“Mr. Bronson said, ‘I’m in a tight place and I need your help. A private detective named Shayne is threatening to blackmail me over a certain matter and he wants twenty-five thousand. Can you let me have it?’
“Mr. Brenner said, ‘I see. Maybe I can take care of it for you a lot easier than that.’
“Mr. Bronson said, ‘I have to give him an answer at one o’clock. I’ll depend on you.’
“Mr. Brenner said, ‘Call me later,’ and hung up.”
“Did Bronson call him later?” Shayne asked.
“No. But he left the office about three o’clock and was gone over an hour.” Minerva hesitated, looking up from her notes and studying Shayne with shrewd and alert eyes. “If you’re using Mr. Rourke’s trouble to blackmail Mr. Bronson I shall report you to the police.”
Shayne grinned. “You know me better than that, Minerva.”
With her eyes intently studying him she said, “I know Mr. Rourke trusted you,” acidly. “If you’re not worthy of that trust I shan’t hesitate to see you arrested.”
“There should be a later call that proves I’m not the blackmailer. At two-forty-six.”
“You seem to know a great deal about these calls,” she said with suspicion.
“I’m a detective-remember?” Shayne chuckled.
“I don’t think it was your voice,” she admitted. “I don’t think you could make your voice drawl like that. He asked for Mr. Bronson and said, ‘This is Colt talking. I just saw your ad.’
“He waited a moment and Mr. Bronson said, ‘Yes?’
“And he said, ‘Listen close because I’m only going to say this once. Leave your house at exactly nine tonight with the stuff. Alone in your car. Drive north on Ocean Boulevard about twenty miles an hour. Keep driving north until I pull up alongside your car. You’ll be watched every minute from the time you leave home, so don’t try to pull anything.’ And he hung up before Mr. Bronson could say another word.”
Shayne asked, “And Bronson left the office shortly afterward?”
“That’s right.” She nodded her head vigorously, “What does it mean, Mr. Shayne? What connection is there between Mr. Bronson and that Brenner man?”
“Bronson was doing his best to keep Rourke’s expose of the gambling out of the paper,” Shayne told her. “This dope of yours is just what I needed, Minerva. We’re going to wind up this case tonight.”
“Well-I’m glad if I’ve helped,” she said, but there was still uncertainty in her tone. She got up and went into the bedroom.
Shayne went to the telephone and called Chief Gentry’s office. When the chief answered, Shayne said, “I’m getting ready to wrap things up tonight. All I need is a little help.”
“Okay, Mike.”
“Keep your man on Smith, and you’d better put another one on him too. He’ll drive over to the Beach sometime before nine o’clock. Let him get across the Causeway and then pull in on him. Warn your men he’ll have a thirty-two on him. It’s important. Have them deliver Smith straight to Painter and suggest he run a test on the gun.”
“I’m listening,” said Gentry dryly.
“That’s all. Painter can hold him on a concealed weapon charge until he checks the gun. That ought to give him a better charge.”
“Got it, Mike. Now, here’s something for you. I have a wire from Denver, Colorado.”
“Good.”
“It’s not so good,” Gentry warned him soberly. “They picked up Miss Betty Green all right, but she’s not a blonde. And she claims she hasn’t been in Miami for two years and can prove it. She never heard of Dillingham Smith, never lived at the LaCrosse, and doesn’t know anything about anything.”
“How does she explain the trunk? And have they got it?”
“She claims she never had a trunk in Miami and never lived at the address it was sent to, and can prove it.”
“Nuts,” said Shayne. “That sounds like a stall. Have them hold her while they check her story.”
“And get this, Mike. Miss Betty Green is a brunette. You claim there’s nothing but blondes in this case.” Gentry sent a chuckle over the wire.
Shayne sent back a chuckle that was heavy with sarcasm. “She wouldn’t be the first dame to dye her hair when she got tired of being a blonde-or when she was hiding out from the law. Have Denver see about her coming back to Florida as a witness.”
“Okay-if you say so, Mike. It sounds screwy to me.”
“It is,” Shayne agreed. “Screwy as hell, Will. Don’t let your men lose Smith.” He hung up and turned to see Minerva coming in the room dressed in a gaily flowered dress, minus her glasses, and her cheeks and lips delicately rouged.
Shayne looked her over with twinkling eyes. “Why, Minerva! Come on-let’s get going somewhere where I can show you off.”
“Let’s get going and get something to eat,” she answered primly.
Chapter Sixteen: TANGLED TALES
At a quarter of nine, Michael Shayne was parked on Ocean Boulevard two blocks north of Bronson’s house. His car motor and lights were off, and he was headed north. He sat sprawled behind the wheel, his hat well down over his eyes, his lips puffing on a cigarette and his mind at peace with the world.
The cards were all dealt and all that now remained was to play them. By now, Dillingham Smith should be in the custody of the police, along with Bronson’s automatic. There was nothing to do but wait for things to pop.
A yellow moon hung like a festive lantern in the dark-blue sky, shedding its light on swaying palm fronds and brightening the spray of ocean breakers. A fresh and humid breeze blew through the open car windows, refreshing and cooling his weary body.
In the rearview mirror he saw the headlights of a limousine turn onto the shoreline drive two blocks behind him. He glanced at his watch. It was two minutes after nine.
Shayne ducked lower in the seat, watching the roadway at his left from under the brim of his hat. The limousine went by with Walter Bronson sitting erect behind the wheel and looking straight ahead. He appeared to be alone and drove at slow speed in accordance with Smith’s telephoned orders.
When the car was a block away, he got out and walked half a block to a filling-station. He called Miami Beach police headquarters and said in a gruff voice, “Here’s a tip-off for Chief Painter. That private dick named Mike Shayne is up to something phony. He’s cruising north on Ocean Boulevard in a coupe loaned him by the Miami police and there’s going to be trouble. Better have him tailed by a prowl car in case he tries to pull a fast one.” He hung up and went back to his car and pulled out on the street.
He drove slowly, at slightly more than twenty miles an hour. Soon after he passed the Roney Plaza he noted the headlights of a car that had come up fast and then slowed to drop behind him. Though his police coupe was unmarked, he knew its license number could be recognized as official by any member of the local police force, and he was quite sure the trailing headlights belonged to a Beach radio car.
He increased his speed slightly and presently came up behind Bronson’s limousine crawling along at the designated speed. He stayed behind until there was a long stretch of open road and sped up to come abreast of the big car. He saw Bronson glance aside and recognize him just as he swerved the coupe into the left front fender of the limousine.
There was a grinding crash, the screeching of brakes as both cars slid off the pavement into a shallow ditch alongside. Shayne had his left door open and he hit the dirt before the cars were quite stopped. He darted around the coupe in time to see the back door of the limousine flung open and two figures lunge out with moonlight glinting on blued steel in their hands.
Dropping to the ground, Shayne snapped a shot at the bulkier figure as the police car jerked up behind him and a spotlight threw its glaring beam on the scene.
The light silhouetted Bing standing erect with a snarl of rage on his lips and a. 45 in his hand. Monk was already slithering to the ground with Shayne’s slug in his belly.
