make a hell of a lot out of somethin’ like that. They don’t give a damn if a guy’s innocent or not just so they hang the rap on somebody an’ save their own jobs. You take it now, I know how they work it.”
“Yeh,” said Shayne. “I’ve heard about how they work it.” He drained his glass and got up. “I think we could use another drink.”
“Another one of them wouldn’t go so bad,” Wilson agreed with a sly smile. “I can see you’re a right guy an’ we’re gonna get along.”
In the kitchen Shayne wasted another ounce of cognac in the bottom of the driver’s glass. He had seen sidecars work on straight whisky drinkers before and he had hopes that Wilson wouldn’t be any more immune than Estelle Morrison had been.
When he brought the drinks back and was seated again, Shayne held out his glass and said companionably, “Here’s to our continued understanding.”
Wilson touched his glass to Shayne’s. “Oh you an’ me’ll get along, Mister. I can see that all right.” He closed one eye in a slow wink and tipped his glass up. It was empty when he set it down. “Mighty smooth drink,” he approved again. “What they got in ’em?”
“Lemon juice and a little Cointreau and cognac,” said Shayne.
“No real liquor, huh? I can taste liquor no matter how anybody tries to fix it up,” he bragged. “Just what’ll it be worth to you if I sorta forget about las’ night?”
Shayne twirled his glass slowly in his hand. He said, “I don’t like blackmail, Wilson.”
“I ain’t talkin’ about no blackmail. You take it now, I do you a good turn, see? That’s all right, huh? Nice an’ friendly. So you do me one right back.”
Shayne said casually, “I haven’t anything to hide from the police.”
Wilson licked his thick lips, then twisted them into a sly smile. “Maybe not, but you ain’t told the police about you givin’ that dame a taxi ride las’ night. Am I right?”
Shayne said, “I can’t see that has anything to do with her being murdered.”
“Don’t you now? It’s because you got better sense than to get mixed up in it. That’s what. An’ you’re plenty smart to not say anything. They’d ask you plenty questions if they got started. You take it now, I know how the cops work. They pull a man in on a little bit of somethin’ like that they end up, by God, findin’ out ever’thing he ever done in his whole life. Get your pitcher in the paper handcuffed, like as not, an’ if they do turn you loose folks’ll allus remember you was mixed up in a murder case.”
Shayne said, “All right. How much will your loss of memory cost me?”
“Well, now, I don’t reckon it’s me that ought to set a price.” Wilson looked around the apartment. “It’s a right nice place you got here in this swanky apartment hotel. Must cost you plenty.”
“How much?”
Wilson looked into Shayne’s cold gray eyes for a long moment. “A man don’t make much in the taxi business these days,” he whined. “I got my old lady an’ a couple of kids to think about. Do you reckon it’d be worth five hunnerd to stay in the clear?”
Shayne said gravely, “Five hundred dollars is a lot of money.”
“It sure is a heap,” Wilson agreed. “But there’s a heap of trouble waitin’ for you if the cops get on your trail.”
Shayne said, “I’ve heard about such things. But you and I are going to work this out. There’s another drink left in the kitchen. We’ll split it and talk things over.” Wilson stood up, swaying slightly and asked, “You got a can in here ain’t you?” He grinned foolishly.
“Sure,” said Shayne. “Right through that door.” He pointed a knobby finger toward the bathroom door.
With the glasses in his hand Shayne trotted over and cracked the bedroom door open after Wilson disappeared. Estelle was sleeping soundly and quietly. He hurried to the kitchen, found a larger glass in the cupboard, filled it with cognac to within two inches of the top, and poured in enough of the mixture in the milk bottle to fill it to the brim.
He then took another glass of the same size and filled it with the diluted mixture in the bottle. Wilson was returning from the bathroom when he came in with the drinks, wavering as he walked, his black eyes slightly crossed.
Shayne pressed the water glass in his hands and asked, “Is your taxi parked around here anywhere?”
Wilson took a long gulp from his drink and said, “Sure. Right out in front. Watcha say this is got in it?”
“Same thing. Lots of lemon juice and a little cognac and Cointreau,” Shayne assured him.
Wilson hiccoughed and said, “How about the cash, Mister?” and took another drink.
Shayne sat down. “It looks as though you’ve got me over a barrelhead, Wilson. The banks are closed for the day and I haven’t got five hundred on me right now.”
“How much you got?” he demanded greedily.
Shayne took his wallet out, leaving the zippered side closed. He withdrew some bills from the open side and held them out, counting them carefully. “There’s a hundred and twenty-five here. I can get the balance in the morning,” he said.
Wilson reached for the money. “I reckon you won’t run out on me. I’ll see you tomorrow for the rest.” He took the bills, thrust them in his pocket, then drained his glass.
The telephone rang. Shayne went swiftly to answer it and said, “Yes?”
The desk clerk said excitedly, but in an almost inaudible whisper, “Couple of cops going to the elevator on their way to your room. I thought I’d better-”
“Thanks,” he said and hung up. He had heard a sound behind him. He turned and saw Ira Wilson stretched out flat on the floor. He ran to the entrance door of the apartment, shut it and latched it from the inside, then picked up the unconscious taxi driver and dragged him into the bedroom.
A loud knock sounded on his door. He pulled back the sheet and shoved Ira Wilson on the bed beside Estelle Morrison, and hurried out, closing the door quietly and firmly behind him.
He paused to scoop up the empty water glasses and carried them to the kitchen. From the kitchen he walked with a firm and heavy tread to the door, unlatched it, and jerked it open.
Chief of Police Will Gentry and a sergeant of the Miami police force stood in the doorway. Gentry was a big man with a placid, ruddy face and intelligent eyes. He and Shayne had been friends for a long time, but Chief Gentry had never let their friendship interfere with his sense of duty. He walked in and said:
“Hello, Mike. You know Sergeant Benham.”
Shayne said, “Sure. How are you, Sergeant,” and invited them to sit down. “I was just polishing off some sidecars. I can shake up some more in a hurry.”
“Don’t bother.” Gentry sank into a chair and sat solidly erect with a worried frown on his face. “I thought you were leaving town by plane last night,” he complained to Shayne.
The sergeant moved over to the couch and sat down. Shayne took the chair opposite Gentry, and said, “I put it off twenty-four hours.”
“Just for the fun of getting in Painter’s hair again?” Gentry rumbled.
“What’s Painter’s gripe this time?” Shayne asked.