“I know where it is,” Shayne growled. “In fact I’ve got a cash deposit up there I might as well use.” He turned and stalked back to the open door of his car.
The patrolman followed him, shaking his head dubiously. “You sure you can drive?”
Shayne said, “No.” He set his teeth together hard against the pain as he folded his long legs behind the wheel. His key was in the ignition. He turned it on and started the motor. The officer closed the door and stepped back. “Back it out easy and take it slow,” he advised. “I’ll follow along to see it goes all right.”
Shayne said, “Thanks. You’re a pal. I won’t forget this, Rawson.” He backed away from the concrete abutment, drove forward, and took the first turn to the left toward South Beach.
The neon sign in front of Mickey’s Garage was dark when he reached it. He parked in front of the entrance, clambered out and crossed to the night bell which he held down for several minutes without getting any response. He then tried to slide the wooden door open, but it was locked.
Returning to his car, he got in and drove north until he reached an all-night bar. He went in and slid onto a leather cushioned stool and asked, “Have you got any decent cognac?” when the bartender approached.
The man looked curiously at the ugly cut and lump on the side of Shayne’s jaw, but the expression on the detective’s face didn’t invite comment, so the man looked discreetly away and said they had Courvoisier and Mon-net.
Shayne said, “Three fingers of Monnet-in a water glass.”
The bartender brought him a water glass a third full of cognac. Shayne drank it down in three avid gulps and immediately felt better. He laid a five-dollar bill on the counter and told the bartender to repeat the dosage, then went back to look in the classified telephone book and found a number for Mickey’s Garage. He dialed the number and listened to the garage telephone ring ten times before hanging up.
He went back to his stool and found a dollar bill beside the water glass, which was nearly half full this time. He pushed the bill aside, rested both elbows on the bar and sipped the French liquor gratefully while his thoughts went around in circles and always came back to the one wholly inexplicable event of the evening.
Why had Blackie slugged him? After talking on the phone, presumably to his boss. It was to be inferred, of course, that he had received orders to slug him. But why?
Shayne scowled and sipped the cognac, and always came back to that baffling question. If he wasn’t on the right track, if the limousine hadn’t been the one used in the jewel robbery, why would they bother to slug him and get him out of the garage?
No. Shayne didn’t believe he had been mistaken about the limousine. That far, his hunch had been right. Then why in the name of God had Blackie received orders to put him out of the way? Shayne was the contact they needed. Their only chance to make a decent profit from the stolen bracelet-if Voorland was right in stating that the star rubies would be almost worthless if cut into smaller stones so they could be safely disposed of.
In retrospect, he went over and over the brief dialogue in the garage, seeking a clue to the irrational denouement. He had certainly made his own position clear enough. Blackie couldn’t possibly have misconstrued his words sufficiently to get the impression that Shayne was threatening the safety of the mob. There was a definite way in which such matters were always handled, and Shayne’s reputation certainly assured them that they need have no fear of a double cross from him.
He hadn’t, of course, expected a definite and outright offer over the telephone. Such delicate negotiations were never carried on baldly and openly. The go-between didn’t expect nor wish to know the identity of the person with whom arrangements were made. That way, there was never any proof of collusion. A device that Shayne had used in the past was to park his car, unlocked, at a prearranged spot and time with an envelope thrust down behind the seat containing the agreed upon sum in large bills. After conscientiously leaving it unwatched for fifteen minutes, one expected to return and find the envelope gone, mysteriously replaced by the stolen gems. A particularly wise precaution to observe in a case like that was to have a witness present when the jewels were found in the car, thus defeating any suggestion of prearrangement. Once, Shayne recalled, he had had the pleasure of using Peter Painter himself as the witness to prove that Shayne had been inside a bar a block away when the stolen property was being returned.
It was because of this very definitely understood procedure that Shayne was now so puzzled by Blackie’s reaction to his telephone call tonight. Even if the mob planned to use some other intermediary for collecting an insurance reward there was no good reason to get sore at a man merely because he offered his services. The more he puzzled over it, the angrier he became. It could only be construed as a clear warning for him to keep his nose out of the affair. The second such warning he had received in the course of a few hours, he reminded himself sourly. First, Painter. Then the man whom Blackie had designated as the Boss.
Shayne didn’t like warnings. He didn’t react to them very well. He drained his glass and set it down, carefully touched the livid swelling on his jaw with rough finger tips, then got up and left the bar.
He drove across the County Causeway swiftly, turned south on Biscayne Boulevard, and parked his damaged sedan a few minutes later in the hotel garage.
Only the night clerk was on duty when Shayne crossed to the elevator. The man blinked sleepily at the uninjured side of the detective’s face and muttered, “G’night, Mr. Shayne,” and settled back in his chair.
The elevator boy widened his eyes and rolled them sideways until only the whites showed when he saw the lump on Shayne’s jaw, but swallowed his questions and took him up to the third floor.
The door was unlatched, and Shayne was surprised to find his living-room light on when he went in. He had forgotten Lucy’s promise to wait there for him no matter how late he was, but he remembered it when he saw a pair of pink mules on the living-room floor.
Closing the door quietly, he stood tugging at his ear-lobe for a moment. He pursed his lips in a soundless whistle, went quietly across to the bedroom door and bent his head to listen attentively. He could hear no sound from the closed room. She had probably grown sleepy and weary of waiting, and had decided to take a nap.
He turned away and removed his hat and coat, went into the bathroom and grimaced at the reflection that looked back at him from the mirror.
Cold water took all the blood away, but it didn’t help the puffed bruise much. He then went into the kitchen and filled a tall glass with ice and water, carried it into the living-room with a smaller empty glass. After filling the smaller glass with Monnet, he lit a cigarette on which he puffed slowly between alternate sips of water and cognac.
Except for his throbbing chin, he had never felt better and more at peace with the world. His gaze kept straying to the pair of pink mules on the floor. Lucy had probably become discouraged over the little game she had been playing all evening, and he thought of her curled up on the big double bed, asleep.
The cognac glass was half empty and he was working on his second cigarette when a rap sounded on the outer door.
Shayne sat very still. The knock was repeated. It wasn’t loud, yet it didn’t have a furtive sound. It was a light, casual rap yet persistent, indicating that his caller knew he was at home and expected him to answer the summons.
He got up quietly, picked up the bedroom slippers, and tiptoed into the kitchen where he slipped them into a drawer. There were two more raps on the door as he finished taking this precaution. He went to the door and opened it blocking the entrance with his body for a moment, then took a backward step when he recognized his visitor.