Shayne reached for the cognac. He was feeling completely relaxed for the first time since he went bonefishing on St. Albans.
“Get through to Sergeant Brannon,” he said. “Find out if Paul Slater had a cable in his pocket when they brought him in.”
Malloy turned over the pages in the folder. “I got an inventory this afternoon. Yeah, a cable saying his mother was seriously ill, to come home at once. What’s that prove? We know it’s a fake, to give him a pretext for chartering the plane. I didn’t even bother to check on his mother’s health.”
“Don’t worry about her,” Shayne said, grinning. “She’s fine.”
He took the cognac to the window and looked down on the river. When Malloy started to speak, he made a brusque gesture. “I want to work this out.” After a moment he turned. “Have you got today’s News’?”
“Right here.”
Shayne took it and flipped through the pages. Malloy circled the desk to see what he was looking up, but Shayne closed the paper and threw it on the desk.
“Ok., Jack. That’s fine.” He strode to the door. “I’ll be in touch.”
“Mike! “Malloy said.
Shayne turned. “There’s one other thing. I don’t have much trouble getting rid of tails, but they slow me down. So don’t put one on me, Jack. Where will you be, if I want to call you?”
Malloy sighed. “Right here, I guess, Mike. I see this is going to be another night without sleep.”
“You need a vacation,” Shayne said.
He went downstairs and out by a side entrance. He picked up a cab in front of the County Courthouse. He gave the driver a series of complicated directions, which carried them north for a time, then east on NW 7th, south on 12th Avenue. He left the cab at the mouth of a one-way street, walked two blocks against the traffic and caught a southbound bus, changing again to another cab. By the time he paid off this cab on Miami Avenue near the bridge, he was sure that no one was following him.
Now he was within walking distance of his apartment hotel. He went through the driveway to the garages and took out his Buick. After more precautions, he drove to the P amp; O Steamship pier and went inside. He came out after fifteen minutes, headed south on Miami Avenue and found the address he was looking for.
It was on Bird Road in South Miami, a large stucco house with a considerable expanse of lawn. Shayne drove around the block. Returning, he found a parking space from which he could watch the house. He lit a cigarette and settled down to wait.
14
At 6:30 a man crossed the open breezeway leading to the garage from the house, and backed out a Pontiac station wagon. Forty-five minutes later he returned, bringing a well-dressed, healthy-looking woman, a boy and a girl in their early teens, and a great deal of luggage. The Pontiac was unloaded and put away. At eight a Mercury sedan drove into the driveway and a man and a woman went into the house. They were greeted enthusiastically in the doorway. A little over two hours later, Shayne ran out of cigarettes. Ten minutes later the couple left. Lights began going out.
Michael Shayne leaned forward hugging the steering wheel, his eyes hooded and wary. He had done a lot of this type of waiting in his career, and he would undoubtedly do a lot more. It didn’t bother him.
When the last light in the house went out, Shayne slipped lower in the seat. He had parked in a spot between streetlights, in the shadow of a leafy sycamore. At ten minutes after midnight, a woman approached on the opposite sidewalk. She was wearing ankle-length slacks and low-heeled shoes. It was Martha Slater. She glanced at the house Shayne was watching, and passed on, going around the next corner.
He left the car. Crossing the street, he crouched on one knee among the low-growing shrubbery at the foot of the lawn. He parted the shrubbery carefully and watched the house and the garage. After fifteen minutes he saw a flicker of movement in the breezeway. For just an instant he saw a woman’s figure. She came out a moment later wheeling a bicycle.
Instead of coming straight down the driveway, she headed across the lawn at an angle. Shayne would have to leave cover to intercept her. He kept behind the shrubbery as long as he could, but as he was crossing the drive she turned and saw him.
He set off toward her at a hard run. She wrenched the bike around, leaped into the saddle and shot rapidly down the sloping lawn. Shayne could see that he had no hope of cutting her off. He whirled and raced back to his car. Martha, peddling hard, bumped over the curb and was around the corner by the time he had the motor started. He roared into the nearest driveway, cramping the wheels viciously, reversed and came back. He reversed again and the powerful car leaped forward.
He turned the corner on the edges of his tires. For a moment he thought he had lost her. Then he saw a flash of movement between two stone gates into the University of Miami campus. Shayne swung the wheel hard. He knew she could get away from him among the university buildings, where he couldn’t follow in the Buick. Instead of turning through the gates he went past and made the turn on Ponce de Leon Boulevard. Again he was afraid it was a bad guess, and he began to slow down. Something glinted at him in the rear-view mirror; it was gone when he turned around, but he made a sweeping U-turn at the next intersection and came back with the gas pedal on the floor. Ahead, the bike shot through a red light and hurtled into the southbound traffic on Miami Avenue.
A horn sounded a long desperate warning. There was a shriek of locked wheels. Martha, on the bike, was trying to cut diagonally across the lanes. An open convertible swerved to avoid her. An opening appeared. She almost slipped through, but the car behind her was traveling too fast; it touched her rear fender and she went out of control. Lights flashed. Brakes and horns sounded at the same second. She disappeared from Shayne’s view. There was a long skid, a sickening crunch of metal.
The light changed, and Shayne came down hard on the gas. On the other side of the intersection he swung in toward the sidewalk, his wheels riding over the curb. He snapped off the ignition and leaped out.
He saw the bicycle first. It was a boy’s English bike, brand new, with the brakes on the handlebars. The front wheel was squashed flat, the center bar bent into the shape of an L. It had been hurled almost across the sidewalk, but Martha lay on the curb, her head and shoulders on the sidewalk, the rest of her body on the road.
The light changed, but the northbound traffic couldn’t move; a panel truck had slued as the brakes took hold, and now blocked both lanes. The driver, a pale young man in a sports shirt, ran toward Martha. He and Shayne reached her almost together.
“She shot right out in front of me!” he cried. “How could I-”
Shayne knelt beside the girl. Her body was twisted at a terrible angle. “I don’t feel anything at all,” she said wonderingly. “Mike. I knew you’d find out. I didn’t dare wait. I thought I’d still have a chance if I could get away tonight.”
“Don’t touch her!” Shayne said roughly as the truck driver stooped to lift her onto the sidewalk. “Call an ambulance. The V. A. hospital’s nearest. Then call police emergency. Get moving.”
“How did you know I would come here?” Martha said.
“It wasn’t too hard to figure,” Shayne said. “The P amp; O had a cruise ship coming in tonight that touched at St. Albans this morning. I got a list of the passengers who went aboard at St. Albans, with their baggage declarations. These people were the only ones who brought back an English bicycle. You’d better not talk.”
“I want to. The strange thing is that I have no feeling anywhere at all. That means it’s serious, doesn’t it?”
“We’ll see when the ambulance gets here.”
“Has there been any news about Paul?”
“He’s dead.”