Grover fumbled with a three-cigar package. It shot out of his hands.
“I’m nervous as a witch. Say yes or no, will you? That fifty thousand is a firm figure. What the hell happened to those cigars?”
They had fallen on Shayne’s side, and he picked them up for him. At that moment the door opened and a bright light hit him in the eyes. A state highway patrolman was pointing a flashlight and a gun at him. The gun was far enough into the light so he would be sure to see it.
“Don’t shoot,” Shayne said wearily. “I was about to leave anyway.”
“There,” the cop said, as though gentling a horse.
He had a face like a side of beef, crosshatched with capillaries. His stomach, straining against the buttons of his shirt and pants, bulged menacingly toward Shayne. He put his flashlight on the ledge over the dashboard and took the cigar package out of Shayne’s hands. Warning Shayne not to move, he opened the box.
At this point Shayne was hardly surprised to see that it was full of money.
CHAPTER 8
Shayne glanced at Grover. “That was pretty good timing. What was the signal, when you threw away the cigar?”
“What are we talking about?”
“A word of advice, Grover. You’re playing with some pretty rough people. You may not be up to it.”
Grover laughed. “For a private detective, you’re really naive. Where’d you get the idea my father would sell his vote? That’s not how he does things.”
The highway cop took the folded bills out of the package. “Green. My favorite color.”
“I want a receipt for that,” Shayne told him.
“A what?” the cop demanded, looking down at him.
“The theory is that I was about to bribe Grover with that money, and you caught me in the act. I don’t want any evidence to disappear on the way to the barracks.”
“I hope you’re not going to deny-”
“I’ll plead later. If you’re arresting me I want a receipt for the money. If this is a shakedown, say so and I’ll be on my way.”
“Give him the receipt, Boyer,” Grover said. “And then carry him out of here. I have a headache and it’s killing me.”
Mumbling, Boyer counted the bills on the Cadillac’s fender.
“Fifteen thousand. I heard you offer him fifty. Where’s the rest of it?”
“Well, look at him,” Shayne said. “Would you trust him with the full price until you were sure he could deliver?”
The patrolman, not at all happy about it, sprawled a receipt on a page of his notebook. Shayne asked to see his identification, to verify his signature. A woman screamed. In a reflex action, Boyer snatched out his gun and whipped around.
“God!” Grover exclaimed.
Leaping out of the car, he set off for the building at a head-down run. Two girls, only partly dressed, burst out of the side door. There was an ugly flickering light in the main room.
Boyer thrust the money into his side pocket. Then he paused and came back to Shayne, reaching for his handcuffs.
“Better get on your radio, fast,” Shayne said.
“I don’t need any advice from you,” Boyer said viciously.
Shayne pulled his hands out of the other man’s reach. “You can use some help. Everybody’s drunk in there.”
With an obscenity, Boyer laid his gun alongside Shayne’s head. “Any more of your mouth and I’ll put lead in your skull! You draw down those big fees, and think you can come up here and push us country boys around. Put your hands where I can get at them!”
There was a crazy light in his eyes. Shayne lowered his hands slowly. He offered his left wrist because he had already worn handcuffs once that day and his right was chafed.
“The other one, the other one!” Boyer said.
He clicked the cuffs shut and wrenched Shayne’s arm across his body to lock him to the steering wheel.
This had taken a few seconds, and in that short time the fire had made astonishing headway. The end of the building was ablaze. People spilled out doors and windows. There was a low ominous crackle behind the smoke. The roof caught with a whoosh.
Boyer stopped as the heat hit him. Sam Rapp hurtled past, his clothes smoking. Shayne was out of the Cadillac on the driver’s side, yelling.
“Upstairs! A locked bedroom! Two people-”
The highway patrolman backed away from the fire. Shayne leaned on the horn, but the blasts were swallowed up in the rising roar of the flames.
“Rourke!” he yelled, seeing the reporter.
Rourke, his forearm raised to shield his face, moved around the end of the building at a shambling run. Shayne blew the horn again. When his friend still didn’t hear him, Shayne swore savagely, slipped back behind the wheel and started the motor. He slammed the indicator into drive. He couldn’t bring the wheel all the way around without breaking his arm, and the Cadillac didn’t complete the turn. It smashed into a small Porsche.
Hearing the crash, Rourke turned. His face was blackened. He ran toward Shayne, waving.
Shayne cut him off. “Maslow’s passed out in there! Tell the goddamn cop. The last bedroom upstairs. And there’s a girl tied up on the floor.”
Rourke blinked down at the handcuffs and raced off to intercept the cop, who was walking away from the building. Shayne gauged the progress of the fire through narrowed eyes. The flames were still confined to the main room, but beneath the dense smoke they must be spreading fast.
Boyer, without listening to Rourke, threw him off and continued toward his parked car. The second highway patrolman was standing by the front bumper, watching the fire open-mouthed. Rourke raged at them both, gesticulating toward the fire, until Boyer turned toward him ponderously and threatened him with a meaty fist. When Rourke continued to argue, Boyer, with a terrible slow patience, unfastened his pistol holster.
Rourke ran back to the Cadillac. “The son of a bitch is in shock.”
“Tim, for Christ’s sake, get in there. He’s in the end bedroom of the balcony. Go in from outside. There’s time. Tim, get moving. You’ve got about a minute. What’s the matter with you?”
“I broke my goddamned fingers diving out a window!” Rourke shouted. He waved his left hand in front of Shayne’s face. “I’m not hauling any senators out of a burning building.”
Shayne shook the handcuffs angrily. Rourke darted off and intercepted Matt McGranahan. He pointed at the fire, talking earnestly. As soon as McGranahan understood what he was being asked to do he backed away, shaking his head.
“I didn’t hear you!” He cut past the Cadillac, and shouted to Shayne, “Too loud, didn’t hear him!”
Rourke sent an anguished look at Shayne, and ran off to try the highway patrolmen again. Shayne swung back into the car, jackknifing his powerful body into a crouch between the top of the front seat and the roof. He forced the steering wheel through a quarter-turn to ease the drag on his wrist. This model Cadillac came with a collapsible steering post, to protect the driver from being skewered during head-on collisions. Shayne gave the rim of the wheel a powerful downward kick. Nothing happened.
He changed position and kicked again. This time he succeeded in shearing off the breakaway pin. The post telescoped inside its safety bushing. Gripping the wheel in both hands, Shayne pulled it back hard against the upper collar. When it jammed he wrenched upward with a powerful twisting motion, using his full strength, and forced it past the obstruction. An instant later he was out of the car.
“Too late!” Rourke cried as he ran past. “The whole building-”
Boyer, the beefy state cop, loomed up in Shayne’s path, his face crimson. He reached out. Without breaking stride, Shayne brought the steering wheel around in a flat sweep, smashing the trooper’s jaw.
He veered as the heat hit him. Lib Patrick and Sam Rapp were standing together. Lib’s dress was torn to the waist.
“Mike,” she called. “What are you-”
He was past. A tongue of flame licked out from the wall. He whirled, grasped the neck of Lib’s torn dress with his free hand and ripped it all the way down. Another quick pull and it came free.