He unlatched the door and slid onto the soft cushion behind the wheel, switched on the dashlight and pretended interest in the speedometer and various other gadgets.
There was a single key in the ignition lock, and Shayne pressed a button on the glove compartment to search for some clue as to the car’s owner. It came open easily, and he was groping inside the small opening when two men appeared on a wooden stairway leading down from a room upstairs.
The men came slowly toward the limousine, halted, and glared at him. They were both neatly dressed in dark suits, and the slimmer one was quite young. He had thick lips and his eyes bulged a trifle, giving his face an expression of boyish astonishment. His companion was heavier and some twenty years older. He had a thick black mustache and looked like newspaper photographs of Molotov.
He said, “What the hell you doing in there?” and put his right hand inside his coat pocket.
Shayne straightened up and withdrew his hand from the glove compartment. “Sorry,” he said nervously. “Wasn’t anybody around and I didn’t think it’d hurt any to sit here a minute and pretend I was a big shot like the guy that owns this heap.”
The bulky man stopped beside the car and opened the right door with his left hand. He said, “Get out.” He reached inside and slammed the glove compartment shut. “So you didn’t think it’d hurt any if you snooped, huh?”
Shayne slid out from behind the wheel and closed the door on his side. The younger man came around the front of the car and looked at him intently. He said excitedly to his companion, “Listen, Blackie. Ain’t this the dick that had his pitcher in the paper last week?”
Shayne started to turn away, but Blackie caught him by the arm and peered suspiciously at his face. “By God,” he snarled, “you’re right, kid. It’s Mike Shayne. That tough shamus from across the bay. I heard he was back in town lookin’ for trouble.” His right hand was in his coat pocket. He let go of Shayne’s arm and took a backward step. “Shake ’im down, kid.”
Shayne lifted his arms to let the kid shake him down. He said mildly, “I don’t care what you do just so you don’t tell the cops I’m in here getting a busted fender fixed.”
The kid felt over him carefully and said, “It’s okay, Blackie. Do you think-?”
“I think he’s too damned curious,” Blackie said angrily.
“You can see for yourself.” Shayne nodded toward his sedan. “I can’t go out on the street till that’s fixed.”
“Had an accident?”
“Little bust-up on Collins Avenue. You know I don’t stand in with the Beach police, and I’d just as leave not have Painter ask me any questions about that fender and headlight.”
Blackie’s eyes were narrowed and suspicious. “I’ll just check on that, shamus. Watch him, kid.” He turned aside to a pay telephone against the wall, put in a nickel, and called police headquarters.
He got the traffic bureau and said, “I’m checking on an accident this evening. Anything reported in the last couple of hours?”
He listened a moment, hung up, came back with an ugly scowl on his heavy features and both hands planted deep in his pockets.
“You’re lying, Shayne. What’s the big idea?”
Shayne shrugged and said, “It could have something to do with a ruby bracelet.”
The kid’s eyes widened with anxiety. Blackie’s scowl grew deeper yet. He muttered, “Wise guy, huh?”
“I’m just trying to tell you that I’m back in business and I’ve got the same in with the insurance people that I always had. If you know anybody that’s got a ruby bracelet for sale, I’m ready to make an offer. Just pass the word around. That Mike Shayne is in the market and can be reached at the same old place.”
“Jeez, Blackie,” said the kid uneasily. “I don’t think-”
Blackie said, “Keep your trap shut and watch him.” He went back to the telephone and dialed another number. This time he put his mouth close to the mouthpiece and talked in a low mumble which Shayne could not hear.
He hung up after a time and came back to the detective with a pleased smile on his dark features, pushing his Panama hat up on his forehead.
Shayne said, “No hard feeling. I don’t blame you-”
Blackie’s left hand came out of his pocket in a swinging arc. Light was momentarily reflected from a pair of brass knucks before they connected solidly with the side of Shayne’s chin. He went down and out under the smashing impact.
Chapter Eight
A heavy hand on Shayne’s shoulder shook him back to consciousness. He was slumped over the steering-wheel of his own car and moonlight was shining in the window. There was a heavy stench of cheap whisky inside the car.
The side of his jaw felt as though it had been kicked by a mule, and his belly was sore. He straightened up groggily and turned to look into the broad face of a uniformed policeman leaning in through the open window.
“H’lo, officer,” he muttered. “Where am I? What-?”
“Mike Shayne!” the cop said with incredulity. “Passed out, by God, like a high-school kid. You feel all right?”
“I feel like hell.” Shayne lifted his hand to tentatively waggle his jaw. “Did a house fall on me?”
“You must of got that lick on the jaw when you ran off the road and hit this culvert.” The policeman turned on a flashlight and sent the beam forward to show Shayne the front end of his sedan crashed against the concrete abutment of a culvert. “Probably would of broke your neck if you hadn’t been drunk as a coot when it happened.”
Shayne shook his aching head and groaned and moved cautiously from behind the wheel to step out. The uniformed man supported him with a hand under his elbow as he swayed dizzily. The night air was cool and it drove the fumes of the whisky away. The front of his clothing was still damp where the liquor had been poured over him. He turned slowly, staring round him, and again asked, “Where am I? You’re Jim Rawson, aren’t you?”
“Yeh. I’m Rawson. You’re on Delaware Road close to the Bay. Do you remember crashing into the culvert?”
Shayne shook his red head slowly from side to side.
He reached in his shirt pocket for a cigarette, but his pack was soggy with whisky. Rawson offered his pack, and struck a light when Shayne put a cigarette between his lips. “Lucky I happened to drive by this way,” Rawson said. “I didn’t know there was enough liquor in the world to pass you out cold like that.”
Shayne laughed shortly and blew his breath in the officer’s face. Rawson put his hand on his shoulder and said, “Hell, you haven’t been drinking. What the devil-?”
“I got myself slugged-but good.” Shayne made a savage gesture with his big right hand. “Somebody planted me there in my car while I was out, and poured whisky all over me.”
“Where’d it happen? Who did it?”
Shayne’s brain was clearing. Slowly he began remembering everything. He decided the boys had taken turns kicking him in the stomach while he was knocked out on the concrete floor of the garage. He said, “I’ve always buried my own dead, Rawson. Do you have to make a report on this?”
“Well, I guess I don’t have to,” the policeman answered uncertainly. “If you don’t want to sign a complaint-”
“We’ll skip the whole thing.” Shayne stood erect and drew in a deep breath, wincing with pain as his bruised body muscles protested. “Let’s see how bad the damage to the car is.”
Officer Rawson switched on his flashlight again and they went to inspect the condition of the car. It looked about the same as it had back in Mickey’s garage. “Axle may be knocked out of line, but I don’t believe the steering rods are bent,” Rawson said after a cursory examination. “Looks like it’d drive okay.”
“What time is it?”
“Little past midnight.”
“Know any all-night garage where I might get it fixed?”
“There’s one down on South Beach stays open at night. Mickey’s Garage. Only one I know of on the Beach. It’s at-”