“All right, Conroy. Step back from the car with your hands in the air.”
Before he had finished speaking the young man leaped at him. Perhaps he didn’t see the gun in Michael Shayne’s right hand, or perhaps he didn’t care. His rush carried both of them back into the vee formed by the front fenders of the taxi and the Pontiac, and the vizored cap went spinning from Shayne’s head, and Sutter saw his face and the red hair and realized for the first time who his driver had been.
He saw the rangy redhead straighten with his back against the from fender of the taxi, saw Conroy raining furious blows on his face and body, and saw Shayne swing the heavy automatic in his right hand against the side of the younger man’s head where it made a smacking sound in the night and caused him to stagger back from the attack, and then Shayne calmly measured him with a straight left to the jaw which sent him backward and down like an expertly axed ox.
Shayne leaned down over him and impassively picked up the bulky envelope which had fallen from his fingers, and stepped to the open door of the taxi and leaned in to proffer it to the shaking attorney.
“Let’s get this part of our business finished before Conroy comes around or anyone else turns up to start asking questions. Hand over the two envelopes you’ve got.”
“But… but…” stammered Sutter.
“No goddamned buts. I’ll take the money. See if your stuff is all in here.”
Dazed and bewildered and frightened, Sutter hesitantly withdrew the two envelopes containing currency from his pocket and silently passed them over to the detective and seized the envelope Shayne had taken from Conroy in return.
Shayne stepped back a pace and hastily thumbed through the contents of both envelopes, then wadded the money into his pocket and turned to kneel beside Conroy who was beginning to stir and groan on the pavement.
14
He lifted the lax figure of the secretary as easily as he would have lifted a rag doll, and draped him forward, face down, across the front fender and hood of the Pontiac while he shook him down carefully for a weapon.
He found no weapon, but in his right-hand jacket pocket Shayne encountered a key with a heavy metal tab attached to it which he took out and held up to the light. The key had the number 25 stamped on it, and the metal tag was inscribed: Motel Biscay Rest, with an address on Biscayne Boulevard north of 79th Street.
Shayne turned it over and over questioningly in his hands, then scowled down at Conroy’s unconscious body. He dropped the motel key in his own pocket and checked the man’s pulse, found it was strong but irregular, and that his breathing was steady.
He turned his head as the New York attorney emerged from the back seat of the taxi, and exclaimed, “You certainly did give me a surprise, Shayne. I had no idea you were impersonating the driver. Is the young man hurt badly?”
“Just knocked out. He’ll come around soon enough. You get your stuff all right?”
“Yes. All the papers seem to be in order. What are you going to do with Conroy? Will he have to be charged with attempted blackmail, with me subpoenaed as a witness? After all no harm has really been done. I have the papers I came for. If this entire affair can possibly be kept quiet you will be doing my firm and our client a great service, and I assure you that adequate payment will be made.”
“I’ve got a fairly adequate payment in my pocket already,” Shayne told him bluntly. “I’ll consider that my fee if I can keep this quiet. Unfortunately, though, it may be evidence against Conroy for murder, and you may be required to testify.”
“Murder? I don’t understand. I thought that was all settled.”
“I told you things had changed. Here’s what I advise you to do,” Shayne went on swiftly. “Can you drive Conroy’s car?”
“I presume so. It seems a standard model.”
“Then get back to your hotel right away. No. You’d better stop some place. At another hotel lobby on the way where you can address that envelope and get some stamps for it. Put it in the mail for New York before you go to the Costain. Then leave the Pontiac parked a block or so away and go in and straight up to your room. The cops will either be waiting for you, or they’ll be around soon. They’ll be asking you questions about the period you were in the Ames house before he was shot, but we’ll hope they have no lead on this and won’t question you. Don’t volunteer anything. Be evasive about where you’ve been since checking in at the Costain. If I can clear up Ames’ murder in the meantime, there’s no reason this blackmail caper has to enter into it. Just sit tight and hope you’ll be allowed to take a morning plane to New York. Get in that car and drive it away so I can get out of here,” he went on gruffly, turning back to Conroy and getting the limp body onto his shoulder.
He carried the man around to the other side of the taxi and thrust him into the front seat where he huddled down in a crumpled heap, breathing stertorously but with his eyes still tightly closed.
Sutter was behind the steering wheel of the Pontiac starting the motor when Shayne hurried around and got into the cab. He got the other car moving, and headed sedately southward toward downtown Miami, and Shayne made a left turn in the taxi at the next corner and drove to Biscayne Boulevard where he turned north.
Victor Conroy began to stir and make funny noises, and try to lift his head on the seat beside him. Shayne watched him out of the corner of his eye while he drove at moderate speed in the right-hand lane of the almost deserted Boulevard. They were past 79th when Conroy managed to pull himself up and turn his head and blink dazedly at his companion.
“Wha… where are we? What happened?” he managed to blurt out. “You’re… Mike Shayne, by God. You were driving that cab. I remember now.”
“Keep right on remembering,” Shayne said grimly. “You’ve got a lot of talking to do, Conroy.” Ahead of them on the right, a high, arched neon sign spelled out BISCAY REST, and beneath that in smaller letters, Sorry-No Vacancy.
“My head,” moaned Conroy, hunching forward and trying to retch, putting both hands up to his forehead. “What did you hit me with?”
“First a gun and then my fist,” Shayne told him stolidly. He slowed to turn in to the motel entrance, drove past the darkened office to a U-shaped courtyard lined on three sides with connecting motel units. Parked cars stood in front of most of the doors, and at least ninety percent of the units were dark. Shayne checked the numbers on the doors and found 25 with an empty parking space in front of it and a night light on over the door.
Conroy lifted his head from his hands to look around apprehensively when the taxi stopped and Shayne cut off the motor. “Where are we?” he demanded, his voice thin with rising hysteria.
“End of the line,” Shayne told him. “I think I’m about to pin a murder rap on you… maybe two.” He leaned past him to unlatch the door, shoved him out roughly with a firm grip on his left arm.
“I didn’t… kill anybody,” stammered Conroy with his teeth chattering. “You’ve got it all wrong. He was dead when I went in there. I swear he was.”
Shayne said, “Shut up. First we’re going to take a look in number twenty-five. Then you can start talking.”
He put the motel key in the lock and turned it, opened the door and dragged Conroy inside and pressed a wall switch by the door.
Overhead light showed a double bed and the figure of a woman lying on her back with arms outstretched. She was fully dressed and her eyes were closed and her face was very white.
It was Dorothy Larson.
Shayne shoved Conroy across the room away from him with such force that he struck the wall and slid to the floor. He jerked the door shut and bolted it and then took two strides to the side of the bed where he picked up one of Dorothy’s wrists. It was limp, but it was warm, and there was a strong, steady pulse. She appeared to be in a deep, drugged sleep, but her lips came apart and she moaned faintly as Shayne bent over her, and her eyelids fluttered and then rested shut again.
Shayne straightened up and turned on Conroy who was picking himself up from the floor. “What did you use to knock her out?”
