Footsteps came to him. Two pair. They clicked along slowly. A man said, “Ginny, I don’t see why we can’t just take off.”
“Because I have a husband, Ralph. That’s why we can’t just take off. There are laws against—”
“But no one would ever find us. I promise, Ginny.”
“I keep telling you, Ralph. You don’t know Elmer. He’d search the world. Not to force me into returning, but to kill you.”
“I’m not afraid of him, Ginny.”
“Then why are we sneaking around as we are? Why don’t we go to him, tell him we are in love, ask for the divorce.”
“Well, hell, Ginny, that seems kind of crazy, when we can take off.”
The voices and footsteps moved out of Shayne’s range, and he eased. He was surprised to find sweat on his brow. He wiped the film away with a palm and surveyed the house and yard again. None of the shadows had changed position.
Haynes again appeared in a window, drank and disappeared. Shayne shifted his weight restlessly, kept his watch out where he could see the hands.
Agonizingly, the midnight hour passed. It became five minutes past twelve o’clock, then ten minutes past. He wanted a cigarette. He thought about Will Gentry, his longtime friend and chief of the Miami police department. He wondered if Gentry was aware of what was transpiring in his city tonight. He thought about Tim Rourke, the veteran newspaperman. Rourke would give his left ear to be squatted here beside him. Shayne grunted and turned his thoughts to Lucy Hamilton. He could be at Lucy’s place right this second, listening to tapes, if a drunk hadn’t accosted him in Bierny’s...
Haynes appeared in a window, arms folded across his chest.
Shayne jerked. Haynes had been instructed to deliver the computer plans this morning. The detective tugged his ear. Some action at last! But it was another twenty minutes before a cab stopped in front of the Haynes house and a squat figure appeared with Haynes in a doorway. The two men chatted briefly, and then Shayne watched Perkins come down the sidewalk to the cab. Perkins walked swiftly, his heel clicks strong in the quiet night. He got into the cab and the cab moved off in a clack of gears and valves that needed attention.
Shayne kept a sharp eye on the house. Five minutes passed before a garage door went up. Moments later, the Continental was backed down the driveway. In the street, it turned away from Shayne. He ran on long strides to the convertible, leaped inside and shot away from the curbing in a U turn. The taillights of the Continental were almost out of sight. He saw them turn onto the busy thoroughfare.
Shayne caught up with and passed Haynes, then eased off on the gas, allowed Haynes to pass him and drift ahead. There was little traffic and Shayne could afford to hang far back as they cruised into the downtown area.
Haynes surprised Shayne. He braked at a curbing on a downtown street and left the Continental. Shayne braked ahead and watched Haynes stride past. Haynes paid no attention to him. He walked straight on solid strides, a man of purpose and destination. He carried a briefcase in his right hand.
Shayne left the convertible and went after Haynes. He didn’t like leaving the car, but at this hour of the night shadowing from a slow moving vehicle was out. On the other hand, he felt as if he were walking onto very thin ground. Should Boris Poskov be waiting in a car at the curbing somewhere up ahead, and should Haynes be forced to put the briefcase into that car, Boris would be gone and lost almost before a detective could get untracked.
Shayne saw only six pedestrians, and four were on the other side of the wide street. Up ahead was Haynes, and approaching the computer expert from the opposite direction was a young blonde girl. She had materialized out of nowhere and she was moving slowly, hips and bag purse swinging. Shayne sniffed. The girl had to be a hooker, out for the last buck of the night.
Haynes and the girl met. She curved slightly into him. And then Shayne saw her lift an arm suddenly and shoot something into Haynes’ face. He yowled as the girl snaked the briefcase from his grasp.
Haynes went down to the sidewalk and squirmed as if in agony. Then suddenly he was sprawled and quiet and the girl was streaking away from him.
Shayne broke into a run. He figured he had the third Russian agent he had anticipated. Haynes looked dead as Shayne flashed past him. The girl went into an alley up ahead, streaking fast now.
Shayne curved into the alley and felt an ankle give under him. He sprawled hard and rolled, skin peeling from his knee and palms. But he was up on his feet swiftly and moving fast down the alley.
He saw the girl go out of the opposite end. When he hit the street, the girl had crossed to the other side. She ran another half block, then turned into a stucco building that had a single light bulb burning over the entrance.
Shayne shot through the front door and found the building to be a fleabag hotel. A scrawny guy sat behind a warped desk, reading a pornographic paperback. He didn’t bother to leave his chair until Shayne made a move to vault the counter. Then the scrawny guy stood and cowered, his face screwed up in fear.
Shayne reached out a long arm and caught shirt front in his fingers. He yanked the man to him. “The girl who just ran in here,” he rasped. “What room?”
“Wh-at girl?” the clerk managed as he pawed at Shayne’s wrists.
Shayne jerked the man up on the counter edge.
“Two-ten,” the man gasped. “Her name’s Lisa.”
Shayne shoved the man back toward the tipped chair and leaped up the stairsteps. He knew he didn’t have to worry about the man calling a warning; there was no PBX behind the desk. But the girl could go out a back window, or she could have an accomplice in the room.
Shayne found 210, yanked out his .45, rapped the muzzle against the wood of the door and leaped aside. He expected a snap of bullets. But there was no sound. Not even a single shot. He leveled a foot on the doorknob and kicked viciously. The door flew open. He waited out of range for a few seconds and then went head first in a dive into the room, rolling and coming up on his feet with the .45 leveled.
But all he got was the young blonde girl gaping at him from the foot of a concaved single bed. She had the briefcase open and papers strewn.
“Fink!” she screamed.
Shayne captured her by looping an arm across her chest. She struggled savagely, kicking with her heels. He tapped the .45 muzzle against the top of her skull. The taps made her freeze. She was full of fire, but she suddenly became a statue.
Then she gasped. “Get your own, creep!”
She made new struggling motions. Shayne tapped again with the gun. She stiffened against him, stood rigid, her head thrown back against his shoulder, blue eyes round.
He shot a glance at the single window in the far wall. It was closed tight. He surveyed the room. It was small, shabby and cheap. There was a portable, standup box for hanging clothes, behind him, the doors open. Three short skirts and two faded blouses dangled from hangars. A pair of shabby shoes was on the floor of the box.
The girl made another minor struggling effort, then repeated, “Go get your own, creep! Yuh gotta bust a girl?”
“The guy on the street,” Shayne snarled. “Why?”
“Why what?” the girl screeched.
“You hit him!”
“Mace, man! No hit. Whadoyuh—”
“How come?”
“The briefcase! Whadoyuh think? Same as you! A john comes along at one o’clock in the morning, swinging a briefcase. Maybe there’s goodies inside, maybe there ain’t. What the hell, rollin’ a dude is strictly for creeps like you? Ain’tcha never heard of women’s lib, man? How about turnin’ me loose, huh? I can’t breathe. You want them papers on the bed, take ’em. There ain’t nothing there that makes sense to me.”