“That’s all, old buddy,” Berg said. “Nothing specific. What’s this about bike riders?”
“Oh, nothing,” Shayne said. “I almost got run over, is all. Probably no connection at all. Anyway, thanks for the tip.”
“De nada,” Berg said. “Always glad to pass on a tip to an old buddy — even if it is the news he’s going to be hit. Seriously though, the best of luck.”
The wire went dead.
“What was that about?” Lucy Hamilton asked.
Shayne told her.
“That sounds serious, Michael. What are we going to do?”
“First of all, I’m going to finish my dinner and have a double order of pie a la mode.”
They didn’t have a chance to do even that much without interference.
III
Mike Shayne was only half through his pie when he saw the young man enter the dining room and look around. The big detective spotted him instantly. He was wearing a sports shirt, slacks and jacket instead of the black leather jacket and boots of the afternoon — but it was the yellow-bearded leader of the red cycle pack.
The beard saw Shayne and Lucy and came over to their booth. Without asking, he pulled up a chair from the nearest table and sat down. Lucy Hamilton looked at him with surprise, but took her cue from Shayne and said nothing.
The new arrival was about thirty — too young for his beard and too old for the boys he rode with. He looked Shayne over for a minute.
Then he said, “I just wanted to tell you I’m not to blame for what happened this afternoon.”
“If you aren’t, then who is?” Shayne asked him bluntly.
“I’m not sure — and that’s what bothers me,” the yellow beard said. “I’m supposed to call the shots in our crowd, but somebody shot at you on his own.”
“Don’t you know your eight boys that well?” Shayne asked.
“Seven boys.” The beard corrected him. “There’s only eight of us counting me.”
Shayne didn’t correct him. But he knew that nine riders in black jackets had left the Big Frog Bar ahead of him that afternoon. Nine riders — not eight.
Yellow Beard continued, “I suppose you know by now there’s an open contract out on you. Twenty thousand dollars to whoever kills you. All the motorcycle gangs in South Florida have been told. And that bothers me.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Shayne said. “Offhand, I’d figure I was the one to be bothered. So why does it upset you? Afraid you can’t collect.”
“I don’t even want to collect,” the Beard said. “I meant it when I said we had no quarrel with you. I’m not a killer anyway — just a rider. It bothers me that somebody thinks the riders would kill you.”
“Who is this somebody?”
“I don’t know, Shayne. Honestly I don’t — and that bothers me, too. All of a sudden, everybody knows there’s a contract out on you, but nobody seems to know who started the story.”
“If you did kill me, there might not be a payoff. Is that it?”
“No, that’s not it. I told you I’m no killer. It’s only that somebody’s trying to use the cycle riders, and I resent that. Some of the riders think they’ll make a game of it — harry and roust you till you don’t know which way is up. Then a killer can hit you easy. They think it’s funny. I don’t. I came to warn you.”
Shayne was almost beginning to like the obviously confused but well-intentioned young man.
“Thanks.” he said. “I appreciate it. Who are you, anyway?”
“My name’s Harry,” said the other. “Harry Comfort. I don’t suppose it means anything to you. They call my riders the Beard’s Boys. Incidentally the contract on you is open — not just for riders. At least, though, you won’t need to worry about my boys. We aren’t in on it.”
“One of you was this afternoon,” Mike Shayne reminded him. “I’ve got a ruined hat to prove it.”
“It won’t happen again,” Harry Comfort said. He got up from the table and left the restaurant...
Shayne and Lucy finished their meal in silence. Both of them realized a very serious situation indeed existed. But, from long and loyal association, there was no need for words between them.
After the pie Shayne had coffee and a cigar. Only then did he speak.
“I’ll take you home, Angel,” he said. “I don’t want any over-enthusiastic bike riders playing games as far as you’re concerned. Some of them play pretty rough. I don’t want to worry.”
She said only, “I understand, Michael.”
“I have to find out who put out that contract,” Shayne told her. “That has to come first.”
He paid their check and they went out the rear exit of the Steak House to the parking lot. There was a little knot of people around a dark sedan standing in the rear of the lot. There was also a parked police car and a pair of uniformed officers.
The dark sedan belonged to Mike Shayne. The policemen were pulling a body out of the rear seat onto the cement of the parking lot.
The body belonged to Harry Comfort. Even from a distance it looked very, very dead.
Someone had cut poor Comfort’s throat. There was blood in his beard and all down the front of his clean shirt and jacket. Lucy caught the big man’s arm.
“Oh, my God!” she gasped.
Shayne kept his head. “We’d better get out of here, Angel. Around the building to the Boulevard where I can hail you a cab. Take it straight home. When Will Gentry’s boys come looking for you, just say you don’t know a thing. Tell Will that I’ll be in touch when I can.”
When Lucy Hamilton was safely in the cab, Shayne boarded a bus going north on Biscayne Boulevard. He needed time to think, and the car would be traced to him within minutes. Someone in the restaurant would remember that the dead man had been sitting with Shayne and Lucy. The waiter knew who they were. So did the cashier, who saw them at least a couple of times a week.
Will Gentry was an old friend, as well as Miami Chief of Police. He would hardly believe Mike Shayne had murdered a man — particularly in the way this one had been murdered. Shayne wasn’t the sort to cut throats and the Chief and most of his men knew that well enough.
On the other hand, Gentry couldn’t help but order a pick-up-for-questioning order. The county sheriff and the Miami Beach Chief, who both disliked the big detective heartily, might improve on that and put out All Ponts Bulletins for him on suspicion of murder.
To be picked up at all could be fatal for the big redhead at this point. He figured he could clear himself of a homicide charge easily enough. After all, he and Lucy hadn’t left the Steak House till after the killing.
The real trouble was that he couldn’t afford to be held anywhere while answering questions. He needed to be free to find the man who wanted him killed badly enough to put out a twenty-thousand-dollar contract. He had to find out where the bike riders fitted into this bizarre picture. As far as Mike Shayne knew, he had never had any quarrel with bike riders as such.
They were a wild crowd, some of them perfectly capable of killing in a fit of passion, but hardly capable of anything of this sort.
Harry Comfort was already dead to prove it.
Shayne wondered about that, too. Had Comfort been killed by his own gang or by other bike riders or by someone completely unconnected with the riders?
On the surface, his death so soon after talking to Shayne and Lucy may have meant that someone didn’t want him talking to the big detective. Or perhaps someone was punishing him for having talked. Or it could be something purely personal, unconnected with Mike Shayne at all.