CHAPTER 14
Shayne was eating breakfast off a plastic tray when word arrived that the necessary moves had been made, and he was a free man. Sergeant Gus Neihart was still on duty. He told Shayne, with obvious sincerity, that he was sorry to see him go.
The arrest-blotter was chained to his desk. Shayne reversed it and read the name of the arresting officer in his case: Francis Beatty.
“A little thing I’ve got to take care of,” he said, and went into the squadroom.
This was a low-crime precinct and a low-water time of day. Four on-duty cops were sitting around doing nothing in various ways. Beatty was stirring coffee. The spoon clattered in the cup as he saw Shayne.
“About that rabbit punch you gave me,” Shayne said. “I used to go in for returning those things, but I’ve got a different policy now.”
The door of the metal locker beside Beatty was partly open. Shayne gave it a powerful kick. Beatty swung around, his hand going to his gun. A chair scraped and one of the others sprang to his feet. The door clanged open, and shut again.
“But I’ll remember your face,” Shayne said. “I don’t think you ought to be a cop, and I hope I can do something about it. We’ll meet again. It’s a small town.”
On the front steps, he stretched and took a deep breath of reasonably uncontaminated air. He had phoned for a cab, but it hadn’t arrived.
A red Volkswagen beetle was parked against the opposite curb. Shayne gave it a second look, and saw a bearded youth asleep with his head on the wheel. It was Lester, who had wanted to help Shayne with his electrical trouble the night before.
The dashboard radio was playing softly. Shayne crossed the street, reached in and turned it off. The abrupt silence woke Lester up.
“Michael, hey, we meet again. You know I didn’t believe any of that stuff you told me last night?”
“I had that feeling.”
“I mean, stealing skin-flicks, that’s a first. Then the goddamn guns started banging away. My girlfriend tells me I ought to mind my own business, but it’s time people started helping other people, or we’ll all go to hell in the same basket, don’t you agree?”
“I thought you went home early.”
“No, I just moved the car and snuck back. Man! The fire engine got there before the fire started, did you notice? I had a ringside seat for the whole event.”
“Then maybe you can tell me what happened to a couple of dozen cans of film.”
“Absolutely. The fuzz loaded everybody up and took off, with the sirens wailing, needless to say, and this little drunk with white hair came up and started to get in the bus. I tried to tell him he was going to get booby-trapped, but do you know he waved a revolver at me to scare me? And he scared me! I try not to argue with irrational people. He turned on the ignition key. Boom. Then he wanted some help, but I decided to draw the line, and I went around back and made a citizen’s arrest of the film.”
Shayne got in the front seat beside him. “Lester, as a rule I have a low opinion of people, but sometimes they surprise me. How much will it cost?”
“I thought ten bucks a can would be about right? Then a couple or three of us could go to Mexico for the winter.”
“It’s a deal,” Shayne said, taking out his wallet. “Where do you have it?”
Lester pulled the hood release. “Right here. Take your time. I want you to be satisfied.”
Shayne went to the front of the car and raised the hood. Except for the extra tire and a few tools, the interior space was crammed with film cans, each can labeled with a sticker giving its title and reel number. He went through the cans quickly, stacking them like poker chips: Sally, Friends and Neighbors, Delinquent Venus. But Domestic Relations, the Gretchen Tucker picture, was not included.
He lowered the hood and returned to Lester. “Were those the only cans in the bus?”
“Yes, why?” Lester said, alarmed. “I hope you’re going to take them off my hands, because if you don’t what the hell will I do with them?”
“No, you’ve got a buyer. I left my car at the Warehouse. Can you drive me?”
Lester agreed. Shayne went back inside the station house to cancel his cab, but it was already on the way. He took out a bill to leave for the driver, but after looking at Sergeant Gus Neihart, put it back in his pocket.
“No, he’d never get it.”
“Shayne,” Neihart said, “one of these years you and I are going out in the alley and shed some blood.”
Shayne waited for the driver outside and paid him. As he started back to the VW, a car pulled into the no-parking zone and Nicholas Tucker jumped out.
“Shayne! I was afraid I’d missed you.”
“Did your wife call you?”
It was an effort for Tucker to take in the question. His political image required him never to appear in public unshaven, without a necktie, but neither of these items had been taken care of this morning. He was wearing the same clothes he had worn all night, and the linen jacket was smudged and wrinkled. He took off his planter’s hat and wiped his forehead.
“Did Gretchen call me. No, I haven’t had a word. Did you learn anything out of that Donnybrook last night?”
“Somebody else ended up with the film. But I finally have something to trade with, and I may be able to pry some information out of a few people who’ve been ducking questions. I’m hoping you can tell me what Barnett Pomeroy thinks he’s up to.”
“The damn fool thinks he’s helping me!” Tucker burst out. “May the Lord protect us from our friends. I never realized what a wild man he can be when he’s drinking. Never mind that. I just had a call from the airport police. Somebody saw a woman being forced into a car in front of the motel. There’s a letter addressed to me, and they want me to come out right away. I was hoping I could take you, so we can talk on the way.”
“I’ll meet you. I want to get my car.”
Tucker wanted Shayne to go with him, but he lost the argument. Shayne needed the time to plan his next moves.
The two cars separated at the corner. Tucker turned north toward the airport expressway. Lester and Shayne, in the little VW, had more lights to contend with, but it was early and there was little traffic. Lester, refreshed by his nap, wanted to discuss the battle he had witnessed, but a look at Shayne’s face discouraged him. At the Warehouse, he pulled up beside Shayne’s Buick and helped transfer the film from his trunk to Shayne’s.
Shayne paid him. “Enjoy yourself in Mexico.”
“I want to. But I know she’s going to keep nagging at me about how I got this bread. That’s my prediction.”
Shayne was only a few blocks from the Expressway. It was 8:25 by the time he reached the airport.
He found Tucker in the motel lobby, surrounded by a knot of police officers. During the short journey from the city, Tucker had convinced himself that he was actually the Nicholas Tucker who was a member of Congress, favored to win the nomination for governor, a man with a glistening future. He had put on a necktie. He still needed a shave, but his clothes seemed to hang on him properly again.
He was listening to a police lieutenant. Seeing Shayne, he signaled with a raised forefinger. When that finger went up in a restaurant, waiters jumped. He excused himself from the others.
“Doesn’t look too good, Mike. She was here, apparently, but—”
As normal as he had seemed from a distance, his eyes betrayed him. They looked through Shayne instead of at him. “I think I knew it would end in something like this. But I kept hoping. The hell of it is, I don’t even know what I’m sorry about.”