That was simply the way he made his living. There was only one thing he cared about, and that was to get to the bottom of the problem that faced him.
He had arrived at this point now. He wouldn’t have come this far if Martha hadn’t been an old friend, but that, too, no longer mattered. Someone had killed an obscure Englishman, Albert Watts. Watts meant nothing to Shayne, but his killer meant a great deal. From now on there was an almost emotional bond between Shayne and the killer. It would be broken only when Shayne had trapped him and made him admit his guilt.
On the third floor, Martha rang for the elevator. They could hear the sound of the buzzer beneath them in the shaft. They went quietly to the next landing and waited to hear the clanking as the elevator started up. When there was still no sound, Martha went back to the third floor and gave the desk clerk another long, urgent summons. They listened again. She whispered to Shayne, “He must be asleep.”
They went down the last flight to the lobby. She looked cautiously around the corner. Then, looking back at Shayne, she drew a little diagram in the air, showing him which way to go. He followed her into the lobby. He caught a swift glimpse of the clerk, an old colored man, tipped back precariously on his stool, his eyes closed and his mouth wide open. Martha opened the door to the basement stairs and motioned him ahead of her.
When the door closed they were in utter darkness. He felt her hand on his shoulder. His fingers closed on a railing. He groped ahead with his other hand and went down slowly, feeling his way a step at a time.
At the bottom he whispered, “I’m going to light a match. We don’t want to kick anything over.”
As the match flared they started forward, hand in hand. The way was fairly clear. After the match flickered out he went by memory for a few more steps before stopping to light another. This one took them to the door of the laundry room. Clawing a cobweb out of his eyes, he went on. The third match was still burning when they reached the outside door. He shook it out.
He felt her hands on his arms. She was very close. Her lips brushed his cheek.
“Thank you, Michael,” she said. “For everything.”
She opened the door. For a moment he saw her slight figure against the stars.
He followed her out, and a blinding light struck him in the eyes. A voice said, “Hold it, Shayne,” and something jabbed him hard beneath the left arm.
It was a bad place for Shayne to be hit. A wave of pain rose around him and nearly pulled him under.
8
He was aware of a flurry of movement just in front of him. The flashlight swung in a vicious upward arc and cracked Martha across the head. Then the man holding the flashlight reached around her and wrested the little automatic out of her hand. He was small and dark, Shayne saw, with a twisted mouth. Shayne raised his arm and looked down at the heavy gun pressed against the break in his ribs. Turning slowly, he looked over his shoulder at Al, the heavy-set bartender from the Camel’s nightclub. He still wore the drooping, villainous mustache, but he no longer had the bandanna over his head or the ring in his ear. He was almost bald.
“That’s right,” Al said. “You’re being careful. Don’t move for a minute and we’ll get the boss. Whistle, Jose.”
He felt Shayne’s body for weapons. The smaller man was saying something rapidly in Spanish. He feinted at Martha with the heavy flashlight, and she retreated against the wall. He was smiling, showing pointed yellow teeth. He stabbed the flashlight at Shayne’s eyes, and kicked the redhead very hard beneath the right kneecap. Shayne gritted his teeth. Jose gave a light, wild laugh.
“Tell him to keep away from me,” Shayne said coldly, “or you’ll have to shoot me. The Camel may not like that.”
“The bastard can’t speak English,” Al said. “Jose, get back there, goddamn it, or I’ll break you in two.”
Jose responded with another swift outburst in Spanish. Al whistled, without succeeding in making much noise. Jose showed his disgust. Putting two fingers to his lips, he produced a piercing blast. Then he danced up to Shayne again. Looking up at the bigger man slyly, he drew back his foot, as though for another kick, aiming higher up. Shayne regarded him steadily, his fingers beginning to curl. Jose gave another brainless laugh and bending down, spat on the ground between them.
Al drew back from Shayne, motioning with his heavy gun. “Back up against the house. Next to the doll. Keep your hands out where I can see them, and don’t try to jump anybody. The boss tells me you’re on a Wanted sheet, and any guy who plugs you gets a thank-you letter from the governor. And at the same time, it turns out you’re a private eye. We’re all impressed. We don’t get many of those down here.”
“I’m on vacation,” Shayne said wearily.
“Some vacation,” Al said with a laugh. “Most people come here for their health. But not you, boy. You’ve been butting your nose in other people’s business, and that ain’t healthy.”
“I see you took off your earring,” Shayne commented, watching him. “I can’t tell in this light-how about the mascara?”
Al’s jaws snapped together, and his head came forward. “Don’t try to needle me. I take worse than that six nights a week from the local winos. Goddamn it, Jose, will you cool off?” He stepped forward to block the smaller man as he made another swift dart at Shayne. He explained, “He’s probably never had a chance to kick a private eye in his life. He’s excited.”
Alvarez and two others ran around the corner of the building. Shayne wasted no time on Alvarez, having studied him earlier in the evening, but gave the others a close scrutiny as they came within range of the flashlight. Both were Latins. One vaguely resembled Jose, but was larger, with a hairline mustache; he was probably Jose’s brother. The other, a plump, moon-faced youth, looked a little simple-minded.
“Well, Shayne,” Alvarez said, out of breath from the short run. He clapped his horn-rimmed glasses on his nose and peered at the American. “I thought you seemed a little smart to be a hoodlum. You fooled me with that police circular. Your timing on that was very good. But I think I fooled you a little in return, eh? Perhaps I was not quite so unconscious from this knock on the head as you thought. I sent you out for ice-cubes so I could look in your suitcase. And what did I find? A Florida private detective’s license, complete with fingerprints. Who you are working for, that I still do not know.”
“Mrs. Slater,” Shayne said evenly.
“I assumed as much. I was laughing in my sleeve when I brought you here to get her. I knew you would bring her out with no fuss or noise-out the back door, into our arms.”
“I’m sorry, Michael,” Martha said miserably.
“That’s all right,” Shayne said, his eyes moving from face to face around the little semi-circle. “You can’t win them all.”
“So now we make haste,” Alvarez said. “We will have to conduct Mrs. Slater to the rendezvous with her husband, where we will find out who is going around hitting people on the head with heavy wrenches. We will tighten the screws on this Paul Slater. He is not so much, in my opinion. I will ask him politely, and then Jose will ask him impolitely. This is a specialty of Jose, who can make a fish talk, as the popular saying goes. If Slater is stubborn, we will ask the same questions of his wife in his presence. From this Jose will get even greater pleasure, I think.”
Jose bobbed his head, grinning.
“Michael,” Martha said warningly as Shayne stirred.
“Oh, he will be careful,” Alvarez assured her. “North American private detectives, whatever else one may say about them, are well known to be perfectly sane. If they lose one case, they wish to remain alive to take another. So Michael Shayne will stand still and allow us to tie him up. Of this I am sure. Pedro, you have the line?”
It was true that the redhead had very little choice. The. 45, held unwaveringly in Al’s rocklike fist, was aimed point-blank at his stomach. Jose had Martha’s. 25, if nothing else. The moon-faced youth had his hand in the side pocket of his jacket.
Jose’s brother took out a small reel of fishing line and released the long blade of a spring-knife with a tiny ugly click. He cut off a length of the line and advanced on Shayne.
Jose let go another burst of Spanish. Alvarez tolerantly shook his head.
“He asks my permission to shoot you once in each knee,” Alvarez said. “A charming imagination. This would
