approached the Firestone estate on Miami Beach. It could just as well take place here on the lonely causeway if a car had been stationed at the causeway entrance, waiting for him to pass.
When he realized that his top speed could accomplish nothing, Shayne eased his big foot from the accelerator and slowed.
For a few moments the car behind him continued to close the gap between them with unabated speed, and he began to think his hunch was wrong, but this thought died swiftly as the driver of the car also slowed.
Shayne slumped behind the wheel and assumed a careless, lounging position, but his big hands gripped it, and his gray eyes were narrow and alert. His speed diminished to forty, and the following car which could now be distinguished as a big black Cadillac, slowed to the same speed, but it had swung out and was traveling in the outer lane as though to pass him.
Swiftly calculating the strategy his pursuers would likely take, he glanced ahead. The sweeping curves did not allow a clear view for any considerable distance, and the two men in the front seat of the Cadillac seemed content to maintain their position for the time being.
In another half mile the causeway straightened out on a long tangent leading directly onto the peninsula. If it was clear of traffic, Shayne felt certain that the interception would come there. He visualized the guard fence along the dirt shoulder near the edge of the twenty-foot fill. It was strong enough to withstand the sidelong impact of a skidding car and prevent it from going over the side into the bay, but was it strong enough to withstand the crushing power of a heavy car aimed directly at it at a speed of forty miles?
Watching the action of the big black car behind him, Shayne knew with grim certainty that he was going to get an answer when he straightened out at the end of the last curve and saw the long straightaway completely deserted.
He was ready when the pursuing car came up on his left with a sudden surge of power. Hunched over the wheel, Shayne stared straight ahead, apparently oblivious of the other car until a shouted warning caused him to turn his head.
The two cars were moving abreast with only a few feet between them. Shayne looked directly into the face of a hooked-nose man sitting beside the driver, motioning Shayne into the curb with his left hand and cuddling the butt of a Tommy gun with his right. The ugly muzzle protruded over the top of the lowered window and pointed directly at the head of the detective.
Shayne nodded, swung his eyes sharply back to the road as the Cadillac pressed in on his left fender. He sucked in a deep breath, wrenched his steering-wheel sharply to the right, and stepped hard on the accelerator. His sedan lunged toward the guard fence midway between two posts as he grabbed the door latch, opened it, and let the impact of the crash send his body out in a looping dive.
He catapulted through the air, clear of the plunging car, forcing his body muscles to go limp as the soft beach sand rushed up to meet him. He landed on the back of his shoulders with an impetus that knocked him breathless.
At the same moment there was a terrific crash. He dragged himself to his knees, panting for breath, and saw his car settle upside down in five feet of water with the four wheels showing above the surface.
Stunned and groggy, he reacted instinctively to carry out the plan he hoped would give him the advantage over the two gunmen. He dragged himself erect and plodded through the deep sand to the foot of the perpendicular piling supporting the roadway embankment against the bay waters at high tide.
Crouching, he waited, the automatic in his hand.
Shayne’s sudden maneuver had sent the Cadillac a hundred or more feet beyond the broken guardrail. Now, from his place of concealment he heard hurrying footsteps on the macadam above and angry voices cursing him.
“… plain goddamn scared to death when he saw my gun,” the hook-nosed man grated. “For a shamus with a reputation like he’s got-”
“Not a sign of him yet,” a surly voice cut in. “He’s drowned by this time, for sure. The boss ain’t gonna like this.”
“How can we help what the fool done? Le’s get outta here fast, Tiny. Ain’t no use hangin’ around. We been lucky so far, but somebody’s likely to come along any minute.”
“Nuts,” said the surly driver of the car. “Only a few feet of water there. We got to drag ’im out.”
“What the hell for? He’s drowned by this time.”
“He’s supposed to have that stuff on ’im,” Tiny reminded the hook-nosed gunman. “The boss sent us out to get it. We drag ’im out, see, and go through his pockets.”
“To hell with that,” growled the gunman. “The cops are likely to be prowling by here any minute. If they find us down there-”
“Rescuing a drowning man,” said Tiny. “We’re driving along and we see a guy break through the guardrail. So we stop to save him. Hell, there ain’t a mark on the Cad, and he damn sure won’t do any blabbin’, and maybe we get a medal or somethin’.”
“Maybe you’re right at that,” the hook-nosed man agreed reluctantly. “Reckon we can slide down where the fence is busted.” His voice trailed off, and Shayne waited tensely, peering around to see a shower of sand precede a body that dropped heavily down the embankment. He landed with a grunt, picked himself up, and Shayne saw the hook-nosed man whose Tommy gun had been pointed at him a few minutes ago. “Come on down, Tiny,” he called up to his companion. “I ain’t gonna stay here ’less you-”
“Stand out of the way!” Tiny yelled. “Look out!” The hook-nosed man took a backward step, glancing wildly around. He saw Shayne’s huddled figure less than ten feet away, and his hand dived toward his shoulder holster when he saw the gun in Shayne’s hand.
Shayne pulled the trigger of the small automatic. A round hole appeared directly above the hooked nose, and the man’s body fell limply on the sand, face down, his right arm crumpled beneath him, reaching for the holstered gun.
Instantly another body landed in a flurry of sand. Shayne swung his automatic to cover the driver of the Cadillac. He pressed the trigger, but nothing happened. The gun had jammed after ejecting the first cartridge.
With a savage curse he threw the useless weapon aside and lunged at Tiny who threw up a hand to protect his face when Shayne leveled the gun on him. Shayne’s weight smashed the man to a kneeling position, and they both sprawled on the sand. Bouncing to his feet, Shayne whirled to see his opponent rising slowly and jerking a blackjack from his hip pocket, and in that fleeting moment Shayne realized why he was called Tiny. He was not more than five feet two and nearly a yard wide. His long arms reached to his knees, and his eyes were set close together in a face that was ludicrously flat except for the sharp nose.
Tiny’s right hand, wielding the blackjack, described a vicious arc, but Shayne drove in fast with his head low. The blow grazed the left side of his head with searing pain, but the impact of his body threw the heavy, short man off balance, and Tiny staggered and went down, his flat, unprotected face upward. Shayne aimed his big foot at the man’s blunt jaw.
Tiny jerked his head in time to take the crushing weight on his collarbone, flung out both his apelike arms, and grabbed Shayne’s leg. The jerk brought the rangy redhead down on top of him. Shayne doubled one knee as he fell and ground it into Tiny’s groin.
Tiny gave a guttural moan of pain, but he was tough and an expert at this sort of in-fighting, and his squat body was writhing, twisting long arms and ironthighed legs around the detective.
Shayne fought to get one arm free as he went underneath and succeeded just in time to spread his fingers over Tiny’s face as he brought the blackjack into play again. One of his fingers found an eye socket, dug in, and there was an animal scream of pain, a sideward writhing that allowed Shayne to eel from under and stagger to his feet.
Tiny was coming up again, his face contorted, and blood streaming from his eye, his yellowed teeth snarling with atavistic hatred. Shayne plowed in, slugging full-arm lefts and rights into the flat face, the weight of his body behind each blow. The shorter man wavered dazedly under the onslaught, taking one backward step, then two, reeling from the blows and trying to lift his arms to protect himself, refusing to go down under punishment that would have killed an ordinary man.
Shayne’s breath was whistling through his teeth when he stopped from sheer weariness, leaving Tiny swaying, his face battered to a pulp, yet held on his feet by some force beyond consciousness. The blackjack had dropped from his lax fingers.
