He pulled the brim of his Panama low to shut out the sun’s glare when he got in his car, gunned the motor, and drove away, a worried frown between his ragged brows.
The telephone call was the break he had anticipated, his sole justification for keeping important facts from the police. So long as he could keep up the bluff that the incriminating documents were actually in his possession he felt fairly safe. Mr. Big would be a fool to have him knocked off until the papers were actually produced.
But why kill Bert Jackson?
Had the reporter played his cards badly? Or had someone else blundered in handling the assignment? Someone whose finger was a little too fast on the trigger of a. 22? The small caliber of the murder weapon in itself was a strong indication that the bullet had come from some source other than the man Bert was blackmailing.
The sort of man and the sort of big-time graft that Jackson had implied was sure to include professional gunmen, and such hoodlums didn’t bother with. 22’s. The brutal bludgeoning of the elevator operator was more in their line.
Inevitably the thing he was trying to ignore came back to torment him. There was no escaping the fact that Timothy Rourke did own a. 22 target pistol and that his claim of its being stolen and the theft unreported to the police was too thin for serious consideration.
Shayne jerked himself angrily erect and thrust that line of thought from his mind as he hit the traffic circle at 20th Street, deserted at this early hour, and rounded it to speed past silent warehouses and docks eastward onto the causeway. He held to the middle of the three right-hand lanes, pressing hard on the accelerator and watching the needle climb to 75. The high speed matched his mood, and he had a sudden feeling of suffocation, a lack of air.
He leaned across to crank the right-hand ventilator open and let the salt-tanged air blow in. When he straightened he frowned heavily at the sight of a car in the rearview mirror coming up behind him fast. A glance at his speedometer showed eighty, and the heavy old sedan wasn’t capable of more than that.
Shayne reacted instinctively and from years of experience, realizing that it might be coincidence. Although he was far from the appointed meeting-place, he pushed the accelerator down and grimly watched the car come on. The showdown might be coming sooner than he expected. There was no real reason why it should wait until he approached the Firestone estate on Miami Beach. It could just as well take place here on the lonely causeway if a car had been stationed at the causeway entrance, waiting for him to pass.
When he realized that his top speed could accomplish nothing, Shayne eased his big foot from the accelerator and slowed.
For a few moments the car behind him continued to close the gap between them with unabated speed, and he began to think his hunch was wrong, but this thought died swiftly as the driver of the car also slowed.
Shayne slumped behind the wheel and assumed a careless, lounging position, but his big hands gripped it, and his gray eyes were narrow and alert. His speed diminished to forty, and the following car which could now be distinguished as a big black Cadillac, slowed to the same speed, but it had swung out and was traveling in the outer lane as though to pass him.
Swiftly calculating the strategy his pursuers would likely take, he glanced ahead. The sweeping curves did not allow a clear view for any considerable distance, and the two men in the front seat of the Cadillac seemed content to maintain their position for the time being.
In another half mile the causeway straightened out on a long tangent leading directly onto the peninsula. If it was clear of traffic, Shayne felt certain that the interception would come there. He visualized the guard fence along the dirt shoulder near the edge of the twenty-foot fill. It was strong enough to withstand the sidelong impact of a skidding car and prevent it from going over the side into the bay, but was it strong enough to withstand the crushing power of a heavy car aimed directly at it at a speed of forty miles?
Watching the action of the big black car behind him, Shayne knew with grim certainty that he was going to get an answer when he straightened out at the end of the last curve and saw the long straightaway completely deserted.
He was ready when the pursuing car came up on his left with a sudden surge of power. Hunched over the wheel, Shayne stared straight ahead, apparently oblivious of the other car until a shouted warning caused him to turn his head.
The two cars were moving abreast with only a few feet between them. Shayne looked directly into the face of a hooked-nose man sitting beside the driver, motioning Shayne into the curb with his left hand and cuddling the butt of a Tommy gun with his right. The ugly muzzle protruded over the top of the lowered window and pointed directly at the head of the detective.
Shayne nodded, swung his eyes sharply back to the road as the Cadillac pressed in on his left fender. He sucked in a deep breath, wrenched his steering-wheel sharply to the right, and stepped hard on the accelerator. His sedan lunged toward the guard fence midway between two posts as he grabbed the door latch, opened it, and let the impact of the crash send his body out in a looping dive.
He catapulted through the air, clear of the plunging car, forcing his body muscles to go limp as the soft beach sand rushed up to meet him. He landed on the back of his shoulders with an impetus that knocked him breathless.
At the same moment there was a terrific crash. He dragged himself to his knees, panting for breath, and saw his car settle upside down in five feet of water with the four wheels showing above the surface.
Stunned and groggy, he reacted instinctively to carry out the plan he hoped would give him the advantage over the two gunmen. He dragged himself erect and plodded through the deep sand to the foot of the perpendicular piling supporting the roadway embankment against the bay waters at high tide.
Crouching, he waited, the automatic in his hand.
Shayne’s sudden maneuver had sent the Cadillac a hundred or more feet beyond the broken guardrail. Now, from his place of concealment he heard hurrying footsteps on the macadam above and angry voices cursing him.
“… plain goddamn scared to death when he saw my gun,” the hook-nosed man grated. “For a shamus with a reputation like he’s got-”
“Not a sign of him yet,” a surly voice cut in. “He’s drowned by this time, for sure. The boss ain’t gonna like this.”
“How can we help what the fool done? Le’s get outta here fast, Tiny. Ain’t no use hangin’ around. We been lucky so far, but somebody’s likely to come along any minute.”
“Nuts,” said the surly driver of the car. “Only a few feet of water there. We got to drag ’im out.”
“What the hell for? He’s drowned by this time.”
“He’s supposed to have that stuff on ’im,” Tiny reminded the hook-nosed gunman. “The boss sent us out to get it. We drag ’im out, see, and go through his pockets.”
“To hell with that,” growled the gunman. “The cops are likely to be prowling by here any minute. If they find us down there-”
“Rescuing a drowning man,” said Tiny. “We’re driving along and we see a guy break through the guardrail. So we stop to save him. Hell, there ain’t a mark on the Cad, and he damn sure won’t do any blabbin’, and maybe we get a medal or somethin’.”
“Maybe you’re right at that,” the hook-nosed man agreed reluctantly. “Reckon we can slide down where the fence is busted.” His voice trailed off, and Shayne waited tensely, peering around to see a shower of sand precede a body that dropped heavily down the embankment. He landed with a grunt, picked himself up, and Shayne saw the hook-nosed man whose Tommy gun had been pointed at him a few minutes ago. “Come on down, Tiny,” he called up to his companion. “I ain’t gonna stay here ’less you-”
“Stand out of the way!” Tiny yelled. “Look out!” The hook-nosed man took a backward step, glancing wildly around. He saw Shayne’s huddled figure less than ten feet away, and his hand dived toward his shoulder holster when he saw the gun in Shayne’s hand.