Now she saw a tall, rangy figure shamble through and her heart missed a couple of beats.
It was Michael Shayne, but only his best friend or his secretary would have recognized him. He wore a sloppy canvas fisherman’s hat rammed down over one eye to cover his red hair, and had a streak of black grease on his face. His shirt was open-throated and tieless, with a shabby corduroy jacket buttoned over it that was at least two sizes too small for him and left his wrists dangling out of the sleeves.
In this costume, he fitted perfectly into the Dolphin background and was indistinguishable from a dozen habituees of the place clustered at the bar, and no one accorded him more than a passing glance as he bellied up to the bar and ordered beer on draught.
He put down a dollar bill to pay for the beer, and leaned one elbow on the bar, looking slowly down the length of it and the men drinking there, then shifted his gaze aside to the row of booths, and suddenly he was looking directly into Lucy’s eyes, separated by a distance of about thirty feet.
The waiter had put a fresh drink in front of Ralph Billiter and he was toying with it, looking down at the table with a sulky frown.
Lucy kept her chin lifted, and met Shayne’s gaze squarely. She realized he could have no idea who her companion in the booth was, but some of the icy fear went out of her and she relaxed a trifle when she saw her employer’s right eyelid come down in a slow and unmistakable wink for her. She fluttered her own eyelids down when she saw Shayne gather up his change and pocket it, swallow some of his beer, and then begin weaving his way slowly back toward the rear of the room, simulating a slight degree of drunkenness as he passed behind the other drinking men.
“Ain’t nobody puttin’ nothing over on me,” Ralph declared hotly. “I got there first and seen the money first. Rightly, it’s mine, by Christ onna cross. How long you reckon it’ll take him to get here?”
“Not very long. Maybe he didn’t have the money right there in his room when I called, and had to pick it up.” Lucy’s fascinated gaze swivelled slowly, marking Shayne’s progress toward them. Not more than four feet separated the booths from the bar, and by the time Shayne reached the end he would be less than ten feet from them.
Lucy raised her voice a trifle and put her right hand on Ralph’s muscular forearm. “You’re not going to do anything when he comes, are you?”
“Not if he don’t start nothin’, I won’t.” Ralph shook her arm off impatiently and raised his hand to run fingers through his tousled hair while he glared over the low wall of the booth toward the front of the saloon as though he dared Baron McTige to come in and start anything with him.
Michael Shayne had reached the end of the bar nearest their booth and stood slouched, now, with his back to the bar and both elbows behind him supporting his body. He had his stein of beer in his right hand, and he allowed his lower jaw to droop to give his grease-smeared face a look of blank stupidity.
“That conch shell of yours really frightens me terribly.” Lucy made her voice as loud as she dared without looking at Shayne, and tried to project it toward him so he might hear over the thick babble of voices in the background. “It’s really more dangerous for fighting than a knife, isn’t it?”
“It works real good, you bet. An’ there ain’t no law ag’in carrying a conch shell in yore pocket. That’s why we’uns down on the Keys like ’em better’n a knife.”
Shayne’s eyes were hooded, his face bleakly impassive, and Lucy didn’t know whether he could hear a word she and Ralph were saying or not.
She still didn’t have the faintest idea what she could do to resolve the impasse, and she didn’t see what Michael Shayne could do either.
Ralph emptied his sixth glass of whiskey down his throat, and put both big hands around his beer mug to lift it to his mouth.
Shayne straightened his body at the bar and hiccoughed loudly, and lurched away to reach out a hand and steady himself by grasping the partition of the booth in which they were seated.
He swayed there as though on rubbery legs, and grinned admiringly at Lucy Hamilton. “Hi-yah, doll,” he said thickly. “You know somepin?”
Ralph set his mug down on the table and glared belligerently at the tall stranger. “Get lost, Mister.”
“He’s drunk, Ralph.” Lucy put her hand on his forearm again, the arm that was attached to the hand which could dive into his coat pocket instantly to bring out the wickedly sharpened shell.
“Ain’t drunk either.” Shayne wagged his head from side to side solemnly. “Not too drunk to know a purty piece when I see one. How’s about it, Sister? Lookin’ for a little fun?”
Ralph set his teeth grimly and jutted his jaw and glared at Shayne. “She’ll get all the fun she wants with me, Mister.”
“Young punk like you?” Shayne waved his stein grandiosely. “Why’n’t you let the lady decide, huh?”
“By God, Mister, I’m tellin’ you…” Ralph half rose menacingly, and Shayne swayed back on his heels and laughed.
“Tell yuh what. I’ll fight yuh for her. Fair an’ square, huh? If you got the guts… a punk like you.”
“By God, Mister, I’ll fight you. Any time an’ any place.” Ralph’s voice rose loudly, and the babble of voices at the bar was stilled as heads craned in their direction.
Shayne threw half a mug of beer in Ralph’s face.
The two bartenders moved quickly and efficiently behind the bar. The one toward the front turned to lift a telephone from the counter and dial the police. The other one stooped and got the heavy end of a sawed-off billiard cue from beneath the bar and started back.
Ralph Billiter sputtered and bellowed with rage when the beer struck his face. He lumbered up in the narrow confine of the booth and shoved the table away from him, his big hand diving into his side pocket for the natural fighting weapon of a Florida Cracker from the Keys.
Shayne was poised on the balls of his feet with his right fist cocked and ready by the time Ralph stood fully erect. He moved in lightly, and swung his fist with the full weight of his body behind it as he moved.
It connected solidly with the side of Ralph’s jaw, driving him back into Lucy’s lap as she screamed.
Her scream was a warning to Shayne of danger from behind, but it came a split second too late.
The bartender had ducked under the end of the bar, and his two-foot length of weighted wood was already describing a vicious swinging arc as Shayne spun toward him.
It struck the redhead low on the side of the neck just above the collarbone, and he continued his spin like a pole-axed steer, crashing into the wall at the end of the bar and sliding full-length to the floor.
Lucy was fighting her way up from under the slack weight of Ralph’s body, and the bartender surveyed the scene dispassionately for a moment before turning back to the other occupants of the saloon and saying wearily, “Just sit tight everybody. We’ll let the cops clean this mess up for us.”
15
When Michael Shayne swam back to consciousness, he was lying flat on his back on the bar-room floor with his head pillowed in Lucy’s lap and with her tears streaming down into his face.
He opened his eyes and looked up at her face just a few inches above his and twisted his mouth in a crooked grin. “It’s okay, angel. I’ll live… I think.”
He winced painfully as he turned his head a trifle, then he flattened both hands out on the floor and forced his body up to a sitting position.
A wave of dizziness swept over him, and he closed his eyes momentarily. When he opened them he saw a burly uniformed figure standing at his feet looking down at him composedly. Lucy still sat on the floor beside him with her head bowed and sobbing gently. He touched her shoulder and said urgently, “It’s all right, Lucy. Let’s get out of here.”