Camilli’s head had swiveled toward Shayne’s Buick. His brake lights flared. Shayne thought fast. He was carrying only one thing that would make trouble for him with a vice cop-the blackmail negatives, showing Deedee and Jose Despard at four stages in the presumed rape. The one Shayne had looked at had been relatively innocuous, but the others were undoubtedly worse.
Camilli left the Ford double-parked with its headlights on full. Shayne whipped the envelope containing the negatives out of his pocket and tried to slip it under the floor covering. But he had to crouch low to reach the edge of the rubber pad with his right hand, and Camilli saw him straighten.
Shayne flicked on the switch of a battery-powered tape recorder under the front seat as the other approached. Camilli, chewing gum, his thumbs hooked in his belt, was moving at the easy saunter used by cops when they believe they are about to make a high-prestige arrest and their quarry has little chance to get away from them.
“Mike Shayne again,” he said lazily. “You get around, for a man with a bad arm. What are you doing on University property, may I ask?”
“You can ask,” Shayne said evenly. “What are you doing in Coral Gables? You’re out of your jurisdiction here.”
“Let’s not worry about that. Ever since I saw you tonight, I’ve been thinking about some of those uncalled-for remarks of yours about frame-ups. Somebody’s a hooker, or a flagrant fag. Everybody knows it. They’re guilty as hell, and we can’t bring them in unless we catch them in the act. Well?” He jerked the door open. “What did you just stick under the front seat?”
“Where’s your partner?”
“He was in the john,” Camilli said. “When the call came in and I heard Mike Shayne was involved, I didn’t wait. I moved.”
He had a long three-cell flashlight in one hand. Shayne shifted his feet, untying the knot of the sling with a quick pull. As Camilli leaned forward, his jowls were on a direct line with the hidden knuckles. Shayne suppressed an impulse to jerk his elbow outward. Camilli was a cop, after all. A good way to get in trouble in any town, including this one, was to slug cops.
As Camilli’s right hand entered the beam of light, Shayne saw that he was holding his thumb folded under against the palm. Without further thought, Shayne broke the scalpel loose from the plaster and lifted the cast over Camilli’s hulking shoulders. He dug the hook in the back of his jacket and yanked him forward, at the same time bringing the bright razor-sharp edge of the scalpel up toward his throat.
Camilli made a choking sound. He tried to pull back, but the hook held him.
“Open your hand,” Shayne ordered.
Camilli merely gurgled. Shayne repeated the command and nicked off a small slice of his chin with a pass of the scalpel. The cop’s eyes protruded dangerously. Slowly he turned his hand over. A brown, amateurish-looking cigarette slid to the floor beneath the steering column.
Shayne clucked. “I see you were going to pull me in for possession. You get into habits and they’re hard to break. Where did the call come from, Camilli?”
Camilli’s voice was thin and high. “You won’t use that shiv. You’re too smart. I’m a police officer!”
“I keep reminding myself,” Shayne said. “I’ll ask you again, and I’m still asking you nicely. Where did the call come from?”
Blood dripped from Camilli’s chin. He tried to swallow, but nothing went down.
“Washington,” he whispered, his eyes on the bright blade.
“Washington,” Shayne repeated without expression. “I’m glad you decided to tell me. They’re new seat covers. I wouldn’t like to get blood all over them. Go on.”
“Mike, for God’s sake, do you know what you’re doing? You can’t control your arm. One touch with that thing-”
Shayne’s hand with the scalpel was rock-steady an inch in front of his chin.
“Said his name was Hallam,” Camilli gasped. “He fired you, you were trying to extort money from him. Please. Will you please, Mike? That wasn’t enough to hold you on. The reefer was only a gag! He said if you were out of the way for twenty-four hours, he’d give me a check for my favorite charity.”
“Which one is that,” Shayne inquired, “the Society for the Advancement of Vince Camilli? Straighten up slowly and turn around.”
He relaxed the pull of the hook and Camilli straightened. The scalpel followed him up and out of the car. Shayne freed the hook. Then, dropping the scalpel into his pocket, he slid his hand under Camilli’s arm and got his gun. He scaled it across the lot beneath the next line of parked cars. Using the blunt end of the hook, he walked him across the street to his Ford.
There Shayne reached in and sliced the main battery cable. He allowed Camilli to turn to face him, and cut his belt with a quick upward stroke of the scalpel. Camilli grabbed at his pants as they fell.
“Get in,” Shayne said. “The thing for you to do now is get your retirement papers in before tomorrow morning. If you move fast, I may not mention that stick of marijuana to anybody. I want you out of Miami inside a week.”
“Mike, I’ve got roots here-I own a house-”
“Sell it,” Shayne said. “Shaking down whores is one thing. This is something else. I’ve got that conversation on tape. All I need to do is make a couple of calls.”
He motioned with the scalpel and Camilli fell into the front seat. Shayne turned his back on him and returned to the Buick without looking around.
An instant after the door of the Buick slammed, a red Volkswagen scurried out of Candida’s court and turned north on Alhambra Circle.
Shayne wasted a second or two getting underway. The Volkswagen was already blinking for a right at Blue Road. There was no doubt in his mind that she must be going north. That was where the action was tonight. He continued across, turning into Bird Road at the end of the next long block. Here he gunned his powerful motor, crossed Granada Boulevard on the tail end of a green light, and hit seventy-five by the time he braked for Route One.
The red Volkswagen came into sight. As it went through the intersection, Shayne had a glimpse of Candida. She was driving intently, her hands high on the wheel.
From there it was easy. She crossed to Miami Beach on the Venetian Causeway. Shayne was the second car behind as she stopped to pay the toll. After passing Municipal Park on the Beach, she turned onto Collins, the street of the great hotels.
If she was about to turn, she would be watching her mirror, and Shayne dropped back. His timing was bad. Caught by a red light, he picked up the phone.
When the operator came on, he told her to hold. Ahead, the Volkswagen swung into the long curving approach to the St. Albans. Still immobilized by the light, Shayne gave the operator the St. Albans number. A moment later he was asking for the security man, Harry Hurlbut.
“Hurlbut,” a voice said.
“Mike Shayne, in a hurry. I know you like to be in on things. I have a strong feeling something’s about to happen.”
Hurlbut groaned. “Why here? Why not at the Fontainebleu?”
“A girl’s going to be along in a minute. Can you see the main-lobby entrance from your office?”
“Wait a minute,” his friend told him. “Yeah, now I can.”
“I can’t follow her in. I want to know what she does-it could make a big difference. She’s a blonde. Red skirt, sleeveless sweater, no hat. She’s alone.”
“Right,” Hurlbut said alertly. “I think she just came in now. Sweater buttons in front, all the way up.”
The light changed. Shayne wedged the phone between his shoulder and jaw. After crossing the intersection, he turned into the approach to the St. Albans.
“She’s using a house phone,” Hurlbut said. “I’ll get the board.”
He clicked off. Shayne fitted the Buick into an opening at the curb. In a moment Hurlbut was back.
“She’s calling twelve-sixteen. They’re still ringing. Still ringing. Wait a minute, I’ll check the register.”
After another brief pause Hurlbut said, “I thought that was the room. Ruth Di Palma. Mike, you’ll have to tell me more about this before I go any farther.”