Shayne made the turn cautiously. The sedan had shot away from him. He gunned the Buick, dodging in and out of two lanes of light traffic. They were in the university area. Pedestrians became a problem. Clumps of students moved along the sidewalks, intersections had a lot of foot traffic and occasionally students popped across the street in mid-block, seemingly paying no heed to moving vehicles.
The sedan turned abruptly into a small parking lot that adjoined a pizza and beer place. Shayne stopped out in the street, left the Buick, waved honking traffic around him. He threw up the hood of the car and bent over the motor. Under his arm, he watched Tony Andrews come out to the sidewalk and enter the pizza and beer joint.
He found an empty slot beside the sedan in the parking lot. Leaving the Buick again, he adjusted his shoulder rig, then moved out to the sidewalk. The building was low slung with a large front window. Sidewalk traffic — if interested — could watch flying pizzas.
Shayne entered the place. The smell of pizza filled his nostrils and the din of babbling students assailed his ears. Five yards straight ahead lay a vast open room with old-fashioned high-backed booths lining the walls and wooden picnic tables slapped haphazardly between them — also a tiny dancing area. Beer pitchers were filled in a back wall.
Shayne threaded through the mass of youthful humanity, his size and age drawing little more than a curious glance here and there as he searched the booths. He spotted Tony Andrews sitting beside a man in a back booth.
Shayne dropped into the booth opposite. Andrews said nothing. He wore a tight smile. Beside him was a wide solidlooking man of at least 70 years. His skin was tight and had been browned by many suns. Pure white hair was shaggy, eyes a steely gray-blue. He wore a cheap gray sports shirt open to his solar plexus. A brass necklace with a huge brass coin hung from his neck. His interlocked fingers were thick and ringless.
And most of the young people in the place called out greetings to him. “Hi, Pops.”
He acknowledged each with a nod of the head, a hand wave, an amiable grin, in most cases a name.
“My friends, Mr. Shayne,” he said from across the room. “My true friends in this world.”
Then he snapped back and lifted a half filled pitcher of beer. “Need a glass?”
“No.”
“Good.” He filled his glass and drank. “You want?” he said suddenly. His eyes had become shiny like cobalt. He still looked relaxed, but Shayne knew that inside Robert Hume Tiener was taut as an archer’s string.
“You told your boy Andrews to bring me,” countered Shayne. “He did. So I want to know why you wanted me.”
“You want?” Tiener repeated, his tone flat, his eyes bristling.
Shayne shrugged. “I was hired to find the killer of Patrick Burns. Along the way I ran into four more murders. All five point to you and your boy. So I’m here.”
Tiener stared at him hard. “That’s simply put,” he said. “I like that. I wish we had met under different circumstance, Mr. Shayne. I think I could have used you.”
“Nobody uses me, Tiener.”
The old man chuckled. It sounded more like a belch erupting. He drank beer. Then he said darkly, “Bums screwed up. I had him over there at Brooks for years, and he was a good man, but he screwed up on the biggest deal of all.”
“Bums was a spy.”
“And Singleton sold out. The bastard! He shouldn’t have done that. I was good to him over the rough times. But he sold out and Bums didn’t catch it.”
Shayne grunted and said bluntly, “Dobbs got your wife and Lincoln your dog.”
Tiener didn’t stir, but he flushed. His hand on the beer glass tightened until the knuckles were white.
“But that leaves Elizabeth Stewart,” said Shayne.
Tiener stirred. He sat up, stared into the beer glass. “Poor judgment on Tony’s part. You had been to the office, then you were up to her place. Tony didn’t know Elizabeth like I did, so under the circumstances he acted. It was a defensive act of sorts, I guess — although I wish he hadn’t killed Elizabeth. I liked her. Still, he acted according to circumstances. I can see that. Tony and I have discussed the matter. It is finished.”
“So are you, Tiener.”
“Oh, I don’t really think so, Mr. Shayne. You see, Tony is holding a gun under the table. The muzzle is trained straight at your gut.”
“I know,” said the redhead quietly.
Tiener almost looked surprised. “You’re not frightened?”
“He isn’t going to stiff me here. All that would do is wipe out your hideaway, make all your young friends leery of you — and bring the cops. None of which you want.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Shayne.” He nodded. “I do wish we could have become associated under different circumstances. I like the way you think.”
“Enough to trade?”
He cocked an eyebrow.
“Me for Tony?”
He laughed suddenly. It was a genuine burst this time.
“Hell, man,” said Shayne, “you traded Lou Crawford for Tony.”
“Well, I’ll be damned!” breathed Tiener. “You know about that, too? What the hell — have you been my shadow all these years?”
“I piece things together, Tiener. It’s my business.”
Tiener emptied the contents of the beer pitcher into his glass. He drank. “No, no trade, Shayne.”
“Because Tony suddenly has the gun trained on your gut?”
He finished the beer. “You’re something, Shayne! I do like you! Come on, let’s get out of here.”
“What if I don’t move?”
Tiener became cold and hard again. “Oh, you’re going to move, Shayne. Most men don’t like to die. Most men will squeeze out any breath they can grab, by any means. And you’re one of that kind.
“You can sit there and die. Or you can get up, we’ll all walk out of here, and you’ll be breathing in those next fifteen minutes from now, but you’ll be breathing. You may not be breathing fifteen minutes from now, but you’ll be breathing in those next fifteen, and you like that idea. It gives you a little more time to see if you can ourmaneuver me.”
Shayne and Tiener walked side by side out of the joint and down the sidewalk, Andrews trailing.
“Think he can hit me at this distance?” Shayne asked out of the side of his mouth.
“Oh, I think so,” Tiener said easily.
“He missed with a rifle.”
“I wish he hadn’t. You’ve complicated things for me.”
Shayne grunted. Last piece in place.
They moved along the sidewalk at a rapid pace, Tiener matching Shayne’s long strides. He plunked scruffy boots down in step with the detective. Shayne changed step. Tiener changed, shot him a side glance and a one-sided grin. Then he thumbed a squat, two-story stucco building and curved toward an entry that revealed steps. Shayne went up, Tiener immediately behind him, Andrews trailing. There was a short entry area at the top of the steps, then a closed door.
Tiener said, “Okay, now freeze, Shayne.”
The redhead stood rooted. Tiener moved around him, fished a ring of keys from a baggy pants pocket. He fitted a key in the lock and swung the door open. Reaching inside, he snapped on lamplight. Shayne saw a sparsely furnished but comfortable apartment living room.
Tiener faced him. He was stone again, his eyes brilliant. “One moment,” he said. He reached up and slid a hand inside Shayne’s coat, fingers closing over the butt of the .45.
Shayne knew Andrews was immediately behind him, probably still on the top step, the gun trained on his spine, but it was now or never. With Tiener’s hand removing the .45, the detective went down on his haunches hard and threw up his legs.