Shayne threw away his cigarette and strode back to the Buick. “Ring Tim Rourke’s car for me,” he told his operator.
Rourke answered promptly. “Mike, you may not like this, and then again you may. They just turned in at the Holiday Inn, off the North Miami interchange. The lady’s still in the car. The guy went in to register.”
“What the hell?” Shayne said softly. “Tim, don’t let that Oldsmobile out of your sight. I’ll get back to you.”
He brought in the operator and asked her to dial the home phone of Daniel Slattery, in Coral Gables. In a moment a woman’s voice said hello.
“Is Dan in?” Shayne asked.
“He’s not, I’m sorry. He won’t be back for another week.”
“This is Mike Shayne. I’m a friend of his. Is he still in England?”
“As a matter of fact, I think it’s Paris at the moment. It’s one of those hectic trips. Is there a message, Mr. Shayne?”
“I’ll have to talk to him personally. Maybe I could meet his plane.”
“He left his car in New York and he’ll be driving down. Next Monday, I believe.”
Shayne untangled himself from the conversation and the operator put him through to Gentry again.
“You said twenty minutes,” Gentry said. “I just called Doris to put the steaks in the broiler.”
“Call her back. I’ll hang on.”
“Damn it, Mike — all right, all right! I can tell from your tone of voice that this isn’t a simple little breaking and entering.”
He clicked off.
“Doris didn’t like it,” he said, coming back a moment later. “I don’t like it either. Why don’t you ever need help between nine and five, like ordinary people?”
“I’m sorry,” Shayne said grimly. “I thought I had this under control, but it got away from me. You’re right, it’s not breaking and entering. It’s a smuggling operation. Don’t say anything to anybody, but it’s possible it may involve—” He hesitated. “Hell, I don’t buy it myself completely, but now I’m talking about possibilities. I think it’s possible that what came in on the Queen was an atom bomb.”
“Now, Mike.”
“I know it sounds insane. It may be true just the same.”
“I’m a cop, Mike. You’re a private detective. This isn’t for us. This is the sort of thing we kick upstairs.”
“Not this time. It’s us or nobody, and we’ve got to move fast. We can’t call time to convince some Washington pipsqueaks that we haven’t been blowing dope. Forget I said anything about a bomb. Assume it’s narcotics, and go on from there. We’ll need an all-precinct call on a Bentley. You know the make — it’s a Rolls with a different radiator, and it ought to be easy to spot. It had GB plates when I saw it last.”
After describing the Bentley he told Gentry that he also wanted a call on a green Oldsmobile, registered in the name of Daniel Slattery, last reported parked outside the Holiday Inn in North Miami.
“And make it urgent,” Shayne said.
Without giving Gentry time to object, he cut the call short. The traffic signal at the corner had gone through another half dozen red-green cycles, and Pierre Dessau and Little’s Bentley had still not appeared. Now he had to find out which one of the two had faked him away from the pier.
Returning, he used his siren to bull his way through two blocked intersections. He left his Buick in a forbidden zone and hunted up the Customs inspector in charge of the five-man detail working the arrival of the big passenger liner. A plump, good-natured man named Ben Wainright, he was perspiring freely.
Shayne jerked his head to one side. “Let’s talk, Ben.”
“One of the things I like to do best. I’ll just clear these last cars. The public’s getting restless.”
“It can’t wait,” Shayne said brusquely. “Over here.”
Wainright hesitated, then followed him to the other side of the cluttered pier. Shayne stopped beside a loaded baggage wagon.
“Did you get tipped that anything unusual was coming in?”
The good humor drained out of Wainright’s face. “You know we don’t answer that kind of question.”
“Yeah, yeah, to protect your sources. I wouldn’t be asking if it wasn’t important. To pin it down, the tipster would be a big pasty-faced guy named Pierre Dessau. Six-four, English. The stuff was due to come in in a five-year-old Bentley, owned by another Englishman, Quentin Little.”
Wainright’s eyes were alert and probing. “No cigar, Mike. I remember the Bentley. Ugly little guy, pretty well gassed. We didn’t shake the car all the way down, but it looked OK structurally. Wait a minute. What name did you say — Little?”
“Dr. Quentin Little.”
“That’s the one. His daughter has been trying to find him.”
Chapter 8
Cecily Little, at seventeen, was a serious, slightly built girl with dun-colored hair and oversize glasses. She was wearing bright lipstick that was closer to orange than red, but no other makeup, tight slacks and sandals. Wainright pointed her out. She was standing outside the barrier at the end of the pier, clutching a handbag. She looked scared and at the same time a little defiant.
Shayne went up to her.
“Are you the girl who’s looking for Dr. Little?”
Her face lit up. “Do you know where he is?”
Her voice was high and reedy, and made her seem even younger. There was a slight redness about her eyes and nose.
“I’m hunting for him myself,” Shayne said. “What happened, did you miss him?”
“I must have done!” she said. “They kept giving me the wrong directions, and everything’s so crowded and mixed up. Why aren’t there any signs?” she sniffed hard. “Jesus, it wasn’t my fault.”
“Was he expecting you to meet him?”
“Oh, who knows about Dad? He’s the original mad scientist. It was all arranged, but unless somebody’s right there to remind him—”
“I have to move my car,” Shayne said. “I had a date to meet him and he didn’t show up, so you and I seem to be in the same situation. We can park down the block in case he comes back.”
“I don’t know what hotel he’s going to, or anything. It’s so aggravating! He might even decide not to stay in Miami.”
She took several steps with him and then checked herself. “Are you some kind of police officer?”
“I’m a private detective. I came in on the same boat with your father. I don’t know any more about his plans than you do, but I’m in the phone book. He may call me.” He opened the door of his Buick for her.
“I don’t want to sound suspicious or anything,” she said, “but if you’ve got some identification I’d like to see it.”
He showed her the license signed by the Florida Secretary of State. She examined it carefully.
“I know a lot you read about America is exaggerated, but just the same—”
After getting into the car she sat quietly, her knees pressed together, clutching her handbag so hard that her knuckles had whitened. Shayne slid behind the wheel.
“He’s in trouble then, isn’t he?” she said without looking at him.
“I think so, Cecily, but I’m not sure what kind.”
“It’s the booze! He used to be so — well, predictable.” The curbside jam had begun to break. Shayne moved the Buick forward to the nearest opening.
“Did you fly over?”
“I got in this morning. He doesn’t like planes and I couldn’t see killing all that time on that dumb ship. Mr. Shayne, would you mind not being too tricky with me? Tell me right away what’s wrong.”