Shayne flexed his arms and yawned drowsily in the bright sunlight. “Wouldn’t be any fun fishin’ that way,” he complained. “Couldn’t get down an’ waller in it like if I had on overalls. An’ the sun’d get me fishin’ on the bay without no hat.”
An eager glint came into the Negro’s eyes. He rolled them at Shayne and said, “Rich mens come down heah and th’ow good money away with fancy trappin’s. This heah ol’ hat makes a moughty good shade fer sittin’ in the bay till they stahts bitin’. An’ I got me on some breeches under these overhalls. I th’ows ’em in wid de boat fer fo’ty dollahs.”
“I’ll take you up on that,” Shayne said. He reached for the hat which the Negro held out, tried it on over his bristly red hair. It was a size small, but the brim turned down to conceal his features effectively.
The Negro climbed out of his baggy overalls before the crazy white man could change his mind. Shayne counted out forty dollars and donned the overalls. He stepped into the boat, and the Negro untied the mooring line, tossed the end aboard, cackling, “Theah you is, suh. They bites mostly down neah the causeway wheah it’s deeper.”
Shayne nodded and set the oars in the locks, put his back muscles into the strokes, and sent the flat-bottomed craft skimming over the gray-green waters away from the shore line.
He settled back and took it easy when he was well out into the bay, letting the boat drift toward the causeway while he rigged out the line and dropped a baited hook overboard.
The hot sun beat down pleasantly on his bowed shoulders and he gave himself over to a drowsy mood of meditation. He had to take it slow getting across the bay. To row briskly might arouse the suspicion of police launches puffing officiously back and forth along the channel patrolling the waterway between the peninsula and the mainland. As he lazily rowed, watching complacently from beneath the wide brim of the tattered straw hat, careful to keep his line in the water, he was vastly amused to see a police barricade operating, stopping and searching every westbound car before it was allowed to proceed to Miami.
He refused to let his mind dwell on the serious position he was in. There would be time for cogitation later. A lot of thought was required now that his carefully dovetailed pieces of the puzzle must be torn apart. His mind had not yet fully recovered from the shock of Marlow’s positive identification of the girl as his wife.
He had been so sure! Now, as he rowed and drifted over the lazily rippling waters in full view of the energetic officers of the law, he cursed himself for having been so positive. Damn all theories until they were indubitably proved! More than once in the past he had disdainfully said that theories were for guys like Peter Painter.
He gritted his teeth and stopped thinking about it, concentrated on the job of fishing his way across to the mainland without arousing suspicion.
It was well after noon before he nosed the blunt prow of the rowboat into the sandy shore of the mainland a couple of blocks north of the County Causeway. There were some bait casters along the shore hopefully tossing lines far out into the deeper water. One of them hailed him with the fisherman’s call, “What luck?” and he shook his head, held up empty hands. He moored the old boat carefully, grinning to himself with the thought that it might come in handy again some day, then walked ashore and circled along back streets toward Rourke’s bachelor quarters in a shabby apartment building not far from the Daily News building.
He bought the regular noon edition of the News at a stand and glanced at the headline. There it was.
Michael Shayne Accused of Murder. Makes Daring Escape From Miami Beach Officers.
He folded the paper and thrust it in the hip pocket of his overalls and pulled the old straw hat farther down over his face.
There was no use blaming Rourke for the headlines. He had a job to hold. Grim satisfaction held his thoughts, however, as he warily approached Rourke’s apartment. With this headline on the streets Jim Marsh wouldn’t feel he had to withdraw from the election in order to ensure winning the money he had bet against himself. All Marsh had to do was sit tight and let the election go against him — as it would certainly do if the murder charge stood against Shayne, who was widely known to be his chief supporter.
A uniformed policeman was lounging against a lamppost half a block from the entrance to Rourke’s apartment building. Shayne circled the block and wandered up the alley pretending an interest in the contents of garbage cans. He ducked into the rear entrance and climbed two flights of service stairs. He held his breath when he came out on the landing, but there were no cops guarding Rourke’s door. The man in front was evidently placed there as a mere precaution, since the officials were positive the fugitive was still bottled up in Miami Beach with no possible way of getting past the police cordon.
Shayne knocked on Rourke’s door but received no reply. He took out a ring of keys. The first one he selected did the trick. He went in and closed the door.
The small living-room was littered with newspapers and magazines. Shayne looked in the bedroom to be sure he was alone, then toured the tiny bathroom and kitchenette. There was nothing to eat in the midget icebox, and the shelves were bare of canned food.
There was a full bottle of whisky on the kitchen shelf. He caught it by the neck and carried it back to the living-room, settled down on the couch with a pillow behind his head. He took a drink and propped the News up on his knees.
He had no idea when Rourke would be in. Generally, he was free in the afternoon, after the regular edition was set, but Shayne realized that there was a chance he might have been detained by the Miami Beach police after his own spectacular escape.
He was afraid to use the telephone to call anyone. The chances were ten to one it was tapped in the hope that he would try to call Rourke.
He took another drink and began reading the newspaper. Rourke must have written the story — or phoned it in. It contained a brief summary of the charges against Shayne, with the evidence against him scrupulously presented.
Shayne grinned. In writing the story Rourke remembered other cases which had been solved and tossed in his lap for scoops. All through it were vague hints that the whole truth was not yet known; that Shayne’s escape had not been the frenzied attempt of a criminal to escape justice, but rather signified the determination of an innocent man to gain a temporary respite to search for evidence that would free him. It touched lightly on Shayne’s attempt to prove the murdered girl was not Helen Stallings, skillfully avoiding any statements of a libelous nature.
He read every word of it with a twisted grin on his gaunt face. This had been a tough one for Timothy Rourke to write. He took a drink, lifting the bottle in a silent toast to his stanch friend.
The story about the unidentified body found floating in the bay was played down to a simple statement of fact, ending with a note that an autopsy would be conducted on the body to determine the exact nature of death.
On the second page of the News, Shayne’s automobile wreck of the preceding night was given prominence. That, too, he knew as he read it, had been written by Rourke. He didn’t call the wreck an accident, but flatly stated that it could only be regarded as an attack on the famous detective’s life by enemies who wanted him out of the way.
Shayne lay on his back with his eyes half closed when he finished the paper and concentrated on finishing the bottle of liquor. Dusk shrouded the room when he finally heard brisk footsteps in the hall outside and the click of a key in the lock. He lay as he was without moving, trusting to luck that Rourke would be alone.
He was. Rourke saw him stretched out on the lounge when he switched on a light. His eyes grew big and round. “Gentle Jerusalem!” he murmured. “I cart a dead body around half the night hiding it from the law and now I’m harboring a fugitive from justice.”