Shayne shot a knee into Brown’s groin, doubling the man. Then he yanked Bird away from the door, flipped the gun from his fingers and sent him into a headlong dive into the bath. The top of Bird’s head crashed into the back of the stool. Shayne kicked Brown in the face and went after the kid. He slammed a heel down on Bird’s spine as the youth started to come up. Bird’s jaw caught the edge of the stool and he went limp.
Will Gentry said politely from the open front door: “You called, Mike?”
VIII
Brown wouldn’t talk and Bird didn’t know anything worthwhile. Brown professed to know his rights and all Bird could tell them was that he had been hired by Brown to find a corpse. Brown was from Denver. Bird knew that much, but he didn’t know why a stiff was so important to the Denver man.
Gentry had both hauled downtown by two detectives who had been a part of the army the police chief had moved in around the motel. Then Gentry walked out of the motel room and looked in the back seat of the dusty sedan. Mike Shayne saw the corpse and grunted.
“You brought him?”
“How’d I know how far we’d have to go with the play-acting?” Gentry growled.
Shayne grinned suddenly on an idea. “How about keeping it rolling?”
Gentry was instantly suspicious. “Now what?”
“You ready to concede that Brown was the force behind the hijacking?”
“It smells that way at the moment, yeah, but—”
“He tried to hit people at Palm Acres Funeral Home. Somehow, he got wind of the narcotics run. You could talk to him forever and never find out how. Not that it’s too important now. The point is, Palm Acres is involved.”
“Hodge is working on them. He isn’t leaning yet, but he’s doing some digging.”
“The hell with Hodge.”
Gentry gave Shayne a sharp look, then he said mildly, “Yeah, I heard he got under your hide. But the guy is an expert in his field, Mike. For instance, he’s already dug deep enough into the Bainbridge corporate structure to discover that among Bainbridge’s many enterprises is a string of funeral homes, located all over the world.”
Shayne snapped his fingers in sudden thought.
“That means?” Gentry said sharply.
“Let me haul the corpse out to the funeral home, Will.”
“Mike—”
“Let me dump it in their laps, then let’s see what kind of reaction we get when they discover the cocaine has disappeared. We could break all of this wide open in a flash.”
Gentry shook his head.
“Crazy,” he muttered.
“The promise of delivery worked with Brown. Delivery at Palm Acres, the absence of the narc, could trigger more fireworks.”
Gentry hesitated, thinking hard, weighing. Then he said, “Let me get on the phone to Hodge.”
“Who needs him?”
“This is federal business, Mike.”
Shayne shuffled. “Okay, call him. But let’s get rolling while we’re still hot.”
Gentry re-entered the motel room to use the phone. Shayne found himself alone. He looked at the stiff again, then glanced at the ignition switch of the sedan. No key, He shot a look at the motel room door. It was open, but no Gentry in sight. The detective quickly crossed wires and wheeled away from the motel. In the rear view mirror he saw Will Gentry standing spread-legged in the motel parking area waving his arms wildly.
At Palm Acres, Shayne walked inside, dragging the corpse behind him. He had a large hand fastened in the coat collar of the stiff and he deposited the body on the thick carpeting in front of the desk occupied by the sleek receptionist.
She came apart at the seams, leaped up, black-rimmed glasses flying, and ran from the room.
The fat man, DuPree, heaved into sight. He was wheezing. He stared at the corpse.
“I brought the body you people lost,” Shayne said. “He’s all yours; no charge.”
DuPree gulped and Shayne walked out. Gold Shoes appeared at his side as he moved out the front door. Gold Shoes had a gun in his hand and he jammed the muzzle in Shayne’s ribs.
The detective grunted. The stab hadn’t been a pleasure tap, but the grunt was one of satisfaction. He’d figured he would be spotted making the entry with the stiff, and he’d figured word would travel as if on a computer circuit throughout Palm Acres.
Gold Shoes took him around a comer to the back of the funeral home. They entered a wide doorway and were in a storage area. Everywhere Shayne looked, he saw caskets on wheels. Then Foxy appeared. He still was dapper, he still had the Van Dyke beard — and he still was angry.
Shayne stopped him. “Bainbridge.” It was all he said.
Foxy jerked. His eyes narrowed down.
“How’s things in Paris these days? Quiet?”
Foxy yanked the Van Dyke.
“It has to figure,” said the redhead. “Poppa owns funeral homes, son likes to dabble in narc. Poppa may be a whiz in business, but he can’t see another little business setup right under his nose. Poppa deals in bodies, son uses bodies. Poppa is on vacation, good time for son to bring a load into Miami — except, this time out, some jerk pulls off a hijacking. And then more problems: a nosey shamus breaks up the hijacking.
“Son is angry, uses Poppa’s house, has shamus brought to him. You want to know how I figured that house business, Robert? No forced entry. Son wheels up to front door. Security man surprised, but opens up. Why not? Junior is home. Expect Junior has John Martinson knocked off, then leans on shamus. Son figures he’ll get his narc and bolt, always can claim a house burglar hit the security man. How am I doing, Bainbridge?”
“The stuff, Shayne,” Robert Bainbridge snarled. “Where is it?”
“Ahh, you found an empty chest.”
“Hit him, Nick,” Bainbridge snapped.
Shayne dropped to his hands as the gun roared. The slug tore off his hat. He rolled under a casket, came up and shoved the casket. It crashed into Gold Shoes, pinned him against another casket.
Shayne went down again, and a second shot singed his hair. He crawled rapidly. The shot had come from behind him. It meant the other hood had to be back there somewhere. Diamond Ring, the boy with the flashing hand
Shayne scrambled under a casket toward Gold Shoes. Those shoes loomed.
And then a face loomed. Nick had squatted, was aiming the gun. The muzzle was about six inches in front of Shayne’s nose. The redhead slammed it aside as the blast of the gun closed his ear.
He swiped with an arm, cut the gold shoes from under Nick. The big man sat hard. Shayne bit his ear and wrenched the gun from his hand. He fired a shot into the fleshy area of Nick’s hip. Nick screamed and writhed.
Shayne flipped on his back. Down the line, under a row of caskets, was another set of spread legs. The shoes were black.
Shayne took careful aim and shattered a shin bone. A man crashed down with a howl, and the detective saw the diamond ring.
He leaped to his feet. Bainbridge was off to his left, dancing and dodging between caskets, maneuvering toward a narrow doorway. Shayne fired three rapid shots into the door, and Bainbridge suddenly became plastered against the wall beside the entry.
Shayne eased to him, keeping the gun ready. But Bainbridge didn’t move. He remained slapped against the wall, his body quivering. Shayne tapped the man’s skull with the muzzle of the gun. All he had wanted to do was bring Bainbridge out of his fear, but Bainbridge went down to the floor, where he moaned and squirmed.
Shayne put a foot on the back of the man’s neck. It stopped the moaning, but the squirming increased. Shayne reached down, jerked Bainbridge into a sitting position, then looped a hard uppercut against the Van Dyke beard.
Bainbridge crumpled, quiet.
“Peace,” said Shayne.