And where was Bell? For a guy who had seemed so bent on trapping a traitor, a guy who had seemed so hep on the moves of an enemy, he sure as hell seemed to have disappeared when he was needed.
“Shall we go, Mr. Shayne?” Perkins asked politely.
Shayne stood. He felt at a crossroad. He could go along with the Perkins’ charade, see just how long Perkins was going to carry out the straight role, where it would lead — or he could stomp. He could land on Perkins here and now, in spite of the threat of the wrist gun, haul Perkins down to the federal boys, yell for Bell.
Except Perkins was not vulnerable. Perkins was as clean as a freshly scrubbed baby. The Haynes’ papers were in a detective’s pocket, not a spy’s.
Shayne came out from behind his desk and growled, “If you figure you got to haul me in, let’s get on with it.”
In the outer office, Perkins asked, “Is there anything you want to pick up here, Mr. Shayne?”
“Not a damn thing,” Shayne said, grabbing his hat and jamming it on his head as he moved to the door. He threw a look over his shoulder at Lucy Hamilton who was sitting erect and frowning. Shayne knew that Lucy sensed something was wrong, and he said, “Everything’s under control, Angel.”
They left the office, walking side by side. Perkins seemed relaxed, and he had made no attempt to disarm Shayne.
Outside, Perkins said, “I came by cab, so if we could use your convertible?”
Shayne said nothing as they got into the topdown convertible. He eased the car into the traffic flow and slid an oblique glance at his passenger. Perkins sat as if they were going for a pleasant drive out along Biscayne Bay.
Shayne shook his head. Perkins was a good actor. Maybe he’d missed his profession. There was little doubt that Perkins knew everything that had transpired since going out to dinner with Albert Haynes the previous evening. It didn’t have to mean that Perkins had been on the scene, of course. Boris could have reported to him.
Shayne had a fresh thought and it tightened his fingers against the steering wheel. What if Perkins was reacting to the discovery that someone other than himself and Boris was interested in the computer plans? If Perkins was such a hotshot at playing the double role, the discovery could have been a red flag, waved him off. He now could be CIA to the hilt. And Washington could have realized that its trap for Perkins had fallen apart, could have told Bell to get lost.
Maybe that was the reason Bell seemed no longer to exist. Washington could set up a new trap for Perkins later, in some other corner of the world. As long as Perkins came in with the computer plans, he couldn’t be slapped in chains. But what would Washington do with a detective, a man who had been caught redhanded with stolen plans for a computer in his coat pocket?
More than ever, Shayne felt as if he might be a Judas goat.
And then Perkins said, “I see you know your way to the Federal Building, Mr. Shayne.”
“I know this town inside out, pal,” he growled.
“But perhaps we need to make a stop at your hotel apartment,” Perkins suggested.
“I don’t think so.”
“But there are the Haynes papers,” Perkins said. “Or perhaps you are carrying them. Perhaps that is what makes your coat rather bulky at the chest.”
“Maybe,” Shayne agreed.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Perkins drop the tiny gun from his wrist into his palm. Perkins put the gun muzzle against Shayne’s knee. “You could be lame the rest of your life.”
Shayne said nothing. He concentrated on driving, forcing down the surging temptation to slap away Perkins’ gun wrist.
Perkins slid a hand inside Shayne’s coat, took out the papers. Shayne allowed the move. And then he knew tremendous satisfaction as Perkins put the papers in his own coat pocket. Finally! Now he had Perkins where he wanted him: with the evidence on him, taken at gunpoint. Perkins suddenly was vulnerable.
Shayne braked for a red traffic light at an intersection. Traffic was heavy. He was braked in the left lane of the double flow. But up ahead he saw a long open spot at a curbing. It looked like a truck loading zone. It was what he needed. He’d whip into the right lane, then into the zone. The quick moves should surprise Perkins, give the detective the instant he needed to slap away the tiny gun and jam Perkins against the door.
Perkins went over the side of the convertible like a cat and, continuing to move deftly, dashed across in front of the Ford station wagon braked to Shayne’s right.
The detective yelled and yanked out the .45 as the startled Ford driver hit his accelerator reflexively, then jammed on the brakes again. The reaction had moved the station wagon forward, blocked Shayne’s view of the fleeing Perkins.
Shayne rolled out of the convertible, taking keys with him and leaving the car as a lane block. Horns blared. The traffic light changed and the Ford station wagon shot forward, peeling rubber. Shayne almost ran into the side of the station wagon. He did what had to look like a fancy dance along the side of the moving vehicle, and then he shot through the opening provided by the rolling Ford and a small Buick that power brakes had put on its nose.
Shayne raced into the sidewalk pedestrians, waving the gun. The pedestrians parted as if a giant honed knife had been brought down in their midst. A half block ahead Perkins was moving fast. Shayne’s instinct was to bring the gun muzzle down on Perkins’ legs.
Then a jarring weight carried the detective off the sidewalk and up against the side of a parked car. Two large hands were clamped on Shayne’s gun wrist and a heaving body kept him pressed against the car. Shayne saw that his assailant was a beefy guy in laborer’s clothing who had lost a hard hat. The hard hat was on its top, spinning on the sidewalk.
Shayne groaned as he attempted to subdue the beefy man. Citizens weren’t supposed to get involved in somebody else’s troubles anymore. Care for fellow man had gone out with brick streets. Except that occasionally there was a red-blooded dude who did care. Shayne knew he had one.
The beefy man suddenly got help. It seemed to Shayne as if ten troops had landed. Eager hands pawed and clawed at him. A knee bruised his thigh. Oaths and excited yelps filled his ears. He was going down to the curbing. There was only one thing to do. He fired the gun.
The shot had gone straight up, but it was as if he might have turned a machine gun on the crowd. The aggressors peeled off with startled howls. All except the beefy guy. All the shot did was trigger him into a new furious flurry of action. Shayne didn’t like breaking the man’s spirit. He might never help another needy citizen as long as he lived. But the detective kneed the man hard.
The man groaned and doubled, freeing Shayne’s wrist. Shayne slid to one side and shoved the man. The man stumbled along the sidewalk and sprawled on the curbing where he lay groaning and writhing and where he got a lesson from his neighbors. They really didn’t care. They trampled the man in flight.
Shayne ran back to the convertible. Noise and confusion surrounded him. People shouted above excited chatter, car horns blared. And in the distance he heard the windup of a police siren.
He saw the foot patrolman coming from across the intersection toward the convertible. The patrolman looked distressed and determined. Shayne holstered his gun and slowed to a walk, moving on long strides.
“Officer,” he said before the patrolman could speak, “I was stopped here for a red light and a guy walked up to my car and shoved a gun in my face. He scared hell out of me. I thought he was going to rob me. But then he ran.” Shayne turned and pointed down the sidewalk. “He ran that way. I chased him, tried to catch him, but he fired a shot at me. I—”
“Anybody down there hurt?” the patrolman interrupted, moving toward the sidewalk before having a second thought. He faced Shayne again, his face mirroring confusion now. He looked trapped between leaving and not leaving a red-haired motorist.