Shayne sank into a bucket seat as the propellers roared and the craft headed out across the water, lifting its stern, then rising smoothly into the air and circling sharply eastward.
For the first time since listening to Arthur Devlin’s story, Shayne settled back and studied the situation from the perspective of accepting him as a liar. He still did not know who had radioed Mrs. Brice from Miami. Nothing made any sense any more. One thought kept pounding at him insistently. If the message was from Devlin, it indicated that he had known Janet’s name all along — that he had deliberately lied about having forgotten it. How much of the rest of his story had been lies? What sort of game was the man playing? What had he hoped to accomplish by telling such a story?
Early that morning Shayne had scoffed at the suggestion that Devlin might have been the man who had lured Doctor Thompson from his house with a fake call in order to get at his office records. Now he realized it might easily have been Devlin.
But why? What had Devlin hoped to gain by it?
Shayne squirmed in the low seat in an effort to make his long legs more comfortable. His eyes were bleak as he realized there was no sane answer to the question. Perhaps Devlin had gone completely crazy. He hadn’t had a great deal of experience with insanity, but he had heard that persons suffering from certain forms of mental derangement were exceedingly crafty about concealing their condition, thus making it almost impossible to detect except by a psychiatrist. If that was the case with Devlin, then Shayne knew that Janet Brice was probably already in the power of a homicidal maniac whom he, Shayne, had illegally protected from arrest after gullibly believing a story that even
Devlin’s best friend had not been able to accept.
As the plane roared above incredibly blue waters sparkling with sunlight, Shayne moodily went over each development in the strange and baffling case, and at the end of an hour not one of them made any more sense than they had before.
He was on his feet when the plane swooped down to the surface of the Miami Yacht Basin, and was ready to step out as it nosed up to the pier and the door was opened. He long-legged it to the airline office at the end of the pier, burst in without ceremony, and demanded of the clerk from whom he had bought his ticket three hours previously, “Have you seen a Mrs. Brice — a passenger from Key West — in the last couple of hours?”
“Mrs. Brice?” The clerk blinked uncertainly and shuffled some papers on the desk. “I believe she came in on the noon flight.”
“That was two hours ago,” Shayne muttered, looking at his watch. “Do you know where she went from the dock? Did she take a taxi, or—?”
“No, sir. I asked her if she wanted a taxi, but she said someone was meeting her.”
“And did someone meet her?”
“I presume so,” said the clerk coldly. “She went out immediately and I had other things to attend to, and—” Shayne went out of the office while the clerk was talking. He hurried to his car, which he had left parked at the curb when he caught the eleven-o’clock plane. He had the left-hand door open before he saw the burly uniformed figure lounging on the right-hand front seat.
“Hi, shamus.” The Miami Beach cop showed two gold teeth in an unfriendly grin. “Hop right in.”
“What in hell are you doing in my crate?” Shayne growled, sliding under the wheel.
“Just waiting for you to drive me to headquarters.”
“Nuts.” Shayne put his key in the ignition. “I’m headed for Miami fast. Hop out if you don’t want to walk back.”
“That’s what you think. I said headquarters.” The officer’s voice was hard.
Shayne had his foot on the starter. He lifted it and said, “Look. I’m in one hell of a hurry. Save the boxing bout for some other time.”
“You’re not in a hurry to go anywhere, Shayne. Except to headquarters. Now step on it and let’s have less of the big jaw.”
Shayne’s big hands tightened on the wheel, the knuckles showing white. “What is this?” he asked.
“Painter wants to see you,” said the big cop promptly.
“Is it a pinch?”
“Any way you want it. I’m taking you in.”
Shayne didn’t remember ever having seen the officer before, but he was definitely a type Peter Painter liked in his department — big and dumb and stubborn, and sadistic enough to enjoy meeting resistance from an unarmed man.
Shayne stepped on the starter, slid into low gear, and lurched away from the curb and went ahead full speed.
The officer tapped him on the knee and said, “Next turn to your right.”
Shayne stepped hard on the brake, slewed around the corner on screaming tires, went another block and a half to park in front of the Beach police station.
He flung the door open before the car stopped rolling, was across the sidewalk and going up the steps before the cop was out of the car. He heard a growled protest behind him as he strode past a couple of cops lounging on wooden benches in the corridor and on into Chief Peter Painter’s private office.
Painter sprang up from behind his big, polished desk as Shayne slammed the door hard behind him. “What do you mean barging—?” Painter began sharply.
“One of your mugs said you wanted to see me,” grated Shayne. “So you see me. Now I’m leaving. And if you’ve got the sense God gave a louse you’ll—”
He heard the door open and turned to see the doorway blocked by the panting, burly officer whom he had left behind at the curb. He had a service revolver in his hand and his eyes were slitted with anger.
Shayne started toward him, growling contemptuously, “Get out of my way and put that thing away before it goes off and hurts somebody.”
“Shall I drill him, Chief?” He didn’t move and he kept the revolver aimed at the detective.
“Certainly,” said Painter.
Shayne stopped within two feet of the revolver. He whirled on Painter and said, “You’ll regret this. I have to get to Miami fast.”
“What’s the hurry?” asked Painter.
“It’s too long a story to tell now. But take my word for it, Painter, it may mean a woman’s life for me to get to Miami in a hurry.”
Painter said, “I see. If it’s too long a story to tell here and you’re in such a hurry, why not tell it to me while we ride over there together?”
“There’s no particular reason why I should tell any of it to you,” Shayne said flatly.
“The only way you’ll reach Miami in a hurry is for me to go along,” said Painter silkily. “You’ve got a lot of explaining to do on this Devlin case, Shayne, and I’m not letting you out of my sight until I get some answers. If you’d rather be locked up for a few days—”
“On what charge?” Shayne grated.
Painter smiled thinly. “Attempted extortion will do. Bert Masters will be happy to swear out a warrant that’ll keep you quiet for some time.”
Shayne knew when he was licked. If Masters wanted him out of circulation badly enough to swear out a false charge against him, it was too tough a set-up for one man to buck. “My car’s out front,” he snapped. “If you insist on going, let’s get started.”
“You come along with us, Martin,” Painter said to the big cop in the doorway, “just to make sure Shayne doesn’t get some foolish idea about slipping away from me again.” They went out with Shayne in the lead, Martin behind him, and Painter’s short legs doing double time to keep up with the angry redhead’s long strides.
Painter got in the front seat with Shayne, and Martin sat in the rear. No one spoke until the car was on the causeway headed toward Miami at sixty miles an hour.
“You had a story to tell me,” Painter reminded him. “Something about a woman whose life is in danger.”
“That’s what I said, and if I’m too late — you’ll be hearing about it, Painter. Her name is Janet Brice. She’s — a sort of witness in the Devlin case, and I just flew back from Key West, where I went to interview her. But someone evidently didn’t want me to hear her story, and wired her to leave Key West for Miami before I got to her.” He paused, concentrating on his driving, wondering how much he dared tell Painter — whether the detective chief would recognize the name and understand the implications of his statements.