Everything Shayne had learned so far tagged this one as smart, aggressive and utterly ruthless, not a man to take chances or leave loose ends lying around under any circumstances whatever.
Well, he wouldn’t find Harris by staying on the dining room floor. He had to get out of there and search the entire house. That wasn’t going to be easy or safe with a killer waiting and ready for him.
Shayne crawled over to the door and reached up to the knob. He opened the door with one swift motion and stuck his head out at floor level. It was a trick he’d used before in a tight place, and it had saved his life more than once.
Anybody waiting in ambush outside the door would expect the big man to walk out, not crawl. From a prone position Shayne could have spotted his feet, grabbed for the ankles and brought the man down while he was still peering into the open door for the bulk of a standing man. Once a killer had even fired two shots into the empty air where Shayne’s stomach would have been.
This time there was nobody in the hall. When Mike Shayne was sure of that he got to his own feet. He was holding Harris’ heavy cane, and had his big forty-five loose in the holster and ready for instant use if needed.
The worst part of the whole situation was that he had no idea at all where to start searching. There were at least six rooms on the ground floor where he stood, and two more stories above. The killer might be holding Cal in any of the rooms — and any one was so crowded and cluttered as to offer a fine setting for an ambush in the dark.
If the detective just went blundering about in the dark, he stood a very good chance of meeting the same fate as the young fellow had. If he tried turning on lights, he’d just alert the killer for sure as to his own whereabouts.
At that point Shayne wished old John Wingren hadn’t been too miserly to keep a phone. He wished he could put in a call to his friend Will Gentry to have the house surrounded by police so the killer’s escape would be cut off.
He didn’t dare leave the house long enough to find another phone and call for help.
Shayne decided to search the ground floor first. He didn’t think the killer had had time to carry Cal Harris’ unconscious body very far. He’d probably known that Mike Shayne was also in the house and been afraid of being surprised himself at any moment.
Of course he’d want to get the body out of the room where the attack had taken place.
Shayne was pretty sure he’d have heard the sounds of anything heavy being carried up to the second floor. The stairway was an old one and a couple of the treads were loose and creaky. It could have been done while one of the planes was overhead, but he doubted it.
The dining room was between the living room and kitchen on the left side of the hall as a person walked in from the street. There was what had probably been a butler’s pantry between it and the kitchen, but this was so narrow and so cluttered as to be little more than a hallway.
Shayne went on down the main hall toward the rear of the house. The door from the hall to the kitchen was open, and he went inside.
The first thing he checked was the door from the kitchen to the small porch at the rear of the house. That door was locked with its key and also secured by a heavy brass draw-bolt. No one could have gone out that way and shot the bolt from the outside.
As a matter of routine Shayne checked the passage through what had been the butler’s pantry. It was empty.
There was another big storage pantry or closet. Again a quick inspection showed it empty of everything except stacked cases and canned and bottled food, boxes of soaps and detergents and similar items. Old Wingren had enough stuff hoarded away to live for months without setting foot outside of his home.
There was another door set flush with the wall, back where the bulk of one of the big freezer units kept it in heavy shadow. Shayne didn’t want to turn on a light, and as a result he almost missed seeing that door.
He tried the knob. The door wasn’t locked. He pulled it open and stuck his head in. He knew instantly that this wasn’t just another closet. His head was in darkness, but it was a darkness full of smells and the sound of water dripping some distance away. A draft blew outward as he stood in the door, and he realized there must be a cellar of some considerable size — an unusual thing to find in an older type Miami home.
He still couldn’t see a thing. He stepped inside, this time being careful to slide his feet at floor level. His hand touched a wooden rail as he groped in the dark. He couldn’t see a thing.
Somebody could, though.
The only warning Mike Shayne had was from instinct. He didn’t hear anything or see anything. As long as he lived he’d never know what primal, purely sub-sensory impulse it was that made him flinch and try to draw back.
Whatever it was — it saved his life.
The piece of heavy iron pipe struck a glancing blow on the side of his head instead of a spine-shattering smash at the nape of the neck as it had been intended to do. The difference in point of impact was all-important.
For Mike Shayne, at the moment, it was no difference at all though. The skyrockets exploded inside his skull and then he went down into the deep, dark well of unconsciousness.
Dimly, in a far corner of the brain he felt himself kicked or tumbled down a short flight of steps. At the same time he thought he heard a voice calling, not nearby but a long way off. Then the pain rose to crescendo and the merciful blackness took its place.
When he began to struggle back up the long, long spiral stairway to full consciousness it was because of a thumping, a moaning, and a persistent tapping against the upper left hand part of his back.
At first he didn’t really want to wake up. It meant going back into and through all that pain again. Mike Shayne was a hard man to kill, though. He was even harder to put down and keep down. Way deep inside he knew that he had to come back to consciousness, and so he did it bit by bit and second by second.
His hands and feet were tied with what felt like clothes line and he was lying on his face on a dirty cement floor in complete blackness. A heel was jabbing at his shoulder and the moaning, mumbling sound he heard was someone trying to talk to him through a gag.
Shayne opened his mouth and groaned. To his immense surprise he realized that he wasn’t gagged.
“Stop kicking me,” he said to the darkness. “I’ll be all right again in a minute. Then I’ll see about getting loose.”
The inarticulate sounds redoubled in frequency and volume.
Shayne was thinking again.
“Stop that or you’ll choke,” he said. “Are you Cal Harris? If you are rap on the floor three times with your feet.”
He was answered by three raps.
Shayne managed to sit up. Whoever had tied him had done a careless job of it. Not only had he forgotten to gag the big man, but he’d used old and half-rotted clothesline instead of wire or strong cord.
The big man began to feel better. Given time, he was confident that he could work himself loose again.
First he managed to crawl over to where Cal Harris lay. It wasn’t easy in the dark but he got his head at the back of the boy’s neck. Some cloth had been stuffed in his mouth for a gag and then another piece of rag knotted at the back of the neck to hold the gag in place. Shayne worried that knot with his teeth until it came loose.
Then Harris was able to spit out the gag.
“Mr. Shayne,” he said, “I thought you’d never find me.”
“You were almost right,” Shayne said. “Why didn’t you bump or something to warn me when I opened the door?”
“He had a knife. Besides, I couldn’t be sure it was you.”
“What are you tied up with?”