“Michael?” Lucy Hamilton said from across the table.
He glanced up, gave his secretary a rueful grin, suddenly hunched forward. “It isn’t often I get caught up, Angel,” he said. He shook his head. “But this guy… this guy had no more business trying to rob a bank, being in jail than—”
“I know, Michael,” Lucy said tenderly. Then she brightened. “Ready?”
“For what?”
“For a round of gin rummy.”
He laughed abruptly. The desperate bank robber vanished. He suddenly felt himself again. Lucy Hamilton was infectious. He drank the cognac, sipped ice water.
The Purple Duck, one of Miami’s new club-restaurants, had gained a quick reputation for good food and excellent service. The steak had been large and tender, the salad crisp, the waiter efficient and pleasant, and it was difficult to ruin straight Hennessey’s, so Shayne was reasonably comfortable as he paid the tab and escorted Lucy from the dining room area.
The Purple Duck did not hold a candle to The Beef House or The Golden Cock, a couple of the detective’s favorite haunts, but Lucy’s whim to try the new club seemed to have been appeased — if the twinkle in her brown eyes and the touch of smile that curled the corners of her delicate lips now were any indication — and Shayne was satisfied.
So to the gin game where his secretary’s smile would disappear. Lucy was a fierce competitor.
Outside the club, the nine-thirty night air was warm and clear, the sky bright with stars. Shayne was forced to shorten his stride slightly as he walked with Lucy into the parking area.
He towered over her, a hulk of a man, bulky yet lean, wide-shouldered, trim-hipped, thick but flat in body depth. To anyone observing him, it would seem that he was keyed, but inside the large body, his muscles and nerves were relaxed, his emotions tempered, and his mind toyed only with the slightly amusing thoughts of Lucy sitting alertly erect at the huge coffee table in her apartment, lamplight glints in her brown curls, her long fingers flying as she fed the gin hands.
The extra shadow changed him. Shayne stopped in mid-stride, tensed, caught Lucy’s arm in a reflexive movement. His fingers flicked across his coat buttons, opening the coat to give him swift access to the .45 fitted snugly in the shoulder rig.
“Michael?” Lucy breathed, unmoving.
“Easy, Angel,” he growled.
He stared hard through the darkness. The outline of his parked Buick was sharp against the reflected lights of the shopping center on the next street. The Buick sat at the end of the row of automobiles and was a couple of feet longer than any other car in the row.
It had another distinction. He had backed into the parking slot. The placing gave him a profile of the hood now. That profile was not right. There was an extra bulk. And the bulk was lumpy, without distinctive lines. It bulged from the Buick’s windshield.
“Stick, Angel,” Shayne said.
He eased forward, muscles and nerves prepared for action and reaction, eyes and ears tuned. His blood churned. He kept his right hand low and cocked across his middle. From the position, he could draw quickly, even while diving, if that became necessary, and trigger a shot from the .45.
The bulk on the hood of the Buick took shape, became the figure of a slouched man. He looked as if he were sleeping or sprawled in drunken oblivion. He didn’t stir.
Shayne eased slightly, lengthened his strides. He kept a sharp lookout to right and left, inventorying the shadows between the parked vehicles. No foreign shadows reared, no attack home.
He stood against the bumper of the Buick, looked around. He saw no one except Lucy out-lined now against the lights of The Purple Duck. Lucy had not moved.
He went around to the driver’s side of the Buick and clutched the shirt front of the slouched figure in his huge left hand. The figure spilled toward him, was flaccid and heavy. Shayne caught the bulk and knew immediately he was holding a youth. He eased the boy down to the macadam surface of the parking area, stretched him out flat on his spine. Opening the Buick door, he dived inside and yanked out the flash.
The strong light showed a boy, probably in his late teens. The boy wore faded blue tennies, no socks, tight jeans, a white T-shirt. He looked toned. His skin was smooth and brown. But his head lolled and his mouth was open. Shayne put the back of his hand against the open mouth. The boy was not breathing.
“M-Michael?”
Shayne looked up. Lucy stood at the hood of the Buick. “Someone left us a dead kid, Angel,” he said grimly.
He fished a wallet from a pocket of the jeans, flipped it open to identification cards. He found a driver’s license.
“Anthony Littrel,” he read aloud and scowled.
Littrel. The name had a familiar ring. From where?
V
Miami police Chief Will Gentry was an incongruous figure in the private office at police headquarters that Tuesday night.
He was the familiar solid bulk slouched deep in an old-fashioned wooden swivel chair behind a littered desk. There was an evil-smelling black cigar stub stuck in a corner of his bulldog face. His brows were drawn down tight, his eyes were hard slits, calculating, and his stomach growled periodically.
But that was where all blending into the blandness of the small room ended. Gentry wore a bright yellow and red-flowered shirt open to his chest, faded sand-colored military trousers, new sky-blue canvas shoes, and a wrinkled hat with the short brim turned down. He had been yanked from his boat at the marina.
“Judge,” he said, his tone flat, “you can go home now. It’s late, almost midnight. You’ve done all you can do here, and you’ve still got a tough chore ahead of you.”
“Yes,” nodded the small man who sat in the straight chair in front of the desk.
From his perch on a corner of Will Gentry’s desk, Shayne watched Municipal Judge Andrew Littrel stand. The detective thought the judge was holding up well, considering he had earlier identified a dead boy in the morgue as his only son, Tony, age 17, a senior at Kennedy High School.
The judge’s skin color was bad, his shoulders sagged and he was unable to completely control the quivering of his lips, but he seemed to be regaining strength. “It will be a long night, gentlemen,” he said quietly. “Mrs. Littrel will not understand why she no longer will hear the sound of the motorcycle. Only this afternoon it was a sound she barely tolerated. Tonight it will become a cherished sound.”
The judge bit his lower lip, blinked hard, then looked Will Gentry in the eye. “I will await your call. We will want to make proper funeral arrangements as soon as possible. Good evening.”
Gentry nodded, remained silent.
When Judge Littrel was gone, Shayne lit a cigarette, drew deeply on it. “Damnit, Will,” he said impatiently, “where’s Sturgis? How long does it take to check—”
“It takes a couple of hours, shamus,” said a deep voice from the doorway, “and you can consider that swift. We got lucky, found the people we wanted without prowling all over town.”
Len Sturgis, one of Gentry’s ablest detectives working out of Homicide, entered the office, turned the straight chair, straddled it and sat, thumbing a hat to the back of his head. He was a middle-aged man with a receding hairline and a straightforward manner.
“The judge’s speculation checks, Chief,” he said. “The boy seems to have followed normal routine. He went from school to the recreation center where he was on a handball court until five forty-five. He showered, dressed, and walked out the front door. The guy working the center’s desk remembers Tony leaving. He says the boy was alone.