cop strode into the police station by a side door and Ernie came around to him with handcuffs dangling from his fist. “Jest hold out your hands an’ we’ll try these here bracelets on for fit,” he said happily. “My gosh, I jest re’lized we ain’t even shook you down yet.”
“I’m not carrying anything,” Shayne told him. “You don’t need cuffs, for Christ’s sake. I want to get inside and get this over as much as you do.”
“Put ’em on, Mister.” Ernie made his nasal voice harsh and uncompromising. He snapped first one steel cuff and then the other over Shayne’s wrists and gave him a little shove toward the door through which his partner had disappeared.
Shayne walked ahead of him, inwardly seething but holding his head high. He supposed the damned fool was walking along behind covering him with a drawn gun. It was going to be a real triumphant entry for Ernie.
A short corridor led into a large brightly lighted room with empty chairs lined around the walls and the Booking Desk at one side presided over by an elderly sergeant whom Shayne knew slightly. Barkus was leaning on the desk in front of him talking volubly. Two detectives and a young reporter from the Miami News covering the late police shift were in a group near Barkus and listening to him with interest. The reporter hurried toward Shayne, his eyes bugging with excitement at sight of the manacles, and he whipped a wad of copy paper from his coat pocket.
“Are you really Michael Shayne? How about a statement, Mr. Shayne?”
Shayne said, “Get Tim Rourke down here fast. I’ll give him a statement. Call him, damn it!” he added sharply, and the reporter sighed and nodded reluctantly, fully aware of the close friendship that existed between the detective and the News’ top reporter.
Shayne moved on up to the desk, but Barkus turned and blocked his way, saying, “That feller Seymour ain’t showed up yet. You wait in here for a little minute.” He took Shayne’s arm and hustled him past the desk toward an open door on the right where he shoved the handcuffed redhead into a small room containing four straight chairs and nothing else. He pulled the door shut and Shayne was left alone.
He was left alone in the small room with his thoughts for fifteen or twenty minutes. They weren’t pleasant thoughts. He kept visualizing the owner of the Ford arriving to pick up his stolen car and unlocking the trunk to check the spare. How the hell was Shayne going to explain that? A dozen or more improbable stories raced through his mind, but none of them made much sense even to him.
When the door opened again three men walked into the room. In the lead was Detective-Sergeant Loomis whom Shayne knew casually. He was a sternfaced, middle-aged man in plain clothes, completely bald, with shrewd blue eyes and a reputation for stubborn honesty.
Ernie was behind him, looking a trifle subdued now, and not nearly so pleased or sure of himself. Behind the two policemen was a squat, swarthy man with a bristling black mustache. He looked nervous and uneasy, as though he would have very much preferred to be home in bed instead of here at police headquarters.
The sergeant nodded to Shayne without speaking, and turned his head to tell Ernie mildly, “You can unlock the cuffs now. I don’t think Shayne is going to make a break for it.”
“Like I said, I wasn’t takin’ no chances, Sarge.” Ernie avoided Shayne’s eyes while he unlocked the handcuffs. “All these years I bin hearin’ stories how tough this guy is.”
“All right.” The sergeant dismissed him with a jerk of his head toward the door. “You and Barkus get back on patrol.” When the door closed behind the traffic policeman, Loomis asked the swarthy man, “Have you ever seen this man before, Mr. Duclos?”
“Never in my life. All I know is them cops say he stole my car. Standing right out in front of my house. By golly, it’s a pretty pass when detectives start stealing cars right on the city streets.”
“A private detective, Mr. Duclos. All right. We’ve got your statement and you’ve got your car. No real harm done. We’ll call on you if anything else comes up. You may as well go home now.”
“What I want to know is… does he get away with it? Stealing my car! If that’s not a crime…”
“We’ll take care of that.” Sergeant Loomis turned him firmly toward the door and patted him on the shoulder. Then he turned back to the redhead and studied him a moment, the very faintest suggestion of a smile quirking one corner of his mouth. “What in hell is this all about, Shamus?”
“Naturally, I didn’t know the damned car was stolen,” Shayne told him fervently. He spread out his hands. “I just got conned, that’s all. I was driving up Third Street about twelve o’clock when my car sputtered and quit on me. I was late for an appointment as it was…” He looked at his watch ruefully. “And I’m a hell of a lot later right now. So I went into a bar there… East of Miami Avenue. I was going to call a cab, but a guy was sitting there at the end of the bar and he called me by name. He was pretty tight and weaving on the stool. ‘Hey, Mike. Howsa boy?’ or something like that. I know him, Sarge. Damn it. I know I’ve run into him somewhere. Some kind of cheap chiseler, but I’ll be damned if I can place his name.” He screwed up his face in intense concentration, then shook his head dismally. “I’ve been trying to remember it ever since I found out it was a stolen car. Right then it didn’t seem to matter. I just told him my car had conked out and I had to call a taxi and he pulled out some keys and said why didn’t I borrow his Ford parked right outside.
“Who in hell would have thought the guy was offering me a hot car like that? Maybe he was just drunk enough to think it was funny. How the hell do I know what he thought? I was in a hurry and I just wasn’t looking any gift horse in the mouth. So I grabbed the keys and went out, thinking I’d remember his name in the morning and get it back to him. I’ll certainly tell you his name when I do remember it.”
“You do that,” said Loomis drily. “You don’t expect me to believe that story, do you?”
“Would you rather believe I deliberately stole a car parked in front of somebody’s house?” demanded Shayne hotly.
“No. I don’t believe that either. All right. So you had a crack-up and cold-cocked the man who drove into you?”
“He asked for it,” Shayne defended himself. “If he’s got the guts to come in and make a charge against me, I’ll make him wish he hadn’t.”
“It appears that Mr. Seymour had second thoughts about that. He hasn’t showed up yet. So that leaves a little matter of attempted bribery, Shayne.”
“That was stupid,” Shayne told him flatly. “Even if I didn’t intend it as a bribe. I should have realized it could be so misconstrued, but all I wanted was for that cop to put it up as a bond for my appearance tomorrow morning. I was worried about being late for my appointment, and those two goons were enjoying pushing me around. I should have known better, but… I just wasn’t thinking straight.”
“Is this your money?” The sergeant put his hand in his pocket and drew out some folded bills. Shayne took them and counted five twenties. He started to protest that there had been ten twenties originally, but he checked himself. This was no time to stir up a fuss about a hundred bucks.
He said, “I haven’t got the serial numbers, of course. But they were twenties that I gave that cop named Barkus. Look here, Sergeant,” he hurried on persuasively. “Let me call Chief Gentry at home. You tell him what the situation is. I’ve still got to keep that damned appointment somehow.”
Loomis shook his head. “Why, no. I wouldn’t want to bother the chief this time of night. I know perfectly well what he’d say. So, beat it, Shayne. We know where to reach you. I hope she hasn’t got tired of waiting.”
Shayne grinned tiredly and appreciatively. “So do I. Thanks, Sergeant.”
He went out the door fast and was intercepted down the hall by a reporter from the Herald and Timothy Rourke of the News. The Herald man grabbed his arm and said happily, “We’ve been hearing all sorts of stories, Shayne. What’s the lowdown? You got your license jerked?”
Shayne pulled away and growled at him, “Talk to Sergeant Loomis. You got your heap, Tim?”
The saturnine reporter nodded with a grin. “Just so you won’t be forced to steal any more transportation tonight. Down this way, Mike.”
He turned into a corridor that right-angled away from the other, and a moment later they walked out into the night and he indicated his car between two No-Parking signs. Shayne got in and Rourke went around to get under the wheel. He settled himself and muttered wonderingly, “What in the living hell has been going on tonight, Mike? There were all kinds of rumors floating around the station, but I didn’t get any one of them straight. You kill somebody… or what?”
Shayne sighed and said, “Mostly what, Tim.” He got out a cigarette and lit it, realizing, suddenly, that it felt good not to have handcuffs on his wrists.
Then he said, “It’s a long story, and we need liquor to wash it down with. Can’t we get the hell away from
