Mike Shayne said, “Let’s go.”
VI
They took Mike Shayne’s car. Sally put on a lightweight black trench coat over her flamboyant pants suit. She also put the.380 Browning automatic into her big brown leather shoulder bag. She left all the lights burning in the home she had shared with her brother.
Their destination turned out to be a combined restaurant and bar on U.S. Highway #1 past Perrine on the way to the city of Homestead. It was a place famous for its steaks and patronized by a well-heeled and free-spending clientele.
Sally Comfort laughed at Mike Shayne’s expression when she named it.
“It’s not the sort of place you’d expect to find the riders,” she said. “As a matter of fact, most of them never heard of it and couldn’t get past the doorman if they tried. It’s only the captains who come here, and they meet in a private room upstairs. One of them is a nephew of the owner, and that’s how the connection was made. It’s a sort of neutral conference spot. No rough stuff is ever tried here.”
“I wouldn’t have thought of it,” Shayne said. “You’re already being a help.”
She was sitting close to him in the rented car with her shoulder and thigh both pressed against his. Now she looked up at him, her face near his, provocation and invitation in her eyes and voice.
“You see,” she said in a low, musical intonation, “I told you I can be a help. Maybe I can be more. I don’t know yet, but I do know I’m really beginning to like you. So who knows.”
Mike Shayne kept his eyes on the road and his hands on the wheel.
There was ample parking in the lot behind the restaurant and Mike Shayne put his rented sports car in a spot from which he could make a quick exit in case of need.
There were other cars in the lot, but no motorcycles.
“You think they’re here?” he asked Sally Comfort. “I don’t see any bikes.”
She laughed with real amusement.
“You are funny!” she said. “We drive cars too, you know, and I recognize a couple over there. There’s a meeting on tonight, okay — but don’t look for leather jackets and boots when I take you in.”
They went in by the front door where Sally Comfort conferred briefly with the maitre d’. The man listened respectfully, then motioned them to go up a stairway to the left of the entrance.
At the top of the stairs they found themselves in a hall lined with the doors of private rooms. Sally Comfort knocked on the door of room number four.
One — two — three... One — two... One — two — three...
The door was opened from inside and they went in. There were three men seated at a long table with drinks and ashtrays in front of them. The man who had opened the door was obviously the waiter who had brought the drinks. He was on his way out.
The men at the table knew Sally. She pointed to each in turn. “Rocco Baldoni,” she said, “Sam Smith, Pete Reilley.” Then she paused, added, “Boys, I want you to meet Mike Shayne.”
One of them said, “Oh, hell!”
The one named Rocco said, “Sally, I always thought you were nuts and now I know it. What’s all this about.”
The third man moved to drop his hands in his lap. Shayne produced the.357 magnum he had taken from Rocky earlier in the evening. One second, his hand was empty. The next moment, the big gun was under their noses. It seemed to appear there all by itself, like something in a professional magician’s repertoire.
The three motorcycle captains were duly impressed by this legerdemain.
“All hands on top of the table,” Shayne said in deep, authoritative tones. It was a voice that carried a clout all its own.
“I didn’t come here to use this thing,” he told them, “and I won’t unless I have to. All I want is to talk. If we can settle this thing peacefully, it’s to your advantage as well as mine.”
“He means exactly that,” Sally Comfort told her friends. “I wouldn’t have brought him here if I hadn’t believed him. You know me.”
“We know he killed your brother,” one of them said. “How can we talk after that?”
“I didn’t kill Harry,” Mike Shayne said. “Why should I? He’d just finished telling me he wasn’t after my head. Besides I was eating pie inside when Harry died.”
“I believe him,” Sally said again.
Pete Reilly said, “You do. Maybe I do, and maybe I don’t.”
“At least, talk with him,” Sally said.
“I guess we can do that,” Rocco Baldoni said, “at least as long as it’s him that has the gun on us and not the other way round.”
“So what do you want, shamus?” Sam Smith asked him coldly.
“All I want is information,” Shayne said. “I want to know who started all this. I didn’t. I’ve no grudge against the riders, but now it looks like I have to shoot some of you to save my own neck. I don’t think any of us really wants that. Just tell me who put the contract out on me, and it takes both of us off the hook. I want him — not you.”
“We don’t know who it is,” Rocco Baldoni said.
Shayne said: “Hell! All I get from any of you is you don’t know. If it’s true, you’re stupid as so many Barbary apes in the rocks. Suppose one of you should kill me — who does he collect twenty thousand dollars from? Is Mister Mystery going to walk in and introduce himself and pay off?
“Do you really think your Mister X is going to be fool enough to pass out that sort of bread when you don’t know who he is? More likely, you’d be left with a Murder One rap to take care of and no payoff at all. Right?”
“It does sound reasonable,” Sam Smith said.
“I never thought of it that way,” Baldoni admited.
“I did,” Sally Comfort said. “That’s why I figure we had better help him. Does one of you know who put out the contract?”
From their silence it appeared nobody did.
“It was just all round town,” Pete Reilly said. “Everybody seemed to have heard of the contract all at once. I just assumed somebody had to know who put it out.”
“That kind of assuming is dangerous,” Shayne said.
“Against somebody like Mike Shayne it can be very dangerous,” Sally Comfort said. “Think hard. Who would know?”
They sat and thought, with their hands on the table and a wary eye on the gun the big redhead held. Finally Rocco Baldoni broke the silence.
“I honestly don’t know, but if it was me, I think I’d ask the old man. He might know if anyone—”
The door was snatched open from the hall side and another man ran in. This one wore his jacket and boots. He was out of breath from running.
“Calm down, Ed,” Baldoni said.
The man fought for breath. When he saw Shayne, he pointed. “Who’s that?”
“That’s Mike Shayne. We’re just talking over a deal.”
“Oh, God!” Ed gasped. “You can’t deal with Mike Shayne!”
“What do you mean we can’t? We are.”
“Did he tell you he dropped over for a chat with Rocky at the Blue Hades? Did he tell you that?”
“He told me,” Sally Comfort said. “So what has that got to do with this? I brought Shayne here because I wanted to save everybody trouble.”
“Oh, sweet...” Ed said. “But did he tell you all about Rocky? Did he...?”
“What’s all this about?” Mike Shayne demanded.
“It’s did you tell her the whole thing?” Ed said. “Did you tell her how, after the talk was over, you took Rocky out in the alley and killed him? Did you tell her how you cut Rocky’s throat, just like you did her brother’s? Did you tell her and the boys about that, Mr. Shayne?”