“How about the Ford?”
“Let it go by. I want to see where it goes.”
He slammed down the phone. He held out the Lüger, and Rose took it gingerly in both hands. The long barrel was trembling.
“Point it the other way!” Shayne said. “This guy outside is just the wheel-man, and I think he’ll stay in the car and try to be patient. If he tries to get in, shoot him.”
“I couldn’t any more shoot anybody, Mike—”
“There’s nothing to it. The safety’s off. Just point it and pull the trigger. When you hear the siren, fire twice out the bathroom window. This is a bottleneck here, and he’ll want to get out of it in a hurry.”
“But Mike—”
He gave her a reassuring wink and let himself out the back door.
Chapter Seven
Captain Prideaux saw him coming at a run, and had the motor turning over when he reached the boat. They left the dock in a long easy curve, the engine throttled down all the way. Other boats were passing, one with a noisy outboard, and in another moment Shayne thought it was safe to open up.
He nodded to Prideaux, and the powerful boat shot toward its home pier. The redhead checked the time as they went, wondering if five minutes was cutting it too close. Prideaux cut the power and brought the boat in along the charter docks, and at that moment Shayne heard the siren from the causeway. He leaped onto the dock and sprinted for his Buick.
A minute or so later he was pulling into the plaza at the end of the causeway. He made a full U-turn, ending up pointing away from the bay. He could follow the wail of the siren as the police car raced along the causeway and down onto the Bay Harbor islands. When the black Ford showed up in the line of traffic, coming fast, Shayne eased forward and parked.
He unfolded a road map. He had his face behind it when the Ford pulled past him. Shayne threw the map aside and followed. A Pontiac, leaving the toll station, crowded in ahead of him, but it didn’t matter. Scared by the shots and the siren, the Cuban in the Ford was taking his time, keeping within the speed limit.
He made the turn onto Collins. Shayne kept him in view, without doing anything to attract attention himself. On Dade Boulevard, the Ford dropped out of the traffic and parked near a large drugstore. The Cuban was careful to feed the parking meter after leaving the car. Shayne pulled up in an open space by a fire hydrant, and when the Cuban went into the drugstore, Shayne got out, unlocked his trunk and opened a suitcase he kept there for occasions like this one.
He took off his checked jacket and replaced it with an inconspicuous gray tweed. He had a light straw hat in the back seat, and he put this on. As soon as a legal parking slot opened up ahead of him, he moved into it, after which he strolled past the drugstore, spotted the Cuban leaving a phone booth inside, and went back to the Buick.
Then he waited.
A few minutes passed. The Cuban emerged and went to the corner of Alton Road, where he stepped off the curb and began waving at taxis. An empty cab slowed for him. Timing his moves, Shayne was the second car behind the taxi as it went along Collins and some minutes later turned in at the St. Albans, one of the big new hotels. The Cuban thrust a bill at his driver and walked briskly through the revolving door. Shayne knew the doorman here. He jammed on the emergency brake.
“Take care of it, will you, Frank?” he said, giving the man a dollar. “And I may want to put my hands on it in a hurry.”
“Sure, Mr. Shayne.”
Shayne went into the vast modernistic lobby, under the golden dome. This was the tail-end of the tourist season and the big conventions were underway; the St. Albans was usually rented to capacity at this time of year. Shayne began to circle, looking for the Cuban.
“Mike!” somebody called.
Shayne waved amiably and pushed through the crowd. He spotted the Cuban waiting for an elevator with several short, fleshy men, each of them wearing a large lapel badge shaped like a truck-tire. The Cuban had seen Shayne run out of Mrs. Heminway’s house, and though he had had only that one rapid glimpse, the detective didn’t want to use the same elevator. There was no way it could be avoided, however, and he crowded in with the rest, letting his shoulders slump and keeping his chin in against his chest. There were no women in the car, and he kept his hat on. This elevator served the floors from ten to fifteen, and the Cuban got off at twelve. Three others got off with him, one of them Michael Shayne.
There were more of the big lapel badges in the corridor, and Shayne had had a chance to study one in the elevator. These were delegates to the convention of the I.U.D.T.H., initials which stood for International Union of Draymen, Truckers and Handlers. As Shayne followed the Cuban, his thoughts were busy. Albert Cole, who had been pointing a gun at Rose Heminway just before the ceiling fell in on him, had carried a membership card in this same union, which was noted, among other things, for the ex-convicts among its organizers and officials. Apparently the entire 12th floor had been taken over by the delegates, and not many had brought their wives. From the looks of things, Shayne wasn’t the only one here who had been up all night.
Three delegates came out of a room with drinks in their hands. They were friendly, in fact over-friendly, and they wanted the redhead to join a quartette to sing the old favorites. By the time Shayne untangled himself the Cuban was gone.
There were three doors he might have used. The first was locked. Shayne tried the next. A man wearing pajama bottoms sat up in bed and roared, “Get out of here! I want a little privacy!” The woman in bed with him giggled. Shayne retreated and tried the next room.
This was the sitting room of a one-bedroom suite. There were four men in shirt sleeves sitting around a low coffee table. They all had drinks. One was thumbing through a card-index. Another, with a sheaf of papers attached to a clip-board, seemed to be checking names.
They all looked at Shayne.
“They don’t knock around here?” one of them said.
“Looking for a friend of mine,” Shayne said, and started for the bedroom.
One of the men got up so fast his chair went over. He had a large bald head, but his features were crowded together near the middle of his face, with not enough space between them. His shoulders and chest bulked very large.
“Uh-uh,” he said.
Shayne smiled agreeably and kept going.
“Who is this mouser?” the man with the clipboard said.
“Hell, it’s Mike Shayne!”
The fourth man hooted. Getting up off the sofa, he gave the redhead a friendly blow on the muscle of his nearest arm. He was built close to the ground, broad, compact, and as solid as a truck, and until Shayne caught the blow on his muscle he hadn’t recognized him. This had been an old habit of Harry Plato, who had just put in a turbulent two-year term as president of the international. He had changed since Shayne saw him last. His hair was snow-white and his face had been deeply seared by time and trouble.
“I forgot you operated in this town, Mike,” he said. “Long time no see, huh? This is Shayne, the private badge,” he explained. “A good guy. Maybe he don’t look it, but plenty of stuff up there under that red fuzz. He handled a case for me once when I had the New Orleans district. Earned a nice piece of scratch for himself, as I recall. What brings you, Mike? You wouldn’t be looking for business, by any chance?
“Have you got some for me?” Shayne said, looking past him into the bedroom.
“I’ll always find a spot for a good man. Who’s this friend you’re looking for?”
“Al Cole,” Shayne said.
There was no visible reaction among the four men, but Shayne thought they were being too careful not to look at him. He went on, “But I shouldn’t have said he was a friend. The last I heard, he was lugging a gun around Baltimore. I can see I’ve got the wrong room. See you around, Harry.”