Pay-Off in Blood

said something which Shayne couldn’t hear across the table to the doctor, and Dr. Ambrose nodded and reached inside his coat pocket to withdraw the long, white envelope he had shown Shayne at his apartment.

At the same time, Crew-cut reached inside his inner coat pocket and withdrew a similar envelope. For a moment the two men regarded each other thoughtfully across the table, and then simultaneously they exchanged envelopes.

Shayne leaned back with his elbows behind him on the bar supporting his weight, his right hand dropping casually into his coat pocket, which sagged under the weight of his revolver.

Both men had turned slightly toward the wall, shielding their envelopes from view, and were tearing them open. If anything was going to happen, now was the moment for it.

A long thirty seconds passed while each of them carefully inspected the contents of the other’s envelope. Then they turned back toward each other and both of them nodded. The churning stopped in Shayne’s stomach and his muscles relaxed, but he didn’t take his hand off the gun in his pocket.

The two men at the table each turned back the lapel of his coat to pocket his envelope.

At that precise moment, a flash-gun exploded with brilliant white light a few feet up the bar from Shayne. He jerked his head to catch a glimpse of a wiry, young man with lank, black hair, lowering a press camera with a flash attachment. It was only a glimpse, because he turned and ran for the door as he lowered his camera. Shayne could have shot him, but didn’t. Shayne had seen that face before.

He stood very still with his big hand bunched around the butt of the.38 in his pocket, and looked at the booth.

Dr. Ambrose and Crew-cut sat exactly as they had sat a moment before, each with a long, white envelope half inside his coat pocket. Both their faces were turned toward the fleeing photographer, mouths slightly open and a look of blank surprise on both faces.

The tableau held for a long moment and Shayne waited tensely to see if something would explode between them.

It didn’t. They turned back toward each other and each pocketed his envelope. Shayne pushed himself away from the bar and strolled forward, getting two dollar bills from his pocket to drop on the table in payment for their drinks.

He asked, “Ready to go, Doc?” and Dr. Ambrose nodded and looked at him in agitation and said, “Yes, it’s… all right. But I… did that man take a picture?”

“It looked that way,” Shayne said cheerfully. “God knows what for. Maybe you and God, huh?” He transferred his gaze to Crew-cut.

The man shook his head and appeared honestly puzzled. “Not me. I swear I never saw him before.”

Shayne shrugged and stepped back so Dr. Ambrose could get out. “If you’re all set,” he said indifferently, “I don’t see it matters.” He took hold of the doctor’s arm and walked firmly to the door with him without looking back. They had driven to the restaurant in the doctor’s car, and it was parked half a block away.

Shayne led him rapidly toward it in the cool night air, and asked, “Get what you wanted?”

“Oh, yes. Why did you do that, Mr. Shayne? How did you arrange it? In the name of heaven, why? I hoped tonight would be the end of this affair. I certainly don’t want…”

Shayne stopped beside the doctor’s late-model sedan and pulled the door open. “I’d get going, if I were you. I didn’t arrange anything, goddamit.”

“But that photographer.” The doctor hesitated, half in and half out of his car. “If you didn’t have him there… who did? Why would anybody want a picture of us?”

Shayne said, “I don’t know. For a moment, I thought maybe it was your idea. You not knowing who your blackmailer was and all.”

He waited stolidly, but Dr. Ambrose merely got in behind the steering wheel, shaking his head in a puzzled manner. “I can only hope there are no repercussions. Mr. Shayne… ah… I will expect a bill from you for your services.” He turned the key in the ignition and drove away.

Michael Shayne stood on the sidewalk looking after his departing car with anger building up inside him. Damn Tim Rourke, anyway! What in hell was the matter with the reporter? He’d never pulled a stunt like that on Shayne before. Goddamit! If he wanted a picture of the blackmail pay-off for reasons of his own, why in hell hadn’t he warned Shayne in advance? That photographer might easily have got himself shot. Shayne’s finger had been tight on the trigger when he whirled, after the flashbulb went off.

He turned and strode away through the night toward his hotel on the north bank of the Miami River, still boiling with rage at Timothy Rourke.

Everything had been beautifully set. Everything had gone off on schedule, without a hitch. A perfect blackmail pay-off… in front of a lot of people, none of whom suspected anything. Twenty thousand dollars in a sealed white envelope exchanged for the incriminating documents in a similar white envelope. Everybody satisfied, and the whole thing washed up. Except for the photographer. That might be a complication. And Shayne had agreed to accompany Dr. Ambrose tonight… as a favor to Tim Rourke… simply to see to it that there weren’t any complications.

He damned Timothy Rourke again as he approached the side entrance to his apartment hotel. He’d been all set for a quiet evening at home and an early jump into the hay when Rourke had intervened.

Shayne went in the side door and up the two flights of stairs, bypassing the lobby, seething with rage. He rammed the key into his door and strode to the center table and dropped his short-barrelled.38 into the open drawer before pouring four ounces of cognac into the waiting wineglass and drinking half of it.

The ice cubes had melted in the tall glass on the table. Shayne carried it into the kitchen and emptied the glass, put in more ice and fresh water. He sloshed it around to get it cool and drank off half the glass, then carried it back into the living room and asked Pete for Timothy Rourke’s home number. He listened to the telephone ring seven times at the other end of the line before hanging up.

Then he called the News and got the City Room, and was told that Mr. Rourke was not in and they didn’t know where he could be reached. Before the newspaper connection was broken, Shayne asked hurriedly, “Is George Bayliss around?”

There was a long wait while people checked. Then he was told that Bayliss was also out of the office, “Off duty,” so he was informed.

He held on doggedly and asked for George Bayliss’ home telephone number. He had to identify himself before he got it. Then he hung up and told Pete to try that number.

Again, he listened to the phone ring seven times without getting an answer. He slammed it down angrily, tossed off the rest of his drink and poured himself another.

He sipped the top off the glass so he could carry it without spilling any, and took it into the kitchen. He put water on to boil for the dripolator, methodically measured four heaping tablespoons of coffee into the top, and put a heavy iron frying pan on the stove with the heat turned high.

He tossed half a cube of butter into the pan, got out the pound of ground chuck and mashed it up in his hands, sprinkling both sides liberally with Lawry’s Seasoned Salt and working it into the meat with his fingers.

The coffee water was boiling, and the butter had melted in the frying pan and was sizzling and brown. He reduced the heat, mashed the pound of meat flat between his palms into a thick patty, and dropped it into the hot grease.

He poured the water into the top of the dripolator and drank half the cognac, got out a spatula and turned the gas flame high for a moment, then turned the hamburger and lowered the flame, and sipped at the rest of his drink.

He got out a dinner plate and slid the beautifully-browned-on-both-sides and still-red-in-the-middle hamburger onto it, carried it into the living room, and returned to get a mug of strong, black coffee.

He ate the entire pound of meat with gusto, washing it down with coffee, carried the empty plate back to the kitchen sink and poured another mug of coffee to which he added a couple ounces of cognac in the living room.

He settled back comfortably with a cigarette and the coffee royal, and let himself think blissfully about bed.

A good ten hours of shut-eye was what he needed. If it hadn’t been for Tim Rourke’s interference, he would have been asleep at least an hour ago.

He yawned widely and carefully forced himself not to think about Rourke. Tomorrow would be time enough for that.

He drained the coffee mug to its delectable dregs, got another cigarette going, and dragged himself to his