Shayne pushed the paper aside and chuckled grimly. He drank his second cup of coffee, paid his bill, and went out. It was only a block and a half to his hotel.
The staff and guests of the building gathered excitedly about him in the lobby, but he brushed aside their questions with the smiling assertion that he would live and that he was on the trail of the persons who had shot him down.
There was a lengthy night letter in his mailbox. He read it as he went up on the elevator. It was from a customs officer in Laredo, Texas.
HENDERSON ARRIVED LAST EVENING BY TRAIN AND CHARTERED PRIVATE PLANE TO CONTINUE TRIP TO JACKSONVILLE FLORIDA WHERE HE WILL MAKE CONNECTIONS WITH PAN AMERICAN AT NOON TO MIAMI STOP HE DECLARED FOR ENTRY ONE PAINTING VALUE FIVE HUNDRED BY R M ROBERTSON WHO IS WELL KNOWN IN ART CIRCLES AS IMITATOR OF RAPHAELS WORK STOP COMMUNICATE IF I CAN HELP FURTHER
Shayne unlocked his door, went into his apartment, and laid the message on the table. Everything was as he had left it last night. His first, almost inevitable action was to go to the cabinet and take a stiff drink of cognac. After that he sat down, uncomfortably, and lit a cigarette. Things were evidently coming to a head, but the pattern as he saw it didn’t make any sense. After a time he read the message carefully a second time, then got up and went to his coat in a closet. There he got the cablegram he had taken from Mrs. Brighton’s handbag the night of her death. Back at the table he laid the messages side by side and read first one and then the other while he finished his cigarette. Finally he got up decisively and went to the telephone.
He called a number and waited. A hoarse, accented voice answered. He said, “Tony? This is Mike- Shayne.”
“Mike? I read in the papers that you was dead, maybe.”
“Not quite. I’ve got a job for you, Tony. Get this straight. It’s plenty important.”
“Yeah. I get it, Mike.”
“There’s a man named Henderson coming in on the Pan American plane that leaves Jacksonville at noon. You can check on what time it gets in here.”
“I’m listening.”
“He may not be using his right name on the passenger list. I’ll leave a picture of him in an envelope in my mailbox downstairs. You can pick it up this morning. There’ll also be five C’s in the envelope. This guy has got a painting that’s worth that much to me. Get it from him and leave it down at the desk for me.”
“A painting, boss?”
“Sure. A picture. You know-painted on canvas.”
“What kinda picture, boss?”
“Hell, I don’t know. Maybe it’ll be a picture of a man, maybe a mule. Or a mountain, or maybe a Goddamned apple. He’ll only have one picture with him. Get it for me.”
“Yeah.” Tony sounded doubtful. “Is it a big picture? In a swell frame, maybe?”
“I don’t know. It may not even be framed. It doesn’t matter. Doesn’t half a grand talk?”
“Oh, sure, boss. I get it for you. No rough stuff, huh?”
“No more than necessary. I don’t want him hurt. And don’t, for God’s sake, let me show in it at all.”
“Oh, sure not. You know me, Mike.”
“Yeah. I know you. That’s the reason I’m warning you to go easy. This is dynamite, Tony.”
The voice assured him again that he would be very careful in carrying out the assignment, and Shayne hung up.
He took another drink, put the cablegram and telegram in his pocket, got the photograph of D. Q. Henderson which Gordon had given him and the two bills which the square-faced man had paid him as a retainer. Going down to the desk he got an envelope and scrawled Tony on the front of it with his left hand. Putting Henderson’s picture inside, he passed the unsealed envelope and the two thousand-dollar bills across to the clerk.
“Get one of those bills broken and put five hundred in the envelope and seal it,” he directed. “Leave the envelope in my box for a mug named Tony who will be in to get it sometime this morning. Put the other fifteen hundred bucks in the safe for me. Tony is supposed to leave a package for me sometime this afternoon. I don’t know how big it’ll be. Put it in the safe if it’s not too big-and put it some place where it’ll be safe if it’s too big.”
“I understand, Mr. Shayne.” The clerk took the envelope and the two bills.
“And forget it,” Shayne instructed further.
The clerk said he would, and Shayne went out to the hotel garage and got into his car. By devious maneuvering he backed it out with only his left hand, got it in second gear and left it there until he had passed all the traffic lights and was headed north on Biscayne Boulevard.
Then he shifted to high and drove across the causeway to Miami Beach.
At the Brighton estate he parked his car where he had on previous occasions, but did not go up to the front door. He followed the driveway instead, going along the south side of the house to the garage. One of the doors stood open, and he could see a car inside, but the chauffeur did not make an appearance as Shayne stalked directly to the stairway and climbed up to the chauffeur’s quarters.
He tried the knob at the top without knocking. The door opened inward. He went in and looked around. It was not a large room, plainly furnished with an old couch, several chairs, and a rough writing-desk.
Two doors opened off the rear of the room. The one on the right was closed. The other stood open.
He went to the open door and peered in at an accumulation of odds and ends of discarded and broken furniture. Grimy rear windows looked out over the Atlantic Ocean, and cobwebs were festooned on the ceiling and walls. A thick layer of dust lay on all pieces of furniture.
There was a small clear space directly in front of the door. It had been swept clean of dust very recently.
Shayne stood on the threshold and studied the interior of the room a long time, finally getting down on his knees and examining faint scratches on the newly swept boards. They extended across the threshold, and he moved out on his knees, following the dim marks across the floor to the outer door. They appeared to have been made by dragging some heavy object recently from the storeroom out to the steps.
He got up, dusted off his knees, went to the closed door and jerked it open.
It was Oscar’s bedroom, but the chauffeur was not to be seen.
Shayne went in and looked things over. It was furnished with a single bed, an old dresser, two straight chairs, and there was a lavatory in one corner. A closet in another corner held two cheap suits, an overcoat, a raincoat, a chauffeur’s uniform, and a pair of much-washed coveralls. There was a cobweb clinging to one of the coverall sleeves, and the knees were dirt-stained since it had been laundered. Shayne knelt stiffly and turned down the wide cuff at the bottom. Sand spilled out. Not dirt. Fresh, clean beach sand.
Shayne backed out of the closet, breathing hard. A wooden tool chest stood at the foot of the bed. It opened readily. Inside was a bewildering assortment of wrenches, hammers, hacksaws, and the accumulated nuts, bolts, and odds and ends which a mechanic tosses into his tool chest. Shayne fumbled through them, lifted out a cloth- wrapped roll which he untied and spread out on the floor. His expression did not change as he found himself looking down at a complete set of burglar’s tools.
He tied the roll up again, replaced it, and put down the lid. In the front room, he hesitated a moment, then went out. A deep scratch led from the doorway to the top of the stairs.
He started down and saw Oscar come around the corner of the garage. The chauffeur stopped and stared when he saw Shayne.
The detective paused on the bottom step and awkwardly got a cigarette between his lips with his left hand. He lit it as Oscar moved nearer.
Oscar’s face was a curious study in conflicting emotions. Fear and anger were there, but they were overlaid by a placating smile. He wet his thick lips, and his gaze was fixed on Shayne’s injured arm in its sling.
“Say,” he rumbled, “I didn’t do that, did I?” All of Shayne’s face except his eyes smiled. He said, “I don’t know. Did you?”
He stepped off onto the ground and looked levelly into the eyes of the man who had kicked him in the face yesterday.
“I-didn’t think so,” Oscar mumbled. “I didn’t see that your arm was hurt when I left you in your car on the causeway.”
