“And I’m not going to tell him what I’ve got to trade,” Shayne said easily. “Not yet. That’s what the boss might call an impasse, isn’t it?” He addressed his words directly to the rectangular opening in the wall.
“He ain’t going to answer you,” Gene said impatiently.
“I didn’t think he would… which means he’s afraid I might recognize his voice.”
Gene frowned and his eyes were baffled now. “Damned if I see any way except to bump you both.”
“Please, Shayne,” Carlton cried hoarsely, cowering in his straight-backed chair again. “You have no right to jeopardize my position, also. I’m merely an innocent bystander, and you talked me into this dangerous situation. If I hadn’t listened to your arguments last night I wouldn’t be in this predicament.”
“But you’d have a dirty smear on your conscience.”
“I don’t care about my conscience. All I ask is to be allowed to go in peace.” Sweat stood on Carlton’s face between the strips of adhesive.
Shayne said, “I’m willing to listen to a proposition.” He turned to Gene with lifted brows.
“I’ve told you the only way the boss will dicker.”
Shayne sighed. “There’s our impasse again.” He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply, with every indication of great enjoyment of the situation.
“We’ll have to see can we persuade you,” Gene said.
“I don’t persuade easily.”
“Then it’ll be just that much tougher on you.”
Shayne was keenly aware of his sore, broken ribs, but he argued placidly, “If the boss is smart he knows that torture never accomplished anything. Sure, you can maybe make me talk, but you’ll never know how much of it is the truth.”
Carlton rose from his chair and cried wildly, “How can you be so stubborn, Shayne? Don’t you realize we’ll both die if you don’t tell them what they want to know?”
“I don’t think so. They don’t dare kill me and they know it.” Shayne threw his lighted cigarette on the floor. He lifted his body with both hands gripping the back of the heavy wooden chair. “Know what I’m going to do?” He addressed Gene in a calm, conversational tone.
Gene took a backward step. “You better watch your step, Shamus.”
“You’re the one who’d better be watching your step,” Shayne grated. His anger anaesthetized the pain in his ribs as he lifted the chair. “I’m going to smash your head with this, then I’m going to unlock that door and walk out.” He moved forward, stalking the small dark man.
“No! Don’t do it,” Carlton screamed hysterically. “For God’s sake don’t! They’re waiting outside with guns.”
“You keep out of this,” Shayne growled, not looking at him.
Gene cowered, unarmed, against the door. Shayne set himself and swung the chair over his head.
There was another squawk of protest from Carlton, who lunged forward and threw his weight desperately against Shayne’s legs.
Shayne and the chair and Carlton went to the floor together. Cursing, Shayne extricated himself, got to his feet in time to see Gene dash through the door and slam it shut in his face.
He dived for the knob, but the door was locked again from the outside. He turned and grabbed the chair, raging at Carlton, “They’ll get away now, goddamn it. If you’d left me alone…”
“If I had let you go on with it we’d both have been shot,” Carlton said in a shaky tremolo.
Shayne’s hard gray eyes rested on him for a moment. He said, “I think they would have, at that.” Then he snorted in disgust and swung the chair over his head to bring it down savagely against the door.
A panel splintered under the impact and the sound of a racing motor came clearly as Shayne swung the chair again. This time the whole upper portion of the door gave way. He reached out and turned the key in the lock, opened the door and rushed out in time to see a red tail light fade away.
Carlton peered out fearfully, then came gingerly to join him. Shayne muttered angrily. “They’ve taken my car… and I don’t know where the hell we are.” He turned about, trying to get his bearings in the moonlight.
Carlton caught his arm and exclaimed, “They left my car.”
Shayne muttered, “If they left the keys.” He sprinted across the walk and plowed through the sand to Carlton’s green Buick coupe.
Carlton raced up beside him panting for breath. He pushed in beside Shayne and felt for the keys. “They’re here,” he said and gasped with relief.
“Get under the wheel,” Shayne ordered, “and let’s get to a telephone.” He got in on the right-hand side and leaned out to get his bearings as Carlton pulled away fast. By the time they had gone two blocks he had the location of the cabin fixed in his mind. It was in the midst of the undeveloped hammocked section in the south part of the city, lying about half-way between the bayfront and Coral Gables.
“Turn left at the first corner,” Shayne directed. “That’ll take us out to a little business section.”
Carlton drove ably and fast. He regained his composure and was no longer the shrinking thing he had been when he thought death was inevitable.
When he pulled up in front of a drugstore Shayne had the door open. He leaped out as the coupe slid to a stop. He ran in past a couple of startled loungers at the counter and on to the phone booth in the rear.
Dialing Will Gentry’s number and waiting impatiently for an answer, he tugged at his earlobe. When Gentry said, “Hello,” Shayne barked, “Get a call out on my car, Will.” He gave the license number. “A couple of hoods stole it… probably headed for Coral Gables.”
Gentry growled, “Hold it.”
Shayne waited and could hear a mumble as Gentry transmitted the order to the radio operator; then Gentry’s sharp demand in his ears, “What’s doing, Mike?”
“We’re on the last lap, Will. I haven’t time to go into it now, but get some men together right away. You’ll be using them soon.”
Gentry groaned and said, “Maybe you want this. Those prints on the liquor glass belong to a guy named Donald Frazier. A two-time loser. Last released from San Quentin a year ago. Counterfeiting both times. And that forty-five with the busted trigger from Tahiti Beach… Ballistics says it’s the same gun that fired the slugs into that kid in the railroad yards this morning.”
“That ties it up in a knot,” said Shayne exultantly. “I’ll call you, Will.” He dropped the receiver and loped back to the car, ordered Carlton:
“Get out to that printing plant of yours… fast.”
CHAPTER 15
Herbert Carlton meshed the gears obediently, turned a taped face toward Shayne which showed more than the horror of drawn lines. His eyes were terrified. He panted, “My… printing plant?”
“That’s right. And step on it. Bartel will be there, won’t he?”
“Why… he often works at night since I’ve had to be away from the office.”
“Alone?” Shayne asked grimly.
“Yes… at night. I have a boy who helps in the daytime. What…?”
“Faster,” Shayne interrupted, glancing at the speedometer. “I’ll take care of any cops.”
Mr. Carlton licked his lips and demanded with asperity, “What is this about Bartel… and my printing plant?”
“In the first place, his name is not Bartel. He’s Donald Frazier, an ex-convict.”
“Bartel! An ex-convict?”
“That’s right. He’s done a lot of time for counterfeiting. This time he’ll do a lot more,” Shayne ended grimly.
“But I… I don’t understand,” Carlton stammered.
“He’s been using your plant to run off forged gasoline ration books. Hell, it was perfect, being there alone at night.”
“But… are you positive?” Carlton quavered. “I don’t… why, I trusted Bartel implicitly.”
“I knew I’d seen his mug somewhere,” Shayne explained. “I checked his fingerprints. Can’t you, for God’s sake, get any more speed out of this bus?”
“I’m going fifty,” Carlton said with dignity, but he pressed the speedometer harder. “Does that mean that you suspect him of having a hand in that murder last night?”