“We found out about this New York dame and her syndicate from putting a tap on his wire, didn’t we?” Shorty argued after a moment.
Through the glasses he watched the sleek convertible pull away from the old shack, sand spinning under its tires. Driving it was a girl, tall and slender, with raven black hair that came to her shoulders. She was wearing dark glasses. The car had a New York license plate.
“Describe her to me again,” Whitey said, his eyes shining. “Big black eyes that got that burnin’ look in them, like she wants something real bad but ain’t ever been able to find it. Long black hair a man could twist in his fingers and—”
“Knock it off,” Shorty grunted. “Pretty soon you can get back to that Ireneabelle cutie in the beauty shop you keep talking about. And when we get what we’re after you can take your pick of any dame in Miami. They’ll be stacked three deep, waiting for you.”
“That’s for sure,” Whitey murmured, nodding in agreement. He sat up abruptly. “Listen, Shorty,” he said. “Where do we stand, anyway? I’m not so easy in my mind about this business of a New York syndicate approachin’ the old coot. We’ll be cut out yet. What I say is, let’s just grab him and get on my boat. We’ll go us a mile to sea and he’ll tell us what we want to know.”
“Maybe. And maybe not. He’s a tough old rooster. He won’t crack easy. Besides, just his telling us won’t be enough. He’ll have to show us.”
“He could draw us a map.”
“And maybe fake it? Anyway, you miss a thing like that by a couple hundred feet and you may never find it if you live to be a hundred. We’ll grab him if we have to, but first I’m hoping we’ll get a break that will make grabbing him unnecessary.”
Whitey rolled his eyes upward. “Treasure!” he sighed. “Sunken Spanish treasure! That’s what it’s gotta be, if it’s worth five million dollars! Old Cap’n Tolliver has sure as hell found the wreck of an old Spanish treasure ship—”
“Shh!” Shorty leaned forward with the glasses. “He’s in the living room, picking up the phone. Maybe this is it, Whitey.”
The box on the floor beside the cot gave a buzz. Whitey already had earphones on, and Shorty came over to stand beside him. Shorty turned one earphone outward and, heads pressed together like a pair of vultures, they listened. They heard the click of a phone lifted, then a voice. “Michael Shayne speaking.”
“Mike Shayne, the detective?”
“Right. Just who is this?”
“You don’t know me, Mr. Shayne. I’m Captain Tod Tolliver. Did you receive something in the mail today?”
“If you’re referring to a sample of antique Spanish metallurgy, yes.”
Tolliver’s laugh was like a string of firecrackers going off. “That’s a cute way to describe it. I sent it. To get you interested.”
“I’m interested, Captain Tolliver.”
“There’s more where that sample came from, Mr. Shayne. If you want to know the details, I’ll come to see you — ten o’clock tonight. I want to hire you to help me on a little job.”
“We’ll talk about that when I see you. I’ll be waiting for you at ten o’clock.” Shayne’s voice was crisp.
With a double click, the line went dead. Whitey took off the earphones.
“Now what does that get us?” he grumbled. “Now he’s ringing in this Mike Shayne, the private eye. From what I’ve heard he’s tough as raw leather, not afraid of cops or crooks.”
“Luckily I’ve got brains enough for both of us,” Shorty said. “This is the break we’ve been waiting for. Come on, we’ll see Ireneabelle, that beauty-parlor cutie of yours. We’ve got a little business with her.”
2
Michael Shayne lounged in his worn leather armchair, occasionally sipping brandy, and flipping the Spanish gold piece in the air, catching it as it came down. It was nine-thirty, not yet time for Captain Tod Tolliver to arrive. In the intervening hours he had learned a little about the captain, but not much. Tolliver was a retired shrimp fisherman who lived on a small income left him ten years before by an uncle in New England. He’d never been mixed up in anything unsavory. That was all.
Abruptly the redhead’s apartment buzzer whirred. Shayne put the gold piece away and stood up. Tolliver was early.
With long strides the redhead crossed to the door. A small, plump man with thinning black hair stood there. He wore a pair of shiny blue pants, an old blue jacket with brass buttons, and held a battered yachting cap marked Captain in his hand.
“Captain Tolliver?”
“Coming aboard, Mr. Shayne,” the little man said heartily. His voice sounded younger than it had on the phone. “I figgered maybe ten o’clock would be a bit late, so I caught the first tide and came early.”
He stepped in and looked around as Shayne closed the door.
“Drink?” the redhead asked.
“Don’t mind if I do,” the small man agreed.
Shayne was reaching for the bottle and glasses when the buzzer sounded again. “I’ll see who it is,” he said, and opened the door.
Standing framed in the doorway was a tall man with red hair — a man who might, at a distance, be mistaken for Michael Shayne by someone who didn’t know the detective well.
He had a gun in his hand. “All right, Shayne,” he said. “Put ’em up and keep quiet.”
Slowly Shayne raised his hands. The tall man’s eyes followed them. Shayne brought up his knee sharply, and caught the other’s gun hand. The hand flew up and the gun flew out of it. The visitor gave a grunt of pain. Shayne was reaching for him when the top five floors of the building fell on his head.
“Damn it, Whitey,” Shorty grumbled, putting the blackjack back into his pocket and looking down at the crumpled figure on the floor. “He almost took you, and you with a gun on him! I told you this shamus lad was tough. Lucky I was right in back of him. Now come on, get out that adhesive tape. We got half an hour to get set before Tolliver gets here.”
Michael Shayne opened his eyes. The first thing he saw was the electric clock on his bureau. It said nine fifty-five. He turned his head painfully, knowing he’d been sapped from behind by the short man posing as Captain Tod Tolliver. They’d taped his ankles together, taped his wrists behind his back, slapped tape over his mouth, and dumped him on his bed.
Now they were standing in front of the mirrored bathroom door. The tall man had shucked the nondescript clothes he’d been wearing and was attired in one of the private detective’s Palm Beach suits. He was admiring himself while his short companion fussed with the open-necked shirt they had taken from Shayne’s wardrobe. “That’s it, Whitey!” he said. “Why, hell, you’re a regular man of distinction now.”
The levity went out of his voice. “Now listen carefully. Tolliver’ll be here in a minute. If he wants a bodyguard, you’re it. If he doesn’t, you suggest it.”
“You just leave it to me,” the other grinned. “You got brains, all right, putting a tap on th’ captain’s phone like you did. Now he’ll take us right where we want to go. Hey!” He whirled. Shayne closed his eyes fast, but Whitey had seen him in the mirror. “Big Boy is awake!”
“He is, is he?” Shorty strode over and slapped the detective hard with his open hand. “Quit faking, shamus. We know you’re awake.”
Shayne opened his eyes and looked up at Shorty. Shorty nodded with satisfaction.
“You ain’t hurt bad,” he said. “Whether you get hurt worse depends on how you behave.”
Whitey slipped a five-inch switchblade knife from his pocket and snapped it open suggestively. “Why should we fool around? Lemme slip him Little Joe here and he won’t bother us none — now or ever.”