He strode across to Shayne and looked down. “That’s the man,” he said with satisfaction.
Shayne made a small sound. He brought his hands out in front of him and tried to untie the gag. The only way he could get out of this was to talk his way out, which was impossible so long as he had a handkerchief in his mouth.
The native cops put away their flashlights, but their guns were still out. The sergeant kicked the basin out of his way.
“Well, you bastard,” he said in an unexpectedly deep voice, “you’ve kept us all up after our regular bedtime, and don’t expect us to be friendly. You’re under arrest. I’ll omit the warning because you won’t be charged in my jurisdiction. You really got yourself tangled up, didn’t you?” He motioned to one of his men and said, “Cut him loose.”
The cop produced a pen-knife. Wielding it delicately, he cut the fishing line that bound Shayne’s ankles. After that he cut the line around his mouth. The redhead spat out the handkerchief, but picked it up again to wrap around his cut wrist. The cop helped him free himself from the clothesline, and quickly went over him to see if he was carrying a gun.
“Get up,” the sergeant said, “and don’t give us any trouble.”
Shayne did as he was told. He stamped one foot to get the circulation going. When he tried to speak, he only succeeded in bringing forth an unintelligible croak. He cleared his throat and tried again. This time the muscles worked.
“Do you want to know who murdered Albert Watts?”
For a moment the sergeant looked at him in silence. Then he said, “Don’t tell me you did.”
“He turned in a customs tip on an American named Paul Slater before he was killed. Slater was caught and fined, and came back to St. Albans. So maybe Watts wasn’t killed by a native, after all. Does any of this interest you?”
“Right now,” the sergeant said, “whether I’m interested or not is neither here nor there. If you want to buy your way out of this with information, you’re talking to the wrong man. You can take it up with the inspector in the morning.”
“It won’t be worth anything in the morning,” Shayne said. “There’s a large-scale smuggling operation underway on this island, as I think you know. If you move fast you can break it up while the inspector’s still asleep. And while you’re doing that you can find out who murdered Watts.”
“You are feeling talkative, aren’t you?” the sergeant said. “But let’s wait and have a stenographer take it all down.”
“I just said it can’t wait,” Shayne told him impatiently. “By the time everything’s signed and witnessed and all the documents have been filled out in triplicate, Alvarez will be in some other country.”
“Who did you say?” the sergeant said, pushing his head forward.
“You heard me. Luis Alvarez. Use a little imagination and you can put him out of business for good. Law enforcement around here will be easier when that son of a bitch is behind bars.”
“Where does Alvarez come into this?”
“Slater was working for him as a courier,” Shayne said. “That tip from Watts was as bad for him as it was for Slater. There’s been some fancy double-crossing going on tonight. Slater was about to take off for the States in a chartered plane. Alvarez kidnapped his wife and threatened to kill her unless Slater got off the plane and came in to explain himself. Do you follow that, or do you want me to go over it again?”
“Where are they, at Alvarez’ nightclub?”
“No. I don’t know where they are, but maybe we can figure it out.”
The sergeant hesitated. “Kidnapping, double-crossing, blackmail,” he said suspiciously. “What are you saying, exactly? That Alvarez killed Watts?”
“I don’t know who killed Watts. I do know that he was killed because of the tip he turned in on Slater.”
“Do you have some evidence of this that you’d like to tell us about?”
Shayne skipped quickly back over the few hard facts he had picked up in the last few hours. “No. Nothing definite. Alvarez has an illegal shipment he was supposed to pass on to Slater tonight. You arrested Alvarez’ driver, and he took me along instead. Something went wrong. He was knocked cold and the shipment was highjacked. Not by me.”
The sergeant smoothed his mustache with his fingertip, in a gesture that for some reason reminded Shayne of somebody he knew well.
“A shipment of what?” he said.
“How should I know?” Shayne said, becoming increasingly impatient. “It had to be contraband of some kind, because of the way it was delivered.”
The sergeant persisted, “Did you see it?”
“No! We don’t have time for all this detail, but if you can’t live without it-he drove into a private garage. I think I can take you to it, but later, for God’s sake! The stuff was in the trunk of his Hillman. Somebody was waiting in the dark and as soon as the headlights went off, stepped up and conked him. When I went in to see why he didn’t come out, he was taking the full count, with a lump on the back of his head. The back window in the garage was open, the trunk hatch was up. Goddamn it, how much more do you want?”
“A great deal more. He believed his assailant to be this American, Paul Slater?”
“Yeah, and it looks that way to me too. The meet was set for eleven. Slater’s plane was set to take off at twelve. It looks like a time-table the same person worked out.”
“I see,” the sergeant said slowly. “The procedure in assault cases is for the aggrieved party to come in and make a complaint. It is then our duty to investigate, even if the victim is an unsavory character like Alvarez, who deserves to be knocked on the head repeatedly, in my humble opinion. But-” and here his head shot forward again-“this entire story is rather flimsy, my friend, and I don’t believe it for an instant. What I seem to see here is a falling-out among scoundrels. No doubt it was the estimable Senor Alvarez who trussed you up like this and told us where we could lay our hands on you. You bear him ill-will, and would like to use the police for your private revenge. I have been in this business long enough to know that such little fallings-out often have most fruitful results for honest men. In the morning we will have it out with the inspector, and you can give us all the corroborating details which you have apparently been skipping over.”
“The morning-” Shayne began hotly.
“Will be too late,” the sergeant said. “I believe you told us that already. But we have nobody’s word for it but yours, do we? And your bonafides are hardly of the best.”
He nodded to the two policemen, who had been standing alertly, one on either side of Shayne. “Take him in.”
Shayne whirled, a dangerous look on his scored face, his hands well out from his sides.
The sergeant said, “I wouldn’t recommend any resistance. My men are picked for both strength and dexterity.”
“Yeah,” Shayne growled. “But I can give them some trouble. You can make it easier on all of us if you listen to me for a minute. Alvarez and a bunch of goons-including one really vicious type whose first name is Jose, another named Pedro, the bartender from that pirate joint of Alvarez’, and one more whose name I didn’t find out-picked up Martha Slater ten minutes ago. They’re giving her and her husband a going over somewhere in the country, half an hour’s drive from the airport. You’ve got some of the Camel’s boys in jail. Lean on them a little and find out where this place is.”
“We don’t lean on people down here.”
“Then say please!” Shayne exclaimed in sudden exasperation. “There’s a big chunk of dough tied up in this deal. Play it too cool and you’ll end up in the morning with a couple more killings. Alvarez was talking about taking Mrs. Slater out for a one-way sail. Doesn’t that sound a little like the Luis Alvarez you know?”
The sergeant seemed half-convinced. “I would need a warrant.”
“You’ve had a murder. How many more do you need before you can get a judge to issue a search-warrant? Bring in the whole bunch and ask some questions. One of them is the killer, or I’m crazy.”