Shayne dialed the seven digits, listened to the electronic chimes that revealed he was dialling a toll number. Then the operator came on to request twenty-five cents, which Shayne paid. The call was put through.
After seven rings, a feminine voice said, “Hello?”
“Who is this?” he asked. Somehow, it didn’t sound like the voice of the Mrs. Fowler Tim Rourke had described to him.
“Who is this?” came the counter.
“Mike Shayne. I’ve been trying to get in touch with Myra Rainey for the last few days.”
“Mike Shayne... the private detective?”
“Right. I’m working for Roy Latimer, the Daily News publisher. We want to—”
She interrupted him, saying, “This is Myra Rainey, Mr. Shayne. Can you get out here right away? I’m afraid.”
That was all. She hung up before he could answer.
XII
Mike Shayne drove to the quiet street in Coconut Grove a good deal more rapidly than the law allowed. He was not tailed this time, nor did anyone interfere with him in any way when he reached the old pine house. He drove past it until he found a driveway two hundred yards further on. There he turned in, cut his lights and, after a few moments, backed the Buick out in darkness, idled it silently forward to park a mere fifty yards from the fine old pine dwelling house.
If, indeed, there was another button man on the loose, it seemed unwise to take needless chances.
He approached the house cautiously, hugging the thick undergrowth closely as he moved quietly toward the pine dwelling, slipping from palm bole to palm bole. The darkness, like the stillness surrounding him, could well have been cut with a knife.
The blinds of the house were drawn tightly, so tightly that no light, if there was light inside, escaped. The detective moved against its front, attaining the railed porch without making much noise. He kept his hand on the butt of his .45 as he moved.
But Mike Shayne made enough sounds to be heard. When he reached the front door with its brass knocker, a soft voice from just inside whispered, “Who’s there?”
“Mike Shayne,” he replied in matching tones. “I just called you, remember? Within the last half hour.”
The door was hurriedly unlocked after some fumbling, and the detective slipped inside. There was dim illumination from the rear of the dwelling, by which he could see that his admittor was a most attractive young woman in denims and a jersey that did justice to a willowy figure which included fine long legs.
“Thank God, you’re here!” She extended hand. “I’m Myra Rainey. I was afraid to let you in until you mentioned your call.”
After relocking the door for her, the detective offered her a cigaret, which was gratefully accepted. Shayne lit up himself as he trailed her to an inside den without windows but with a single lighted lamp whose glow was invisible from outside. He noted with approval the pert features of Myra’s tired face, crowned by a dark brown widow’s peak, the easy grace of her walk and posture beneath the nervousness revealed by her gestures.
“What should I do?” she said. “There was someone prowling around outside just before you called.”
“Well, there’s nobody now,” Shayne told her. “The first thing to do is to call the police — something you should have done when this thing got started.”
“I know,” she said, “But I... well, I was bewildered and frightened. Mr. Meadows and Mr. MacRae warned me about their partner. They said he was absolutely ruthless. So, when the phone calls began, I ran away and hid.”
“With Mrs. Michaels?” And, at her nod, “If you’d stuck around there a little longer, I’d have caught up with you. What made you bolt a second time?”
“The more I thought about what happened to Cathy, the more frightened I got. I just didn’t feel safe there — and I didn’t want Mrs. Michaels to get — hurt. So, when the street was empty, I took off.”
“What brought you back here, Myra?”
“It seemed the safest place — I mean, it must have been searched and everything. Who’d look for me here? Besides, Mrs. Fowler left me the key — in case of emergency.”
Shayne nodded. He could follow that thinking. He said, “Where’s the telephone, Myra?”
“Why?”
“I’m going to call the police.”
“Why — I mean, with you here?”
Shayne spelled it out for her. “A — they can give you a lot better protection than I can if anyone is out to get you. B — they want Cathy Whiting’s killer, and if you don’t come in, they might put you through the wringer for obstructing a Homicide investigation.”
As he followed the girl, he said, “How well did you and Mrs. Fowler know each other?”
“Gertrude Fowler? She and my mother were college sorority sisters. And she’s been awfully nice to Cathy and me, until...” She let it hang.
“Until what, Myra?”
“Oh, until all these awful things started to happen. Just because I told that reporter — Mr. Rourke — the truth about my boss. Then Gertrude took off for Bermuda and the threatening phone calls began.”
Mike Shayne nodded in the dim light of the main hall of the old house. Tim had been right about Mrs. Fowler delivering a set piece to the press and, probably, the police. Her reasons for taking a trip at just this time might, he thought, prove interesting.
He picked up the telephone in the dimly lighted hall. It was dead as mutton...
The detective took another deep breath. The instrument had worked perfectly when he called Myra Rainey from The Golden Pineapple aparking garage, not much more than forty minutes before. And there had been no intruders in evidence when he made his careful entrance to the old house.
Surely, if anyone had been out there then, a move would have been made against him. Which meant...
...that somebody was out there right now, somebody who had crippled their communications by cutting off the phone. His hand moved toward his left lapel.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Checking my cannon.” He suited action to words, added, “Just in case.”
“Why, Mr. Shayne? What makes you think—”
“The phone is dead.” He cut her off. “That’s what. Stay under cover while I reconnoiter.”
Myra subsided on a small settee in a corner. As he moved toward a front window, the redhead could hear her teeth chatter. Pulling the shade aside a fraction of an inch, Shayne peered out. A big car was drawn up, nose-in to the driveway. He could just make out a human figure behind the wheel.
At that instant, the car lights were turned on full, bathing the facade of the old house with their glare. Mike Shayne fired two snap shots, each followed by the tinkle of falling glass. One headlight and part of the windshield were out of action.
Then some sort of repeating weapon began firing at the house on half-automatic. Yelling, “Stay put!” at the terrified girl, the detective raced to the rear of the dwelling, plunged down the back steps and sprinted to the smaller house.
He recalled how, two nights earlier, he had been flummoxed by the hit man’s making a noise at the back door, then leaving by the front while he had the detective decoyed. But he did not quite make it undetected.
He was in the act of yanking open the front door when a rifle crashed its deadly message from the street end of the driveway. A steel jacketed message that tugged at his right shoulder as he crashed through the hinged barrier.
For a very good reason, this infuriated the redhead. He had paid close to two hundred dollars for this sports jacket less than two weeks before. Another bullet followed him inside, whining over his head to thud into the far wall and Shayne went to his hands and knees.