It was five o’clock. An orange-gray dawn was spreading across Miami. Shayne lay on his bed, smoking one cigarette after another and rumpling his coarse red hair. The night had not gone silk and cream for anyone. Not for a CIA man who called himself Bell; not for Jack Perkins, a spy in a double role; not for Boris Poskov, a heavy; not for a Miami private eye who still wasn’t sure why he was in this thing. A little blonde girl had managed to become a very large kink in a rope designed to hang the double spy.
Shayne wondered about Jack Perkins. Had Perkins returned to his Atlantica Hotel room after leaving Haynes’ house? And if he had, was he now in a sweat about the hitch in the pickup of the computer plans and Boris Poskov’s failure to get those plans from a detective? Were he and Boris remapping strategy right this second?
Shayne put himself in Perkins’ place. What would he do if he were Jack Perkins? Send Boris tromping back to a redhead’s hotel apartment, tell Boris to trigger a bomb if he had to — but get those plans? Or would he play it cool, allow his mind instead of emotion to rule?
Shayne had a strong hunch reasoning would be Jack Perkins’ champion. A guy didn’t remain alive in a double spy role on plunges.
Where the hell was Bell? Where had he and his people become lost? So there had been a hitch in their strategy. Weren’t CIA people supposed to be skilled in coping, rolling with a punch, recovering?
Shayne attempted to think of himself as Bell. What would he do under the obvious circumstances?
One answer stiffened the detective. He sat up in the bed and snubbed out a half-smoked cigarette. Maybe Bell people had taken in the entire night. Maybe they had watched a detective shadow a computer expert toward a meet. Maybe they had witnessed the computer man being knocked down by a little blonde girl. Maybe they had trailed along as the detective had chased down the girl. Maybe they knew the detective had retrieved the Haynes’ briefcase.
Shayne muttered on oath and left the bed. Earlier he had theorized that Boris Poskov might be a Judas goat to the Russians. Now switch it. Make a certain redheaded detective a Judas goat to the CIA. The redhead had in his possession valuable plans that were wanted by an enemy. The enemy knew the redhead had the plans, had made one attempt at getting those plans, failed. They would try again. No question about that. So the CIA could afford to wait. A trap still was baited — the only difference being, the bait now was a hulking Miami private detective instead of a computer expert!
Shayne cooled under shower water. Satisfaction settled on him. He wanted action. Being bait would get it.
He shaved and ate a large breakfast. He hadn’t slept, but he felt alert and keyed, prepared physically and mentally for anything the day might bring.
He went into the bedroom and strapped on his gun rig. He took out the .45 and hefted it. It felt good in his hand. Holstering the weapon, he slid into his suit coat and jammed on his Panama. Then he lifted the mattress and bed clothing from the box springs and propped the mattress against a wall. He gathered the papers, shuffled them together, folded them lengthwise and stuffed them into the inside pocket of his coat. He’d tackle the day as if it were a normal one, go to his office, check the mail Lucy Hamilton, his secretary, would have stacked on his desk, ponder prospective clients and wait for the next move from Jack Perkins and/or Boris Poskov.
Lucy was perky in pink when he entered the office and expertly sailed the Panama toward the old-fashioned coat stand in the corner. The Panama settled on a large black hook and Shayne’s grin became huge.
Lucy fluffed brown hair, jiggling the curls slightly. “You have an early visitor, Michael. In the inner office. He was waiting outside the door when I arrived.”
Shayne’s grin disappeared. “Who is he?”
“He says his name is Perkins. Do you know him? I’ve never seen—”
“It’s okay, Angel,” Shayne said quickly. He moved toward the open door of the inner office. “No interruptions,” he said over his shoulder, “not even a phone call.”
“Yes, Michael.”
Perkins was dressed modish. He wore a pale blue casual coat, white silk shirt open at the throat, deep blue slacks and white shoes. He sat in the chair in front of the scarred desk. An ankle was cocked on a knee and he seemed quite relaxed as Shayne entered the office and closed the door. Perkins turned dark eyes on the detective. His half smile was affable.
“Mr. Shayne?”
“Yes?”
Shayne went behind the desk, sat. His coat was open, the .45 available. He inventoried Jack Perkins minutely from under pulled together, shaggy eyebrows. He didn’t spot the outline of a shoulder holster.
Perkins sat forward and produced a plastic card similar to the car Bell had flashed.
“So?” said Shayne.
Perkins’ smile disappeared. He looked down at the polished white shoe that rested on his knee. He fingered it almost idly.
“I recognize you, Mr. Shayne,” he said. “I saw you last night. I dined with a man named Albert Haynes. You were in the same dining room. You sat alone at a table. No one joined you during the evening. You left the supper club immediately behind Mr. Haynes and myself. Seeing you now, I must assume that you were at the club to observe Mr. Haynes or me.”
Perkins’ stare was penetrating. He waited a moment and then nodded. “Yes, as I thought, your motive was ulterior. And in view of Mr. Haynes later in the evening losing certain papers that are valuable to the United States government, I am now here to claim those papers in the name of that government. You have them. I saw you chase down a girl, take a briefcase from her. Later you went to a hotel where I understand you live. You had a visitor early this morning. I’m not quite sure where he fits into this picture, but I do know that he left your apartment without the Haynes’ papers. Do you care to explain any or all of this?”
Shayne sat without moving a muscle. “Pal, I don’t intend to explain a thing.”
“I see.” Perkins nodded, pulling at the tip of his nose with two fingers of his left hand. “Well, I suppose I should have expected as much.” He continued to nod for a few seconds before looking directly at the detective. “And I don’t suppose you intend to turn over Albert Haynes’ papers either?”
“What papers?”
“We have you cold, Mr. Shayne,” Perkins said flatly. “We know you have the papers. You could have them on your person, you could have left them in your apartment, you could have secreted them in your car, or you might have dropped them on your secretary’s desk a few moments ago. We’ll find them — and you may already consider yourself under federal arrest.”
“Pal—”
“The gun in your shoulder holster does not alter the fact. I, too, am armed. There is a gun on the underside of my right wrist. If you care to watch as you reach for the gun in your shoulder holster, you will see how swiftly I can drop my gun into my hand. Who are you working for, Mr. Shayne, the Russians, the Red Chinese?”
“The Purple Penguins.”
Perkins seemed unmoved. “Well, perhaps you will tell us after we go across town and you are—”
“I’m not going anywhere, pal,” Shayne said savagely.
Perkins stood. He looked at ease, but the redhead knew he was cocked. “Oh, but you are,” Perkins said mildly. “We are going to the Federal Building.”
Shayne stared up at Perkins. The spy was a surprise. He seemed to be playing a CIA role. Strictly. Briefly, Shayne felt off balance. Could Bell have been wrong about Perkins? Could Perkins, while in Paris, have been tipped about the move against his friend Haynes and now was taking preventive measures on his own? The only trouble was Bell had seemed so positive about Perkins working for the Russians.