“No... no, I don’t think so, but—”
“Move your car,” the patrolman said. “Pull it out of that lane. Here, I’ll hold traffic and you get your car around the corner. There’s a spot at the curbing down there.”
Shayne got into the convertible and moved it around the corner as the patrolman held traffic in the right lane. A police patrol car had rolled in from the opposite direction, was braked on the far side of the street, red dome light whirling, and a uniformed cop was in the middle of the street, moving toward the sidewalk when he saw the convertible. He stopped and waved Shayne on past him with quick movements of his hand.
The detective fed gas to the convertible. In his rear view mirror he saw a foot patrolman running down the middle of the street, waving his arms wildly.
VI
Mike Shayne rolled across the causeway and into Miami Beach. Cruising Collins Avenue, he continued to mutter oaths under his breath. He felt galled. He’d been duped by Boris Poskov, and he’d fed Jack Perkins too much line. Perkins had jumped the hook.
Perkins had been cat-quick. Would he be that quick about leaving town now that he had the computer plans? Probably. He had exposed himself.
Except — Perkins was a good man in the exposure game. He didn’t follow the conventional pattern a guy might expect from a spy. He didn’t scurry around in a turned down hat and a turned up coat collar, prowl only on foggy nights, and slink through heavy shadows. He came right out, identified himself, made his play in bright sunshine on a busy street.
You had to give it to Perkins. He was a wily fox, a sharp adversary, a professional. You had to blot convention and expected pattern from your mind when you were dealing with Jack Perkins.
Which meant Perkins might return to the Atlantica, the hotel where he supposedly was hanging his hat as a vacationing Canadian business executive. The return was not a logical move. But then Perkins was not a logical man.
Shayne turned the convertible in at the hotel. It was a tall, sparkling modern structure of white concrete and glass, a tourist trap. He found a parking slot and slid into it. From his vantage he had a clear view of the beckoning main entrance. People, clothed in a myriad of color and style, moved in and out and around the entrance.
Mike Shayne sat drumming fingernails against the steering wheel for a few moments, then jammed his hat down and entered the hotel on long strides, ignoring the withering looks he caught from brushed tourists. The hotel lobby was dim, cool and magnificent in decor. The desk was about a half block away, on the beach side.
One of four polished men behind the desk politely checked for Perkins’ key. It was not in its slot.
“I’m sorry, sir,” said the man, clipping the words, “Mr. Perkins seems to be out of his room at the moment. Do you have an appointment?”
“Ring the room,” Shayne demanded.
The polished man didn’t hesitate. He was not inexperienced in being confronted by New York hoods. And certainly the large, angry red-haired man was a New York hood. There was a gang war going on in New York these days. Maybe it had spilled into Miami Beach.
He put the phone together and said again, “I’m sorry, sir. Mr. Perkins does not answer.”
Shayne headed back across the lobby. Perkins had not checked out. Did it mean anything?
Yes, it meant that jumping a hotel bill wouldn’t even get a second thought from a man who had obtained papers that could move the world closer to push-button war.
It was a bright, clear day, the sun beating down. Shayne felt fresh sweat on his brow as he headed back toward his convertible. What was his next move? Were there any moves left? He could camp in his car, keep an eye on the hotel entrance, watch for Perkins. But he couldn’t make himself believe that Perkins ever would return. Perkins had completed his mission.
Shayne got into the convertible. A girl opened the other door, folded into the passenger seat. She carried a bag purse, the strap hooked on her left shoulder. Shayne stared. The girl smiled. She was a brownette, long in face, body and leg. Her skin was tanned a rich brown. She wore a white top and bright red hot pants. Clean toes poked from red sandals.
“Drive, Mr. Shayne,” she said. “Let’s get away from the hotel.” The girl seemed very much at ease.
“Doll,” said Shayne, “I like fun and games, but—”
“Drive,” the girl repeated, her tone firming. “And my name is not Doll. It’s Barbette Johnson. Will you please get under way?”
“Why should I?”
The girl dug into the bag purse, produced a plastic card.
“Damn, not another one of those things,” Shayne groaned.
“Less than an hour ago, Mr. Shayne, some papers were taken from you by a man named Jack Perkins and—”
“Not taken, honey. Perkins was allowed to remove the papers from my person.”
“All right,” the girl said simply. “How it happened is not important. The important thing is—”
“The important thing is,” the redhead interrupted, “how the hell do you know Perkins has the papers?”
“Remember a Ford station wagon braked next to you at the intersection?”
Shayne remembered.
“Mr. Bell was in the back of that station wagon. Out of sight.”
“So why didn’t he make his move when he saw Perkins running?”
“You’ll have to have Mr. Bell answer that. I can’t. Now will you drive, please?”
“Where to?”
“Away from here. I don’t care.”
“Why can’t we just sit here?”
“Because Mr. Bell prefers that Jack Perkins does not see you again.”
“And he might if I hang around?”
“He might,” the girl nodded.
“Which means he has not winged off to Paris.”
“He has not.”
“Are you people expecting him to show here?”
“We don’t know! Please, Mr. Shayne, drive!”
“I think I prefer to sit here.”
“Mr. Shayne!”
He smacked the steering wheel with a flat palm, twisted and stared hard at the girl.
“Look,” he said, his voice hard and flat, “I’m getting a little tired of being a handball in this whole operation. I was bounced in, I’ve been bouncing since I’ve been in, and at the moment I think I’m on the verge of being bounced out.”
“Mr. Bell says you are no longer needed,” the girl nodded. “That’s true. He prefers that you now go about your normal business.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then I am to take you in tow.”
“You!”
The girl almost smiled. “Not physically, of course. I am to ask you to come up to my room with me.”
“So I’m out of sight in case Perkins shows.”
“I have a room next door to Jack Perkins.”
“And who is minding the store while we’re sitting here?”
“Someone is in the lobby, watching.”
“You’re new at this, aren’t you, kid?”
She looked mildly surprised.
“You answer too many questions,” Shayne said, vacating the convertible.
The girl joined him on the sidewalk. She wore a slight frown on her pretty face as her eyes swept the area around them.
“Can we hurry?” she asked. “I know where the back door is.”
“How about Bell? Do you know where he is?”
The girl clamped her lips. Then she said, “I just learned a lesson, remember?”
Shayne shot her a side glance as they walked. She met it. “Everyone has to have a first assignment, don’t they, Mr. Shayne?”
Barbette Johnson was a rookie with the CIA but Shayne quickly discovered why someone had employed her. She had savvy. She pointed him to the rear of the hotel and then she piloted him through an employees’ entrance and down a long corridor to a service elevator.