“Can you ditch ’em?”
“Sure. Why?”
“If you’re smart you’ll get rid of ’em. Maybe you’re ready to do some business.”
“What kind of business?”
“Listen, Shayne… this is the pay-off.”
“In that case,” Shayne said, “I’m always glad to talk things over.”
“You’re pretty smart, but we ain’t dumb either, see? Here’s the way you’ll do it. Get this, and get it straight.”
“I’ll get it,” Shayne said impatiently.
“Go to the post office and there’s a letter for you in General Delivery. It tells you what to do. You’ll be watched while you get the letter and from then on. If you say anything to anybody or signal anybody or are followed when you leave the post office, the deal’s off. And the next bullet won’t miss.”
Shayne said, “It’s a date.” He hung up, turned around and grinned at Peterson and McNulty, ruffling his hair. “I wish to God dames would let me alone when I’m on a case.”
“That dame,” McNulty observed, “ought to do somethin’ about her voice.”
“She’s got a bad cold,” Shayne told him. He went into the bathroom and soused water over his face and head. In the bedroom he replaced his shirt and tie, fingered the gun in the holster nestling against his right groin, came out and picked up his hat.
McNulty and Peterson ranged themselves alongside him. Peterson said, “Maybe she’s got a couple of girl friends, so we’ll just tag along.”
“They wouldn’t be your type, boys,” Shayne argued.
“With my charm,” said McNulty, “I’ll get along okay.”
The trio moved out of the room and down the hall. McNulty said to Peterson, “Stick close to him, Pete, and maybe some of Mike’s Irish luck’ll rub off on us.”
Peterson nodded happily. “I’m curious. I’ve allus wondered what kind of dame would spread for a Shamus.”
“Trouble with you boys,” Shayne said, “is you don’t ever get down on your knees at night and pray.”
A derisive grunt came from the two men as the elevator stopped. They went down, marched through the lobby with him and out to his car. Shayne slid under the wheel, his face impassive. He waited for them to get in beside him, then drove up Third Avenue a couple of blocks beyond Flagler. He stopped in front of a bar and said:
“We’ve got some time to kill before I keep my date.”
He parked his car where it couldn’t be seen from the interior, got out and strolled in.
McNulty and Peterson followed him with grim determination.
Shayne said to the bartender, “Set out a bottle of cognac for me, Louis,” and went on to a rear booth. The two detectives stalked back with him and squeezed into the seat across the table.
Louis came back with a fifth of cognac, a four-ounce glass and a tumbler of ice water.
McNulty said, “What’s the idea? Two more glasses, Louis.”
Shayne said, “Hell, no. You guys buy your own drinks.” He carefully filled his glass to the brim.
“Beer for me,” said Peterson with resignation and disgust, and McNulty nodded confirmation to the bartender.
Shayne lifted his brimming glass in both hands and passed it back and forth beneath his flared nostrils, breathing deeply of the aroma, then drank a small portion.
Louis brought two beers and set them before the police detectives.
“Look, Mike,” McNulty exploded, “what’s the dope? Who was on the phone back there?”
“Her name,” said Shayne dreamily, “is Geraldine.”
“To hell with that!” McNulty thumped his beer mug down. “I answered the phone. You’re figuring on pulling another disappearing act.”
“Listen, boys,” Shayne said seriously, “I know how Gentry is. I wouldn’t let you down.” He toyed with his glass a moment, then refilled it.
Peterson’s long nose twitched. He complained, “Goddamn it, Mike, you know we had this job wished on us.”
“Yeh. I know,” Shayne said sympathetically. He took a sip of cognac, pushed the glass away and got up. “Want to match to see which one of you accompanies me to the can?”
Peterson’s face darkened and McNulty choked over his beer. “I’ll go,” said Peterson. “I’ll just see, by God, that there’s not a back door.”
Shayne waited politely while he got up and preceded him to a side door lettered MEN. Peterson went in and turned on the light, surveyed a four-by-six cubicle containing a stained lavatory and a toilet. Sunlight streamed through a cobwebbed skylight eight feet above the floor and there was no other exit.
Peterson went out muttering, “All right, smart guy. I’ll wait outside.”
Shayne closed and locked the door, got up on the lavatory and unlatched the steel-sashed skylight. With the toe of his shoe he pushed the toilet lever and flushed it, then pushed up on hinges that squeaked slightly from long disuse. He caught the edge and chinned his long body upward, wriggled through the opening and rolled out on a sloping roof, slid down to the edge and dropped off into an alley.
Running swiftly to the street he got in his car and drove to the post office. At the General Delivery window, he said, “Shayne, Michael.”
The clerk riffled through a batch of letters from the S pigeonhole and handed him an envelope. Shayne held it up and looked at it, went back to his car and got in. He didn’t look at the loiterers, didn’t try to guess who might be watching him.
The address on the envelope was typed. The postmark was 11 A.M. He tore it open and took out a folded sheet of 8? by 11 Hammond Bond. The brief message was typewritten:
“You are being watched every second. Drive straight to Tahiti Beach on the Coral Gables road. Take it slow all the way but don’t stop. We’ll know if any cops are following you.”
Replacing the note in the envelope, he started his motor. He took the most direct route to Coral Cables, driving slowly and watching through the rear-view mirror, but he was unable to spot any car which might be definitely following him. As he drove he got out a pen-knife and cut a slit in the upholstery of the back of the front seat, slid the envelope into the slit and smoothed it back.
Beyond Coral Cables he turned onto the winding road leading down through deserted hammocks and swampy land toward the edge of the bay where there was a now deserted resort which had once been a popular bathing beach and dancing casino. Gasoline rationing had ended, temporarily, the popularity of the picturesque spot.
There was not a car in sight behind him as he drove slowly between rows of straggly palms and wild palmettos. This was understandable. There was no side road once one turned from the main highway, and anyone following could stop and effectually prevent help reaching him.
Shayne swore softly at himself for having started on what would probably be a wild-goose chase, but he knew that it was important to follow every lead. He decided that the murderers were getting desperate to plan a meeting here in the jungle, and he hunched low under the wheel, keeping his foot on the accelerator.
A warm, stagnant dankness filled the air as he approached the dead-end at the bayshore. An occasional sandcrab scuttled across the road in front of his car, but they were the only living things to be seen.
The winding highway debouched suddenly into a clearing. The serene shimmer of the bay showed between gray trunks of royal palms, and there was a graveled parking space marked off in neat lanes, but empty now of cars. The palm-thatched dance pavilion and bath houses were deserted and silent.
Shayne turned into the parking lot and turned off his motor. He lit a cigarette and listened to the sluffing slap of waves on the wide sandy beach and to the faint whisper of palm fronds.
The air was warm, and the humid stench of the swamp was thick in his nostrils. A squirrel chattered angrily from a twisted mangrove beyond the silent pavilion, and a fish broke the calm waters of the bay with a loud splash.
For several minutes there was no other sound. Shayne finished his cigarette and spun the butt away. He wished he had that drink of cognac he had left as a decoy on the barroom table. His mouth twisted into a grin at the thought of Peterson and McNulty keeping watch on the empty men’s room.