Shayne growled in the bright sunlight as he turned into the parking lot. Novices. Trouble. Dangerous. Especially if they had guts. The Tuesday noon bank robber had been riding sheer desperation. He, basically, had been a frightened man. He had no real guts.
The Tuesday afternoon kidnapers? Novices maybe. But look what they had pulled so far. The Tuesday afternoon kidnapers had guts.
They could be big trouble in Flamingo Park.
IX
Will Gentry was with the mayor when Mike Shayne arrived. A new brown suitcase was on the carpeting beside the mayor’s desk. The mayor looked like he’d just lost an election. Gentry was grim.
Shayne put a hip on a corner of the polished desk, lit a cigarette. Streaming smoke through his nostrils, he said, “Got the loot?”
“At your feet,” Gentry said flatly.
Shayne kicked the suitcase, smoked.
Gentry took the cigar butt from his mouth, looked the detective straight in the eye. “These characters said they want the mayor, Mike. If he goes into Flamingo with an escort, they may not move. And if they don’t move, we could have two dead girls on our hands.”
Gentry jammed the cigar butt back into the corner of his mouth. His eyes didn’t waver. “I think the mayor should go in solo. He says he can do it, and I’ve got the park blanketed like the President was going to show. But it’s up to him — and you. We’ll do what you want.”
Shayne’s ashes fell to the rich-looking carpeting. He ignored the spill. “They’re going to swoop, Will. Whether the mayor’s alone, or with an escort, they’ll swoop. When they see the suitcase, they’ll come in. If they’d asked for a couple of thousand, five or ten grand, and we didn’t follow their instructions to the nut, I’d buy your thinking. But with a million at stake… Hell, they’ll dive like vultures!”
Gentry’s face darkened. He began to pace. He remained silent.
“Chi-ef?” The tremor seemed to surprise the mayor. He cleared his throat. “I’m nervous… yes, even frightened. My self-preservation instinct, I suppose. But I’ll go to the park alone, as I told you earlier. Still, Mr. Shayne’s argument deserves weighing. I’m inclined to agree with him.
“I have no idea how I will be met, but I think the amount of money involved will be a tremendous attraction. Perhaps my appearance in the company of Mr. Shayne will alter the plan of the kidnapers slightly, but there remains the lure of one million dollars in cash. I, too, think these people will strike in spite of the presence of Mr. Shayne.”
“What bothers the hell out of me, Will,” Shayne took up, “is how they’re going to hit.”
“I can tell you one thing to look for,” Gentry said sourly. “A guy in a floppy hat. We finally got a call from a citizen. Just this afternoon. From what she told us, I think she saw the Jacobson girl yanked from the bike in Herman Park last night.”
“Well, it’s about time somebody saw something,” Shayne said. “Four daylight kidnapings and no one comes forward. I was beginning to think the world had gone blind.”
“Our citizen says she was peddling in Herman last evening, too, says she saw a white panel truck, but from a long distance away. Says she saw this truck stop on one of the park roads, saw a guy get out of the truck, flag down a girl cyclist. Says the guy was wearing a floppy hat, she was too far away to see more, but she remembers the hat. It must be real floppy.
“Anyway, she says she saw the guy and the girl wrestle a bit, then the girl was forced into the back of the truck. The witness says she was curious but she didn’t want to get involved. So she peddled home — fast. Then this afternoon she heard on the radio about the kidnapings and she called us finally. How’s that for a cooperative citizen? Beautiful, huh?”
Shayne ignored the Chiefs sarcasm. “White truck, floppy hat,” he said from deep thought. “The deafmute spotted a floppy hat this morning too.”
“Yeah,” nodded Gentry. “Could’ve been the same guy.”
“I’ll keep a sharp eye,” Shayne promised.
“Concentrate on the hat. I think we’ve got the truck down at the pound. We had one go on the hotsheet about mid-afternoon yesterday. A couple of alert car boys spotted it this morning in a supermarket parking lot. The kidnapers could’ve picked it off the street yesterday, used it to haul the kids, dumped it last night. The boys have gone over the truck once, didn’t come up with any tie, but I’ve got a helluva strong hunch about those wheels.”
Shayne nodded, looked at the ashtray the mayor had produced from a desk drawer. He stood, butted the cigarette.
“I think we should be going, Mr. Shayne,” the mayor said, his voice taut. “It will be almost four o’clock by the time we reach Flamingo Park.”
When they got there the park had a quiescent air about it that brilliant Wednesday afternoon. There were sun toilers and there were strollers. A busy avenue was off in the distance. Vehicles darted to and fro along the avenue like busy bugs. But the sound of motors, tires and rusted out mufflers did not reach this deep into the park.
Shayne walked loosely, head and shoulders above the mayor. He carried the million dollar suitcase in his large left hand. His coat was open, right hand free for quick movement to the .45 in the shoulder holster.
Outwardly, he looked like any man cutting through the park with a companion, heading for a distant hotel. They could have been two businessmen who had just arrived in the city and who had decided against a cab in favor of walking on a fresh afternoon.
Inwardly, the redhead was keyed, all of his senses tuned. His nerve ends were alert, his muscles flexible. And his hard gray eyes never were still. They searched the park and surrounding area, soaking up and inventorying shadows, glints, benches, people, anything that moved, anything that was still. He listened hard for the sound of swift moving feet, walking or running.
He had no idea what to expect. This could be a straight ripoff, someone pounding up to them suddenly, ripping the suitcase from his hand, then making a dash for a waiting car somewhere in the park.
Or there could be rifle shots from anywhere, with a second party snatching the suitcase as two men lay dead or bleeding to death on the park walk.
It might be another snatch. This time out in the open. Brazen. The kidnapers — he had no idea how many to expect — could swoop in on them, threaten with guns, take them hostage, laugh at the disguised cops who had to be everywhere in the park.
And there was always the possibility the park meet was a ruse, designed only to get the mayor into the open with the money in hand. The kidnapers had to be smart enough to know there would be cops around. Perhaps their scheme was to let those in the park fidget, worry and sweat. The mayor would break eventually, become confused, agitated, perplexed. In one form or another, he’d move. He’d fold, thus drawing the cops to him.
Or he’d finally leave the park, drawing the cops after him. Either way, any kidnapers with sharp eyes would get a smell of where the mayor’s protection was, the odds against them. But more important, by allowing the mayor to give way under the tension, they would draw that protection into a smaller circle, a cluster they might be able to penetrate or surround without worry about their own backsides.
The mayor said, “We’re almost… halfway through the park, Mr. Shayne.”
“Just keep walking easy. It’s a helluva beautiful afternoon.”
Shayne caught a glisten in the corner of his eye. He felt as if he should belt the mayor to the grass, duck. But he steeled his muscles, stopped, put the suitcase on the walk.