“Maybe we can put two and two together when I get there,” said Perkins.
VII
At the moment, two and two totaled sixteen for Mike Shayne. He shook his head in consternation as he turned from the closet door. His thoughts were clicking but he wasn’t coming up with any clear logic to explain Jack Perkins’ actions.
Barbette Johnson moved swiftly. “I have a car,” she said. “I’m going to follow him. You remain here and out of sight.”
“How the hell are you figuring him?”
“I’m not,” she snapped. “I don’t have time.”
Shayne had time after Barbette Johnson had left the room. He smacked a fist against a palm, turned to a window and stood yanking at his ear lobe. His feet moved reflexively. He felt as if he was being left at a starting gate. Everyone else was flying down the track and here he stood in.
Why was Jack Perkins returning the computer plans to Albert Haynes?
Shayne stewed as he stared down on a plaza that was filled with green things, shiny automobile tops, moving people, some bodies browned by many suns, other bodies powder white, people in shorts, skirts, hats, sandals, hot pants, colorful shirts and blouses — and cameras, the ever-present camera dangling from the neck of the Northern invader.
It hit him suddenly and he bolted. He used the service steps of the hotel, leaping down them three at a time and bouncing on the landings to regain his balance. He shot along the ground floor corridor and out the rear door into hot sunshine. The convertible came alive with the flicking of the ignition switch. He rolled along Collins Avenue, cursing the traffic, and turned onto Venetian Causeway.
In Miami he headed south, finally hit South Dixie Highway. When he reached the street the Haynes house fronted, he slowed, his eyes alert. There was a polished Chev parked at the curbing in front of the Haynes place. He eased past the Chev. It was empty. Down the street was a Mustang. As he cruised past, Barbette Johnson waved her arms frantically, motioning him on to Siberia.
Instead, he made a U turn at the next intersection and braked at the curbing. The Chev and the Mustang were facing him, but should Jack Perkins be driving the Chev and should he make a quick U turn after he left Haynes, he easily could be tailed.
Perkins came out of the Haynes’ house, got into the Chev, pulled into the Haynes’ driveway, backed out and zoomed off away from Shayne. Shayne sat without moving for several seconds, the Chev in sight. And again he was forced to give Barbette Johnson credit. The Mustang didn’t move. A quick start and a turn to roll along behind the Chev would have been a sure tipoff to Perkins.
Shayne was rolling soon enough to catch Perkins’ turn onto South Dixie Highway. He closed the gap between himself and the Chev slightly and then spotted the Mustang cruising in behind him. Perkins turned off on Le Jeune Road and Shayne picked up speed. Le Jeune could take Perkins to Miami International Airport, but that didn’t figure, not when a man had just rented a car. Or did it? Was the rental another Perkins’ byplay? He’d been full of surprising moves in the last few hours.
Shayne kept a block-and-a-half between himself and the Chev as they flashed past Coral Way, S. W. 8th Street, Flagler beyond the East-West Expressway. The reflection of the Mustang remained in the detective’s rear view mirror.
Perkins turned into the airport — and the Mustang whipped around Shayne. He yelled his surprise. He’d taken an eye from the mirror for a moment and Barbette Johnson had made her move.
Perkins braked the Chev and rolled from the seat. Barbette moved in on him, seemingly unnoticed. Shayne braked behind the Mustang and was outside when he saw the girl catch Perkins’ arm. They struggled briefly on the walk and then Perkins bolted. Barbette shoved out a foot and Perkins tripped over it to sail headlong into the concrete.
But he was quick. He rolled and was coming up when Shayne heaved up to him. The detective saw the recognition in Perkins’ eyes, and then Perkins leaped to his feet and shot a fist toward Shayne’s jaw. Shayne ducked, rolled in a spin and captured Perkins with both arms. Perkins lashed out with his feet, attempting to find a target with his heels.
Shayne stood spread-legged, holding Perkins in the bear hug. Suddenly Barbette Johnson was before them. She stiffened two fingers and shot them into Perkins’ solar plexus. Shayne felt Perkins stiffen in his arms, and then he relaxed suddenly, gulping for air.
Shayne dropped him. Perkins groveled on the sidewalk as the crowd of curious began to close in. Shayne dropped a knee hard on Perkins’ chest, pinning him. He found the tiny wrist contraption and gun, took both from Perkins. Then he went over Perkins’ body with experienced hands. Perkins was clean of other weapons, but Shayne continued to search.
“What are you looking for?” Barbette Johnson gasped.
“Film. What else?” Shayne growled. “He had time to film the plans and then return the originals to Haynes.”
The detective yanked off Perkins’ shoes, examined the soles, attempted to turn the heels. Nothing. He went over Perkins’ clothing again. Nothing.
Perkins wore a wide belt. Shayne unhooked it and whipped it from the man. He examined the inside of the belt carefully, found a slit. He pried the slit open and revealed the strip of film.
“Gold,” he breathed.
Which was the precise moment when Bell arrived.
“Well,” said Shayne, standing and tossing the belt to the CIA man, “nice that you could make it.”
“Will you believe,” said Bell, “that I was behind you all the way — until I got tied up in a traffic accident at a red light?”
“When was that, after you left me in the jailhouse that night?” Shayne snapped sarcastically.
“We had to give him rope, Shayne,” Bell said, his voice hardening. “We didn’t have a damn thing to pin him with, even after he got the Haynes papers from you this morning. He could’ve gone straight to Haynes with the papers, or to the Federal Building here, or called Washington, or—”
“Bell,” Shayne interrupted, “if you tell me that film isn’t enough—”
Bell grinned suddenly. “You certainly got what we needed, Shayne. After he rented the car this morning, he made a stop on a side street before returning to the Atlantica. We were on him, but we couldn’t move in. And, I admit, the stop puzzled hell out of us. But the film clears the puzzle. He was photographing the papers.”
“So only one little part of all of this is missing.”
Bell’s grin faded. He frowned.
“Boris Poskov. Or do you have him?”
“The morgue has him,” Bell said flatly. “His body was found about an hour ago. He floated up on a beach. It seems he drowned.”
“By whose hands?” Shayne asked with a wide grin, and almost smirked.
Bell grunted. “I don’t know anything about it.” He knelt beside Perkins. “Hello, Jack. This is the end of the road!”
Turnabout
by Aubrey S. Newman
They were lost, in deadly peril. Life can be cheap, payment swift and heavy, when you’re selling a deadly commodity called Fear...
The small newspaper advertisement was only two lines of black type:
Of course that don’t need much explanation. Everybody knows how Alcoholics Anonymous works — some used-to-be drunks tell you how they kicked the bottle, and all like that.
When I see that Criminals Anonymous notice I’m looking for job opportunities, after a two-year stretch in the pen. Two years makes you think what it would be like to do five or ten, or longer if you get real unlucky.