A few blocks from the ocean he stopped in the middle of the block. The houses on both sides of the street were dark and there were no cars in sight in either direction. A gravel drive led off to the right, through stone gateposts into the landscaped grounds of a moderately large estate.
He was driving a light sedan which he had bought secondhand when he learned that Lucy Hamilton was coming to Miami. It was of pre-war vintage, but he had given it a new black paint job and it glistened now in the moonlight.
Shayne backed up a few feet, put the sedan in second gear and rolled smoothly toward the entrance of the estate, keeping close to the left-hand side of the drive. Directly opposite the stone gatepost, he wrenched the steering-wheel sharply to the left and there was a loud grating crash as the fender was crumpled against solid stone.
The sedan shivered and rocked to a halt. He calmly put it in reverse and backed out onto the macadam, then went forward and around a corner and on southward past Fifth to South Beach. He parked inconspicuously on a dimly lit side street, got out and hurried to the garish boardwalk, the Coney Island of southern Florida.
There, among hotdog stands and shooting-galleries, he hastily entered a hole-in-the-wall barroom and moved swiftly back behind the row of occupied stools, catching the proprietor’s eye as he passed the cash register and jerking his head significantly toward the rear.
The proprietor was a thin, tubercular looking man with pallid cheeks and small eyes sunk far back beneath bulging brows. He nodded his head slightly in response to Shayne’s signal, rang up a sale and made change, then slid off the stool behind the register. He said something to the nearest bartender, and strolled to the rear where Shayne awaited him.
“Haven’t seen you around much,” he began casually. Shayne seized the man’s thin arm and said, “I’m in a jam, Bert. A hell of a jam.” He paused to lick his lips and went on hoarsely, “Ran into a guy up the street a few minutes ago. I wasn’t going too fast, but it knocked him ten or fifteen feet.”
“Hurt bad?” Bert Haynes pursed his thin lips and looked concerned.
“Hell, I don’t know. Afraid so.” Shayne shrugged and went on rapidly, “I didn’t stop to find out. You know the way I stand with Painter here on the Beach.”
Bert nodded. “I know he’d like to hang something on you, all right.”
“My crate’s parked up the street. Busted fender and headlight. If they pick me up my garage will tell ’em it was all right when I took it out tonight.”
“Tough,” Bert murmured with commiseration.
Shayne’s big hand tightened on his arm. “I’ve been out of circulation a long time, Bert. There must be some place where I can get a fast job done on that fender without any questions.”
Bert Haynes blinked both eyes and tightened his bloodless lips against his teeth. “Try Mickey’s Garage. Down near the end of the beach and over a block.” He gave Shayne explicit directions. “I hear around that they know how to keep a buttoned lip on the sort of work they do.”
“Hot stuff?”
“I wouldn’t know. Wait a minute.” He caught Shayne’s sleeve as the redhead started away. “You’re not working?” he asked anxiously. “You wouldn’t work me for a tip with a phoney come-on?”
Shayne laughed shortly. “Have I ever pulled a fast one like that?”
“No. You ain’t for a fact,” he agreed.
“But I am working again,” Shayne said quietly. “You can pass that along to anyone who might be interested.” He hurried out of the small barroom and back to his damaged car, got in and drove around to a neon sign that read: Mickey’s Garage. Gen’l Repairs, Body Work a Specialty.
The wide wooden door leading into the garage was closed. Shayne turned off the street and stopped with his front wheels on the sidewalk. He got out and found a button on one side of the door with a metal plate above it that read: Night Bell.
He put his finger on the button and held it down until the door slid open enough to let a man come through. He wore grimy coveralls and a greasy mechanic’s cap. He scowled inquiringly at the man who had disturbed him, blinked in the glare of the single headlight of Shayne’s car and said, “Yeh? Whadya want?”
“Had an accident.” Shayne gestured toward his car. “I need a fast job before the cops pick me up.”
“I dunno.” The mechanic came through the aperture and went to study the damage to the fender and head light. He shook his head and said, “Rush jobs come high.”
“I don’t give a damn about the cost.” Shayne had his wallet out and began pulling out twenty-dollar bills. “How much to fix me up with a new fender and headlight?”
“Trouble is, we’re busy.” He furtively considered the bills fanned out in Shayne’s hand. “Anybody hurt bad?”
“I’m not paying for a lot of questions,” Shayne countered. He added another twenty to the four in his hand, then, more slowly, another. He closed the wallet and returned it to his pocket. “It won’t be hard to match this new paint job of mine.” He smoothed the six bills together, folded them lengthwise, and slapped them against his palm.
The mechanic nodded and reached for the money. “Drive on in. I’ll get on yours just as soon as I finish the job I’m on.” He stepped back and slid the door all the way open.
Shayne drove inside a big room with half a dozen cars parked around the wall in various stages of dismantlement. He waited just inside while the mechanic closed the door and said, “This doesn’t look too good. If the cops come around-”
The mechanic stepped on the running-board beside him and grinned widely, showing a gap in his front upper teeth. “Never you mind about the law, buddy. Drive straight ahead and turn in between them white lines on the floor.”
As Shayne drove in he neared a solid ten-foot panel that rose slowly to admit passage onto a rickety freight elevator.
The mechanic chuckled at the detective’s surprise when the panel closed soundlessly behind them when the sedan was on the elevator. He stepped from the running-board and pressed a button and the elevator descended slowly to the floor below, which was brightly lighted and resounded with the thumping sounds of a wooden mallet on sheet metal.
“Pull it off over here,” he directed Shayne. “We’ll get to you just as soon as we finish up this other one.”
Shayne drove off the elevator onto a clear space in the underground workroom and cut the ignition. The mechanic strolled over to say a few words to his fellow workman, who was pounding out dents in the right front fender that had been removed from a black limousine.
After lighting a cigarette, Shayne got out and strolled over to the workman to ask casually, “How much longer will you be on that job?”
“Quarter of an hour, maybe. All you got to do is sit tight and you can drive that hack of yours out of here fixed so nobody in God’s world’ll ever know you been in an accident.”
Shayne said, “Fair enough.” He walked around the limousine, looking at it with casual disinterest, memorized the number of the Dade County license plate, then returned to the mechanics and said enthusiastically, “That’s the kind of crate I’d like to own. I suppose a guy would have to be a millionaire to get one like it these days.”
One of them grunted some noncommittal reply, and they both went on with their work.
“I always wondered,” Shayne went on, “how it felt to sit behind the wheel of a buggy like that.”
Neither of the men said anything, but went on with their hammering as though their lives depended upon getting the job finished within a few minutes.
Shayne shrugged and dropped his cigarette to the concrete floor and ground it out with his shoe. He yawned and strolled back to the limousine and leaned inside the front window to study the rich upholstery and the gleaming dashboard.
Glancing at the mechanics, he saw that neither of them was paying any attention to him. The windshield of the big car appeared to be faintly opaque, and Shayne felt the window glass between his thumb and forefinger. It seemed extra thick, and he had a hunch it was intended to be bulletproof.