burly man’s chest staggered him. A second slug in his chest cut him down.
Leroy found time to trigger his gun twice. Both bullets went wild as a slug tore away the back of his head and sent him to the floor on top of Joe.
Gorstmann had not moved. He stood against the wall as though held in position by invisible bonds. Both his hands were in front of him, holding the four pieces of cardboard for which the other men had died.
Shayne caught a glimpse of Pearson’s set face as he stepped forward with heavy automatic extended. The racketing echoes of gunshots were still loud in the room when Pearson’s automatic spoke twice.
Both bullets took Gorstmann in the pit of the stomach. He clamped his hands over the wounds and the four pieces of cardboard fluttered to the floor. A look of dismay spread over his face, then the strength went out of his legs, and he slid down to a sitting position. He tried to speak, but the shrewdly placed slugs had paralyzed a nerve center and all he managed was a low moan before his head sagged forward.
In the silence that followed the shooting, Shayne said, “Nice going, Pearson. Like shooting dummies at target practice.”
Pearson looked down at the detective with compressed lips. He said, “I wasn’t taking any chances,” and stepped around a pool of blood to pick up the torn pieces of claim check dropped by Gorstmann.
Shayne dragged himself to his feet. Will Gentry confronted him. He said, “You shouldn’t have tried to pull this off under our noses, Mike.”
Shayne shrugged. “You can’t shoot a man for trying.”
“Don’t be too sure about that.” Peter Painter edged forward as he spoke. “It’ll be a federal charge this time, Shayne.”
Gentry said quietly, “It’s up to the government. You’re under arrest, Mike.”
Shayne said, “I had to take my chance on that. How did you come to be here, Johnny-on-the-spot?”
“You can thank Painter for that,” Gentry rumbled. “He tipped us off that you were planning to pull a fast one.”
“Painter?” Shayne frowned at the slim detective chief from the Beach.
“That’s right.” Painter caressed his mustache. “I suspected all along that you knew more than you were telling, Shayne. Someone sent me a marked copy of this morning’s Herald and as soon as I saw the advertisement I knew what it meant. So Gentry had you tailed when you left your hotel.”
Shayne nodded. His face was expressionless. He said, “Anyhow, Phyllis is safe-and she’s got a grand to hire a lawyer with.”
“Who are these three men?” Gentry demanded. He looked at Pearson. “Is this the complete roundup?”
Shayne answered first. He nudged the bodies of Joe and Leroy. “These are just a couple of hired gunmen-the same pair who stopped Jim Lacy on the causeway yesterday, but failed to get his piece of the claim check. They were taking orders from him.” Shayne nodded toward the slumped body of Gorstmann. “He’s the headwaiter at the Danube Restaurant on the Beach. I guess he’s the man you were really after.” He turned to Pearson.
“I presume so.” Pearson made the statement cautiously. He held the four pieces of cardboard fitted together in his hands.
“I’ve had my eye on the Danube for some time,” Painter broke in. “I felt that Otto Phleugar would bear watching. I’ll have it raided at once.”
“No need for that,” Shayne protested. “Otto is perfectly harmless. Gorstmann bullied him with threats about the Gestapo, but Otto came clean with the whole story to me last night.”
“I would say this closes the case.” Pearson spoke with quiet assurance. “These pieces of the claim check fit together perfectly and the serial number is intact. Checked through from New York to Miami.” He glanced at his watch. “There’s a train leaving in ten minutes. If I can get those plans and catch the train-” He hurried out, leaving the sentence uncompleted.
Shayne said, “Let’s tag along and see how things work out, Will. I’ve gone through a lot to get a look at those plans.”
Gentry nodded. He gruffly ordered the two policemen, “Bring him along,” and strode out behind Painter.
Timothy Rourke came racing into the depot as they emerged from the men’s room. His face was pale, his clothing disarranged. He slid to a halt in front of Gentry, demanding, “Am I too late? Listen, Gentry-I’ve got plenty to tell.”
“You’re in time to write the story as I promised your editor,” Shayne assured him. “I’m under arrest so you don’t have to worry about that angle, Tim.”
Rourke set his teeth and checked a scathing reply. He caught Gentry’s arm and began talking fast in a low tone as they went toward the baggage room. Shayne and his two escorts brought up the rear.
Pearson was waiting impatiently at the counter for reclaiming overdue baggage, glancing at his watch, and chewing his underlip. Outside the station a bell was ringing to warn late passengers that the train was about to depart.
A baggage man came from a back room carrying a shiny pigskin suitcase. He heaved it onto the counter and consulted a slip in his hand. “There’s some storage charges on this bag. Let’s see-”
Pearson grabbed the handle and swung around. “Take care of it for me,” he directed Gentry. “There’s not a moment to be lost getting this to Washington.”
Gentry said, “Sure,” but Shayne cut in:
“This is a lousy climax. How do you know the plans are in that suitcase?”
“Of course they are. They must be.” Pearson was hurrying to catch the train.
Shayne raised his voice. “Hold it, Barton.”
Pearson’s stride faltered. He half turned his head in response, then caught himself, and jerked forward in a trot.
Shayne said, “That does it.” He lunged away from the perfunctory grip of his guards, made a football tackle that brought Pearson and the suitcase down on top of him.
Pearson had his gun almost out of an underarm holster and they threshed around on the floor with Shayne getting a grip on his gun hand and another arm around his neck. He kept twisting and tossing, rolling about so that Pearson was first on top and then underneath. Hands grabbed at them and he heard Gentry shouting for someone to let him have a sap.
Then he heard the chuffing of the locomotive outside and knew the train was pulling away. He heaved himself on top of Pearson and wrenched the man’s gun away from his hand, ducked to avoid the vicious swing of a blackjack, and shouted hoarsely.
“Lay off, you fools!” He threw the gun away from him with a jerk of his wrist, reeled to his feet, and confronted Chief Gentry, who was boiling with anger for the first time since Shayne had known him.
“Put the cuffs on him,” Gentry ordered curtly. Then: “God damn you, Mike. I won’t lift a finger if they court- martial you for this. You’ve made Pearson miss his train with your grandstand play.”
“Not Pearson,” Shayne corrected, holding out his wrists for the handcuffs. He glanced aside and saw Pearson covertly edging toward the door.
“If you don’t grab him now,” Shayne said wearily, “it’s your own fault. His name is Barton and-”
The pseudo G-man leaped for the door as Shayne spoke. For once, Will Gentry acted before asking questions. He drew his own service revolver and bellowed, “Stop.”
Barton glanced over his shoulder at the leveled. 38 and stopped running. He shrugged and came back, saying, “Washington will hear about this, Chief Gentry.”
Shayne said, “I don’t think Washington will be interested. But the New York police are going to be interested in the contents of that suitcase.”
Gentry sighed and asked, “What are you up to, Mike?” and soothed Barton by saying, “Your train has gone now. No use getting in a dither.”
“Don’t waste time being polite to him,” Shayne growled. “He’s no more a G-man than I am. His name is J. Winthrop Barton, junior member of the brokerage firm of Gross, Ernstine, Gross, and Barton, who helped Jim Lacy and Mace Morgan steal a hundred grand from his own firm. If the evidence isn’t in that suitcase I’ll turn in my license.”
“Not a fed?” Gentry expostulated. “But Painter sent him over to me.” He turned slowly toward Peter Painter, whose face showed an agony of indecision and doubt.
“Of course he’s a G-man,” Painter sputtered. “I don’t know what Shayne’s up to, but it won’t get him
