same question before?”
“No, I don’t. And if you think for a minute…”
“A couple of times, Tim.” Shayne moved around in front of him and grinned happily. “Actually, we never did find out the answer because we never got caught at it.”
“That was years ago,” Rourke protested feebly. “We were crazy in those days. Now, God damn it, we’re grown up.”
Shayne laughed at him. “Maybe you are. Hell! I thought I was… until tonight.” He paused, looking away from Timothy Rourke. He was using the same arguments that Carla had used with him. Well, why not? He had been persuaded by them.
He turned back and said slowly, “You’ve got to help me, Tim. I’m really in a spot this time.”
“I don’t see why,” muttered Rourke. “Hell, it may be days before that guy Duclos has any reason to open up his trunk. He probably drives it to work… parks it in a lot somewhere. What’s the reason for going off half-cocked tonight? Probably be plenty of chances the next day or so to get to the car unobtrusively and remove… well, whatever it is you left behind.”
Shayne said angrily, “What if he has a flat on his way to work tomorrow morning? How do we know his wife doesn’t drive him to work and bring the car home for the day? Can’t you see her driving into a supermarket tomorrow and buying three or four sacks of groceries… having a boy take them out to the car for her, and her saying, ‘just a minute while I open up the trunk and you can put them in there.’ Where would I be then?”
“Well, where would you be?” asked Rourke weakly. “How could anybody prove the body was yours?”
Shayne stopped pretending it wasn’t a body he was talking about. He said savagely, “How much proof would the cops need? Right now they know I had possession of the car tonight. So far as can be proven, I’m the only one who has had possession of it since it was stolen from in front of Duclos’ house. Me. Mike Shayne. The conniving private dick who has a reputation for putting it over on the police. So they find a corpse securely locked in the trunk. No. I agree with you, Tim. That’s not proof of anything. But it’s pretty damn good prima facie evidence that your best friend knows more about the corpse than is good for him to know.”
“But you are in the clear on it, aren’t you, Mike? The guy was dead when you came into the case… the way I put together the bits and pieces you’ve been tossing me. There’d be no real rap facing you even if they did prove you put the body there.”
Shayne turned away from the reporter, took two short steps to the table and poured himself a drink. “You’re right, Tim,” he agreed in a conversational tone. “I’d probably be able to talk myself out of a real rap if I came clean and told them exactly how it happened. I might get my license suspended… or even lose it… but, what the hell? I’m not broke. In fact, I’ve been promising Lucy I’d take a long vacation. Maybe this is a good time to do it.”
He held his drink up to the light and stared at it for a moment with a frown. “The only thing is, Tim, in order to clear myself I’d have to tell everything I know about that dead man. And that would ruin a couple of innocent lives. Is that what you want? Or are you going to get off your dead ass and go out and help me steal that Ford back tonight?” He tipped the glass to his mouth and drank deeply.
Timothy Rourke said, “You knew the answer to that before you asked it.”
Shayne said absently, “Of course I did. All we got to do now is figure how to pull it off.” He looked at his watch. “Ten minutes after one. Let’s get the local portion of the final newscast and see if there’s any change in the picture.” He stepped to one side and turned the switch on a portable radio.
In a moment they heard a glib voice saying, “And now for our final story of the evening… to send all of you to bed with a chuckle.
“There was an old saying long ago that when a man bites a dog, that’s news. That may have become somewhat trite these days, but there are variations on the theme which still ring the bell.
“How about this one for instance: Detective found in possession of stolen automobile assaults citizen who seeks to halt his getaway and attempts to bribe incorruptible police officers who apprehend him in the act?
“Yes, sir. That’s the story that comes out of Miami tonight. Michael Shayne is the detective involved in tonight’s comedy of errors… or, were they errors?
“Mike Shayne in person. The redheaded, two-fisted, hard-drinking private eye, glorified in numerous crime novels and on television was accused of just that tonight.
“Involved in a minor traffic accident in downtown Miami while driving a stolen Ford sedan belonging to George Duclos of this city, the terror of the television screen went berserk and brutally assaulted the driver of the other car whose identity remains unknown in a frantic effort to escape before officers of the law reached the scene.
“Foiled in this attempt by Officers Ernie Hale and Eugene Barkus, veteran members of Miami’s traffic detail, this man who is licensed by the State of Florida as a private investigator and who is sworn to uphold the law, offered a cash bribe to the officers which was promptly and properly refused on the spot, and the redheaded, fiery- tempered Mr. Shayne was hauled into police headquarters with handcuffs on his wrists like any ordinary felon to face the variety of charges placed against him.
“Due to his influence with some of the higher-ranking members of the Miami Police Department, it is the understanding of this reporter that Shayne was later released on his own recognizance… with a slap on the wrist as it were, and an admonition to go and sin no more.
“It is a moot question whether this is the end of the affair. Perhaps there are two different sets of rules in the city of Miami governing the actions of ordinary private citizens and of extraordinary private detectives. We will demand and expect a statement from Chief of Police Will Gentry early tomorrow morning concerning the disposition of this case.
“And, now this is your roving reporter, Earl Hodges, signing off…”
10
Michael Shayne flipped off the radio and turned to Rourke who was leaning back comfortably with a satanic look of glee on his emaciated face. “There’s your headline for tomorrow. A real, good, juicy one.” He smacked his lips approvingly. “We’ll have to work up some sort of story to counteract it in the News.”
Shayne sat down glumly and sipped his drink. “Right now we’ve got more important things to think about than unfavorable publicity. What’s that guy’s address, Tim?”
“Duclos?” The reporter took a notebook from his pocket and opened it. “Out in the Little River section. George Duclos. In the two hundred block on Northwest Seventy-seventh Street.”
Shayne said, “Finish your drink and let’s go out to have a look-see.”
Rourke sighed and said, “I’m beginning to think you’re serious. Look. If we get caught at it this time…”
Shayne said, “We won’t get caught, Tim. We’ll just case the joint and see what the situation is. Shouldn’t be too difficult. All we need is a few minutes alone with that Ford.” He drained his glass and stood up decisively.
Rourke groaned audibly and followed him with feigned reluctance. They went down the hallway to the stairs, down those and out the side door into the night. Shayne strode directly to the reporter’s car parked in front of his and opened the door on the right side. “Better use your transportation,” he suggested casually. “Too many cops know my car and they might start wondering if they saw me prowling around that neighborhood tonight.”
Rourke went around and got in beside him. “Sure. Let’s take my car… and stick out my neck.”
Shayne grinned and lit a cigarette as Rourke started up and made a U-turn in the middle of the block. “There’s no law against you driving me around town. We won’t take any chances, Tim.”
“Ha-ha,” Rourke laughed hollowly. “Old cautious Mike Shayne. Sure. I know.” He turned east to the Boulevard and headed north. “You going to tell me any more about how you got yourself dragged into this mess?”
“I’ve already told you,” Shayne reminded him mildly. “This friend of Brett’s called me up…”
“From the Encanto Hotel?” demanded Rourke, hunched over the wheel and driving a moderate forty miles per hour over the almost empty Boulevard.
“From the Encanto,” agreed Shayne. “If you must know. She had a suite there with a corpse in her bedroom. Damn it, Tim. She hadn’t killed the guy. Her daughter had… just before she checked in from Hollywood. A sweet kid who’s scheduled to get married tomorrow. She panicked and left a note for mama and ran out.”
“How do you know all this?” asked Rourke cautiously. “There’s a good-looking dame who tells you a plausible
