“You’ve been reading too many comics.”
Perry said, “Strip him, Getchie.”
The Negro was behind Shayne. Shayne felt smooth metal touch the base of his neck and glide downward along his spine. Coat, shirt, and undershirt divided as the razor moved, the back of it cold against his flesh, while Shayne shuddered with impotent rage. It sliced cleanly through his leather belt, and his trousers and shorts slid down around his ankles.
Perry grinned and Getchie chuckled softly behind Shayne. Shayne set his teeth together hard and shrugged out of the upper portion of his clothing. It was impossible to move with his pants hobbling him. He stooped and untied his shoelaces, kicked his shoes off and stepped clear of the encumbering clothing.
Getchie was still close behind him with his razor, and Perry’s gun was ready, his eyes tight and watchful.
Shayne picked up the bottle of Scotch just as Getchie shoved. He sprawled forward on hands and knees, lifting the precious bottle to keep it from breaking on the concrete.
Perry laughed loudly. The Negro went out and the wooden door slammed shut as Shayne lifted himself painfully erect. He carefully set the bottle on top of the porcelain water closet and looked at his reflection in the small mirror above the lavatory.
The terrifying face of a complete stranger looked back at him. His gray eyes were humid and contracted, his hair and eyebrows were matted with the blonde’s blood.
Splotches of crusted blood were still on his face and neck, and his haggard features were set in a mask of such uncontrollable fury that it startled him. His swollen lips were drawn back from set teeth, and every muscle in his face was tense and trembling.
He drew a shaky hand across his forehead and forced himself to speak aloud. “Take it easy, guy. What you need is a drink.”
He turned away from his reflection, tilted the bottle, and let the whisky flow down his throat. He didn’t taste it as it went down, but it started a fire burning in his stomach.
His long rangy body was trembling violently as he seated himself on the filthy toilet seat and hunched forward, his elbows resting on his bare thighs.
A car started in the garage. In a moment there was a dull thud as a bumper was jammed solidly against the door.
Shayne didn’t move. He stared dully at the concrete floor and tried to figure his way out of this one. He’d been in tough spots before, but he couldn’t remember a tougher one. All because he’d done a guy a favor. What the hell was it all about? What was the matter with those two bills the pasty-faced man had given him? Were they counterfeits? How did ex-Senator Irvin figure in it? And Bates at the Fun Club? And the big blonde and Fred Gurney?
He took another drink and reminded himself that such questioning was utterly useless at this stage of the game. His present and very real problem was to get out and look for some answers. He wished now that he’d paid more attention to the comics-to Dick Tracy and Superman. They always had ways of getting out of fixes like this one.
He took another drink and looked around sourly. The walls, floor, and the low ceiling were of concrete. The only ventilation came from two openings about four inches square in opposite corners of the wall just below the ceiling. The door was a homemade affair, a double thickness of tongue-and-groove boarding reinforced with two- by-fours. He reached out and pushed on it. The door was solidly blocked.
His bleak eyes looked up at the ventilation squares near the ceiling. One of them was directly above the lavatory. He could hoist himself up on the lavatory and yell through the opening, but probably his voice would only be heard by Irvin and his gunmen in the apartment above.
He inspected the contents of the whisky bottle. It was still a quarter full. He drank two gulps and began considering ex-Senator Irvin.
It had been more than five years since Shayne had helped gather evidence on the sale of pardons to inmates of the state penitentiary. The investigation had developed into a nationwide scandal with Irvin in the middle of it at a time when he was supposedly serving the people of the state in an honorable capacity. There had been enough direct evidence to force his removal from office, but there had been a cover-up by other state officials and the trial had fizzled out without a conviction.
Shayne had neither heard Irvin’s name nor thought of the man since that time. He wondered what the devil he was mixed up in now. Counterfeiting, apparently. That could be the only answer to his curious interest in a couple of ordinary looking hundred-dollar bills.
He took another drink.
The senator had changed a lot in five years. Shayne remembered him as a pompous stuffed shirt. Five years had turned him into something else. What was it Bates had said over the telephone? “Put the big shot on.”
So Irvin was a big shot now, with gunmen and shiv artists to do his bidding. Shayne could still hear the soft purr of his voice when he said, “Hit him, Getchie,” and, as he remembered, a cold fear ran sickeningly over his naked frame.
He hadn’t thought about that angle very much. But, thinking back, he knew now that Irvin had made up his mind about something as soon as he, Shayne, had been recognized by the rosy-cheeked ex-senator.
Irvin knew Shayne’s reputation, and he knew a thing like that would never be forgotten. There was only one possible answer-Irvin had ruthlessly decided that Shayne would never be in a position to do anything about it, and for that reason hadn’t hesitated to have Getchie slap him around.
He remembered Irvin’s saying that he had to convince Shayne that this was serious business. That, thought Shayne, was a masterpiece of understatement. What it actually meant was that he didn’t intend to let Shayne out of the place alive, so the manner in which he was treated didn’t matter. They’d keep him alive until they checked his story with Slocum, the man who had rented his apartment. When they found they could learn nothing from him, they’d put the screws on.
He realized now that he should have put up a fight upstairs. He would have if he had thought things out clearly. The whisky was helping to clarify his mind and he excused his previous vacillation by telling himself he had been in no condition to think straight. His left shoulder and arm were of little use. Besides, he had been thrown off- stride by the suddenness of it all; by his complete lack of comprehension of what it was all about. He had been dazed and uncertain by the swiftness of events since he overheard the blonde talking to the freckle-nosed girl at the air terminal, and by the fact that none of it made any sense.
His mind was clear now, his thinking coldly logical. The odds were still a thousand to one against him, but they wouldn’t get any better while he sat and waited for the night to drag itself out.
He drank the rest of the whisky and turned the bottle over and over in his hands. It was a tall, round bottle. Better for his purpose than a squat, square one.
He took a solid grip on the neck and struck it a sharp blow just below the center against the edge of the lavatory. The bottom broke off neatly and clattered into the basin. He tapped the lower rim of the upper portion gently, turning it and working at it until three jagged glass prongs remained, then he studied it approvingly.
Except for a gun, he couldn’t ask for anything better, and for close work this was far better than a gun. The next thing was to arrange for some close work, preferably in the dark.
He stooped down and carefully gathered the fragments of glass from around the lavatory and tossed them into a corner. When he stood up, he knew he was quite drunk. That was good, for no sober, sane man would do what he was going to do.
He laid the top half of the bottle carefully on top of the water closet, reached a long bare arm overhead and unscrewed the electric bulb from the ceiling socket.
Feeling his way to the lavatory, he turned on the water and held the brass contact end of the bulb under the flow for a moment, then screwed it back into the socket. The instant the connection was made there was a momentary flare, then the water-shorted circuit brought impenetrable blackness again.
He gave another twist to set the bulb tightly in the socket, and sank back on the toilet seat to wait. Groping behind him, he got hold of his improvised weapon and hunched forward with his elbows on his knees.
It was hot and stifling and soundless inside the room. He knew a fuse had been blown, but he had no way of knowing whether it also controlled an upstairs circuit or only shorted the basement lights. He didn’t know, either, whether all the others upstairs were in bed. If their lights were not burning, they wouldn’t know a fuse had been
