With the unerring sense of direction of a homing pigeon, Shayne made his way among them to a quiet corridor at the rear of the registration desk and to a plain wooden door that was marked SECURITY.
He knocked perfunctorily and turned the knob and entered a small office with an erect, white-haired man seated behind a cluttered desk. He was in his shirt-sleeves, wearing a neat bow tie, and was relaxed with his feet on the desk and a paperbacked novel in his hands when Shayne opened the door. He hastily dropped his feet to the floor and straightened up and slid the book down onto the chair beside him and said frostily, “This is a private office.” Then he opened his eyes wider and stared for a moment and said happily, “Mike Shayne, by God! What are you doing in a classy joint like this?”
Shayne said just as happily, “Parson Smith! Last time I knew, you were a bouncer down in a little waterfront bar. Well, well! Congratulations are indeed in order.” He leaned over the desk and offered his big hand, and Smith took it in a hard grip and told him with a wide grin, “Sometimes I wish I were back there, Mike. It didn’t pay as well, but things did happen. Life is just about as dull as dishwater around this place.”
Shayne said, “Maybe I can rectify that.”
“Wait a minute, now. The management frowns on what you and I might consider good, old-fashioned fun. But rest your feet, Mike,” he urged hospitably. “Drink?” He leaned forward to pull open a drawer, but Shayne forestalled him.
“Not right now, Parson. You’ve got a guest in Suite Three-twenty. Jess Hayden. Ring a bell?”
“Not… right off the bat.” Smith turned to his left where there was a large panel covered with an intricate arrangement of numbered dials and different colored arrows that looked to Shayne like the control board of a machine shop.
He twisted one arrow to point to a 3, used his forefinger to dial another number below the arrow, and relaxed proudly. There was a whirring noise from the back of the panel, and a moment later a white card popped up out of a slot in the desk in front of him. He picked it up delicately between thumb and forefinger, explaining with a grin, “Just a simple little system of electronics, Mike. Only cost a couple of hundred thousand to install and doesn’t get fouled up more than a dozen times a day. Let’s see what we have here.” He frowned and read from the card: “Three-twenty. Richard Dirkson. Three-Seven-One East Fifty-fourth Street, New York City. No luggage. Overnight bill paid in cash advance.”
Shayne said, “That’s my man. I’m going up there, Par-son.
“Expecting trouble?”
Shayne said, “There’ll be trouble if Mr. Dirkson is at home.”
“I’ll go along,” Smith said promptly.
“No.” Michael Shayne shook his red head and his eyes were hot. “What facilities have you got for a quiet arrest and out the back way to the hoosegow?”
“I’ve got six good men on duty, Mike. It’s my job to keep a thing like this quiet.”
Shayne said, “I know what your job is. Come along up behind me with a couple of men. But stay outside Three-twenty until I’ve had my time at bat.” His blunt forefingers strayed up to touch the lumps on his head that were now subsiding. “This is sort of personal.”
The Parson said, “I’ll give you two minutes.”
Shayne said happily, “Make it three.” He got up and strode out of the office without a backward glance.
An elevator was loading as he crossed the lobby. He got in and stood close to the door and said, “Three.”
His floor was the first stop and he got out alone. He glanced at arrows on the wall with numbers underneath them, and went swiftly to the right in search of 320. He knew Smith wouldn’t give him much more than his allotted three minutes.
He pressed the bell at 320 and stood flat-footed in front of the door waiting.
It opened and Jud stood there. He had a highball glass in his left hand, and his mouth sagged open slackly when he recognized the detective. Shayne saw Phil rising from a chair behind him with a sudden pleased look on his face.
Jud stepped back a pace and said, “Look who’s here!” He glanced over his shoulder at Phil who was coming forward, cat-footed. “Who d’yuh think we got for company, Phil?”
Phil’s hand snaked his big revolver from a shoulder holster and he held it laxly at his side, pointing downward. He said, “I see him, Jud. I guess he likes the kind of games we play.”
“Sure,” Jud agreed happily. “I bet he’s one of them mas-so-kists.”
“What do you want here?” Phil paused close beside Jud, their shoulders touching, the two of them directly facing Shayne on the other side of the threshold about two feet away.
He took one fast step forward and his two big hands swung up simultaneously on opposite sides of the two heads with palms wide open.
Their two heads made a sharp cracking sound as they came together with terrific force. They crumpled to the floor like two rag dolls, and Phil’s gun dropped from his hand.
Shayne pulled the door shut and scooped the gun up. He stooped over Jud and got his revolver from its shoulder harness. He heard a faint sound across the room as he straightened up, and he faced the Boss, standing in the doorway of an inner room.
His thinning hair was disarranged so that the bald spot showed through, and he was in his undershirt and wearing black felt slippers.
He spoke gratingly, “What do you want, Shayne?”
Shayne said, “You.” He started slowly across the sitting room toward him.
“You’ve got nothing on me,” Jess Hayden said placatingly. “Maybe that was a mistake last night. Mistakes can be paid for.”
Shayne said, “That’s right. And you’re going to pay for yours right now.”
Hayden backed away from him inside the bedroom, and Shayne stopped in the doorway and saw the room was empty. He moved inside and tossed both revolvers contemptuously on the bed, and laughed deep in his throat when Hayden dived desperately aside, scrabbling to get his hands on one of them.
He cuffed the man back, so he stumbled to the floor beside the wall, then got him by the scruff of the neck and dragged him back into the sitting room, where Jud was beginning to stir and trying to sit up.
Very deliberately, Shayne held Jess Hayden erect with the tips of the toes just touching the floor, his left hand tight around the neck, and smashed his fist into the man’s face.
Blood splattered wetly and his features got all flat and disorganized. Shayne tossed him aside and strode toward the door, where Jud had waveringly got up on his hands and knees.
There was a loud, authoritative knock on the door just at the moment that Shayne drew back his right foot and kicked Jud with all his strength in the side. He scowled at the door and said “Just a minute,” and turned to Phil, who still lay supine, and methodically kicked in half-a-dozen of his ribs, also.
He heard a key in the outer lock, and the door was suddenly thrust open and Parson Smith stood on the threshold with two men close behind him. He looked at the two men on the floor, appalled, and breathed out, “My God, Mike!”
Shayne said, “I’m just giving you a nice package… all wrapped up and ready to go.” He walked back springily to the Boss, who lay flat on his back with his face smashed in, deliberately placed the sole of his big foot on the bloody pulp and twisted hard.
Then he told Smith, “Get them down to Headquarters and I’ll sign a complaint. And you can send me a bill for cleaning the blood off your rug.”
His shoulders slumped suddenly as all the anger went out of him, and he felt tired and a little bit disgusted with himself.
He walked to the door, adding gruffly, “They had it coming, goddamn it, but right now I wish you’d opened that door thirty seconds sooner.” He went out, scowling.