Foster looked startled. “Wha—”
“Burlington isn’t flying,” said the redhead, looking at the building walls around him. He spotted a fire ladder he could reach. “I didn’t scare him. The suitcase business was fake. What did you see in that room he could put in a suitcase?”
“But—”
“He’s a house man, Foster. That means he burglarizes homes. Okay, a guy steals to possess, use or sell. Burlington is interested in owning only one thing: dough. So he sells. Which means he has a fence, maybe three or four, but he’s got one, a mainliner somewhere, a guy he always goes to first with his merchandise.
“Now, get rolling. Take a drive. Burlington sees my heap out front, he’ll go to an ice cream parlor. He isn’t stupid. Get the car out of sight. When you come back watch for both of us. If you see Burlington walking along the sidewalk, cut off again, get behind us if you can. I’ll want the car if Burlington suddenly whistles for a cab.”
“But... but...”
“Move, man! Do I tell you how to slap together computers?”
Foster cut, walking fast. He didn’t look back. Shayne caught the bottom rungs of the fire ladder, hoisted himself, went up the ladder to the roof. He was only three stories off the ground. He started to move to the front of the building to watch Foster cut out, but then he heard a scraping sound below him. He looked over the parapet, saw Ray Burlington shuffling out to the alley. Burlington stopped, looked around. Shayne knew he was seeking eyes.
Burlington took off. He seemed satisfied. He went down the alley to the street. Above him, Shayne trailed quietly. Burlington stopped again, looked up and down the sidewalk, went out to the curbing, inventoried the street in both directions. He moved out.
Shayne dashed to the back of the building, went over the side and down the ladder. He ran out of the alley to the sidewalk, saw Burlington far ahead now and moving fast.
Shayne looked for Foster, didn’t spot the par. He cursed. Burlington had swung into the street suddenly, flagged a cab. Helplessly, Shayne watched Burlington dive into the cab and the cab move out.
Foster came out of a side-street ahead of Shayne, waved-frantically to the detective. The redhead bolted. Foster had pulled into the street, had the car facing the right direction. He slid over to the passenger side and waited for Shayne. The detective rolled in behind the steering wheel and moved out with a surge of power.
“Good work!” he said.
Foster said nothing, stared ahead. Shayne caught sight of the cab he wanted and eased off on the accelerator. This was going to be a difficult tail job. The cab already was rolling toward a residential area. There would be very little street traffic and a trailing automobile would be all too easy to spot.
Then the cab turned into a sidestreet. Shayne rolled across the intersection, saw the cab braked at a curbing. He parked the car, hurried back to the intersection. The cab was gone. Had Burlington pulled a swift one on him? Was he now moving out in the cab, laughing?
Foster joined Shayne. “What are we doing?” He sounded totally puzzled.
“Let’s take a walk,” growled the redhead.
They walked along the sidewalk to the house where the cab had been braked. It was a small, square place, neat. There was a small sign in the yard that said: Custom Cabinet Work. Ask Inside.
Beside the house, a drive went to the back of the lot and another square building. Shayne moved cautiously along the drive.
“What are you looking for Shayne?” Foster wanted to know.
“Burlington.”
“But I thought we were attempting to trail him without being seen.”
“If he’s here,” Shayne said heavily, “he’s taken us to where I wanted to go. I don’t care if he does see us now.”
Foster said nothing. He obviously was deeply puzzled.
Shayne heard the sound of a saw coming from the square building. He went to a window, shaded his eyes, looked inside. He saw Ray Burlington talking avidly to a man who was carefully using an electric handsaw on a large sheet of paneling. The saw sliced relentlessly through the wood. A saw blade with that kind of power could split a man’s skull in seconds.
Shayne looked at Foster. “It’s a workshop. A guy also could be fencing from here. Burlington is inside. Come on, let’s see if we can stir some answers.”
Shayne banged on the door of the building with a large fist, and Burlington called out, “It’s open, shamus. Come on in.”
The redhead grunted and looked at Foster over his shoulder. “So we were brought here. I thought Burlington made it easy for us to follow. Well, there has to be a reason. Let’s go.”
The two men inside stood side by side, facing the door. The electric saw had been turned off. Shayne glanced around the open room. Cabinets in various stages of construction were scattered around. Behind Burlington was a workbench and an air-powered stapling gun, various other small wood tools.
Burlington’s friend had ex-con written all over him. He was a macabre looking guy, thick in shoulder, trunk and leg. He had a concaved forehead and shallow cracks marked his cheeks. He also held a small gun in his fist and the muzzle was pointed at the detective and Foster.
“Come on in, Shayne,” he said. “Bring your pal. Kick the door shut. The name’s Ace Hart.”
Shayne and Foster entered,
Ace Hart wiggled the gun, squinted as he inventoried the redhead. “Damn, but you’re a big one. So you’re Shayne, huh? Heard of you. Here and there, that is. Who’s your friend? And don’t hand me that bull ’bout partner. I’ve heard enough ’bout you, snooper, to know you’re a loner.”
“Put the heat away, Ace,” Shayne said flatly. “All we’re after from you is a little information.”
Hart grinned, hefted the gun. The grin was twisted, lacked humor. “Me too. Like how come you’re interested in a guy who’s been dead a year? How come you wanna know ’bout a joint Ray here hit a long time ago? What’s this jazz ’bout some footlockers? What—”
“Ace,” Shayne interrupted, “I was hoping you could help, but if we’re going to play cute with one another... well, nobody wins, right?”
“Nobody wins, tha’s a fact,” Ace Hart admitted, nodding.
“You knew Howie Galloway?”
“Naw.”
“But you heard about him.”
“Yeah, sure... he was Ray’s pal.” Ace Hart said.
“You figure Galloway was hit?”
“Could be. Dunno, don’t really care. Is that how come you came ’round to my friend Ray today? You think he might know something ’bout Galloway gettin’ knocked off? Why would anyone bump Galloway? Did it have somethun to do with these footlockers you was askin’ Ray ’bout?”
Shayne sighed. “I can see, friend, we’re playing cute again or you are fishing.”
“No fishing, Shayne,” Ace Hart said flatly. “I don’t know what the he’ll is going on — but I’m all of a sudden interested in a bunch of footlockers, I think.”
“See you ’round, Ace.”
“Move an inch, shamus — and your friend is dead.”
Shayne froze.
Ace Hart waved the gun, “Bring ’em over here, Ray.” Burlington moved in behind Shayne and Foster, shoved each. They moved toward Ace Hart. He used the gun to motion Foster toward the saw table. Ray Burlington propelled Foster forward. Ace kept the gun on Shayne, snapped on the electric handsaw.
“Hold the guy’s hand on the table, Ray,” Ace graveled. “Spread his fingers.”
Burlington slapped Foster’s hand on the table, held his arm.
“Now,” said Ace Hart, “I wanna know ’bout them footlockers. How come they’re so valuable? What’s in them?”
He moved the handsaw toward Randolph Foster’s extended fingers. His eyes danced between the fingers and Shayne. Then Foster yelped in fright and the sound captured Ace Hart for a couple of seconds.