He said, “I’m going to make sure you regret that, Shayne.”
CHAPTER 11
Things seemed to be happening to Shayne today in pairs. Two attempts had been made to kidnap him. He had been handcuffed twice. Now for the second time within two hours he was surprised in the act of committing a felony. With the broken bottle at his feet, Kendrick bleeding behind him, five half-drunk cronies of Kendrick between him and the helicopter, he scooped up the bottle-neck and stepped back toward the desk.
Grady Turner, the deputy, was the first through the door. His face, usually, medium-well-done, was now closer to rare.
“You cut Judge Kendrick?”
As Turner reached for him, Shayne slashed the air between them with the broken bottle. The deputy followed the movement with his eyes, and turned to the others.
“Look at that.”
Moving deliberately, swinging his eyes back around to Shayne, he drew a.38 revolver.
Shayne said calmly, “Don’t use it, Turner. Kendrick doesn’t want me shot in his office. That would really bring the building down. He’s like everybody else-he just wants me on the sidelines until tomorrow morning.”
“Put the gun away,” the judge said. “Shayne, drop that bottle. Save yourself some grief. Grady, do you understand me? I don’t want you or anybody else to lay a finger on this man. I want a conviction that’ll stand up in court.”
The deputy lowered the gun slowly and Shayne threw the bottle on the desk. The sheriff brought out a pair of handcuffs, and again Shayne found himself handcuffed, this time to himself. Grady Turner pushed past the sheriff.
“Aren’t we supposed to have any feelings?”
Told not to lay a finger on Shayne, Turner slapped him with the flat of the.38, and the courthouse blew apart.
When the cloud dispersed, Shayne found himself facedown on the bare springs of a metal bunk in a four-bunk cell.
Time went by as he tracked backward, covering the trail of events that had brought him here. He rolled over with difficulty. He was alone. A fly-specked 40-watt bulb burned outside the bars. There was a short corridor, only two cells. That probably meant he was still in the same building, in the detention block, and the door he saw at the end of the corridor connected with the courtroom. He was breathing damp air that seemed to be covered with fur. He heard water dripping. His pockets had been emptied. His watch and belt were missing.
He forced himself up. As he left the springs, the bunk slammed up against the wall with a painful clang. Shayne touched his jaw carefully and found it swollen and covered with dried blood. He smiled to himself grimly. Going to the stained wash basin, he cleaned himself up as well as he could without soap or hot water.
Returning to the bunk, he slept.
He was awakened by the sound of a helicopter. It was coming in. Once more he went back over the night, remembering where he was and the part the
A door opened. He lifted his head, and his eyes went to his wrist before he remembered that they had taken his watch. The window high up on the end wall of the cell was still dark.
The sheriff appeared, looking ill-at-ease. He smiled ingratiatingly as he unlocked the cell.
“Shayne, you could fall in a privy and come out smelling of violets. You may not even be booked. The judge wants to talk to you.”
“I want to talk to the judge.”
The bunk came up and smashed the wall. Shayne shied. He wasn’t ready for loud noises.
The sheriff was holding the cell-door so the bars were between them. He decided to remind Shayne that he was the one wearing the gun and the badge.
“I don’t like the tone of voice. If you have any complaints about how we run this county-”
“I have a few.”
“If you have any complaints,” the sheriff repeated, “I’ll advise you to keep them to yourself. You’re getting a break here, and you better watch your attitude or you’ll end up with lumps on the other side of your jaw.”
Shayne pulled the cell door out of the sheriff’s hand. “If he wants me out, you’ll let me out, whether or not I call you boss. What time is it?”
The sheriff, his jaw muscles working, blocked his way. Finally, in a voice that seemed to be strained through flannel, he said, “Getting on to four in the morning.”
Shayne calculated quickly. They were half an hour by helicopter from Tallahassee. If Judge Kendrick had left the moment Shayne was slugged, he had had two hours to mop up anything that had been spilled.
“I know it’s hard, but this is all very unusual. In a couple more hours things will be normal again and you can go back to scaring people. Didn’t I hear a chopper?”
“Yes,” the sheriff said, biting off the word.
Shayne’s belongings, including the tape recorder, were restored to him. He returned to Judge Kendrick’s office.
Kendrick, looking really exhausted, was sitting at his desk, a thin strip of adhesive on his forehead. Jackie Wales, on the leather sofa, rose swiftly and came up to Shayne. “What did they do to you, Mike?”
“Nothing much. I barked my face on a.38 police special. Now I think they’re about to apologize.”
“Not quite,” Judge Kendrick said dryly. “You know why it happened this way, and I doubt if you’d get far with a suit for false arrest. I’ve been down to Tallahassee and everything seems to be tied down there. Miss Wales wanted to consult with you, so I gave her a lift back. Do you want a drink?”
“With some black coffee in it. The sheriff will be glad to run out and get us some.”
Kendrick looked at the sheriff. “Three coffees.”
The sheriff wheeled and made off, without trusting himself to speak.
Kendrick continued, “I’ve explained that you risked your life to drag a man out of a fire, and you were under considerable nervous tension. Fortunately the cut was merely superficial. The deputy who hit you has been reprimanded. Perhaps we should call it a tie and drop any further action.”
“The sheriff thinks it’s going to depend on my attitude.”
“A friendly attitude might help, Mike. Sit down.”
Shayne sat on the sofa beside Jackie and accepted a cigarette. “Has Grover been arrested for Maslow’s murder?”
Kendrick’s grip on his stick tightened. “Senator Maslow died in the fire. The fire was clearly accidental. Somebody dropped a burning candle.”
“That’s one theory. What does the medical examiner have to say?”
“It’s more than a theory. It’s now an official fact. Miss Wales, incidentally, was afraid I might have some undue influence in the medical examiner’s office, and she insisted on bringing in an independent physician to corroborate the cause of death. Maslow died of asphyxia, loss of oxygen resulting from smoke inhalation. His blood showed a heavy concentration of alcohol, more than enough to cause him to lose consciousness.”
“It’s true, Mike,” Jackie said. “I kicked up a storm until they let me pick a doctor out of the yellow pages. The only part I still can’t accept is the drinking. He was a real spy-nut-that’s in character. But he was also a nut on the subject of alcohol. He never smoked or drank, ever. The only explanation I can think of is that he wanted to mislead somebody about why he went to the party.”
The sheriff, making no attempt to hide his resentment at being sent on an errand, came in with three cartons of coffee, and Kendrick dismissed him. Shayne laced his coffee with some of the contraband whiskey and sat back, waiting for the judge to make his offer.
Kendrick said abruptly, “Of course you realize by now that Maslow was a blackmailer?”
“We don’t realize anything of the kind!” Jackie said.
