her talk. If you find out anything, call me on my car phone-you can get the number from the mobile operator. Or try Tim Rourke. It’s the only Timothy Rourke in the book. I want to know about Vince’s drug habit-how long he’s had it, how much it’s been costing him, if he was pushing the stuff himself. I want to know if he’s been having conferences with anybody out of the usual run. This thing took a lot of planning, and it wasn’t worked out on the phone. They probably had to run at least one rehearsal. Nobody I’ve talked to seems to think that Vince did the staff work himself.”
“I don’t think he did either,” Steve said. “He wouldn’t want to go to that much trouble. That I’m sure of.”
15
As Michael Shayne and Steve BAsS came out of the station, an automobile horn across the street was tapped lightly. The sound came from a white Alfa-Romeo. There was a girl at the wheel.
“It’s Theo!” Steve exclaimed, and started toward her.
“Steve,” Shayne said, and the boy came back. “Betty’s going to be out in a minute. Don’t lose her.”
“Oh, God, that’s right. Do me a favor-ask Theo to drive you somewhere. If she sees me going off with Betty at two in the morning-”
“All right,” Shayne said.
“And if you talk to Dad before I do, I’ve found it pays to get your version out before he says anything. If you let him talk first, he thinks he’s got to stick to it to show he’s the master.”
Shayne thanked him for the advice and crossed to the white car.
“Mr. Shayne,” Theo said. “Can I give you a lift?”
“Sure.”
Shayne went around to the other side and squeezed into the bucket seat alongside her. “I have to talk to Harry, and the sooner the better.”
“Mr. Shayne, didn’t Doc Waters tell you? He flew to New York.”
“I know that, and he’s in no shape to be wandering around.”
“He certainly is not!” she said grimly. “I didn’t approve at all, but do you think he’d listen to me? I don’t understand why these people can’t wait forty-eight hours for their money, do you?” She shook the stick shift angrily. “He made me so mad! Can we go somewhere and have a drink? If I don’t talk to somebody I’ll burst.”
“I left my car on La Gorce Island,” he said. “We can talk on the way. Did he give you a New York number?”
She started the motor, then hesitated briefly. “I have the name of the man he’s seeing. It’s probably an unlisted number. It’s-well, damn it, it’s-”
She told him who Harry had gone to see. Shayne swore under his breath.
Theo said, “That was my reaction exactly.” She put the powerful little car into gear, accelerated sharply and took a corner with an expert flip of the wheel. “They had some business connection years and years ago. Harry couldn’t think of anybody who’d have that much cash on hand here in Miami. And on a jet plane, New York is just around the corner. Harry called him-he didn’t have to look up the number, he just dialed it-and then we had a mad scramble to put him on the plane.”
All at once, looking straight ahead over the wheel, she uttered a one-word obscenity.
“Excuse me, Mr. Shayne. I don’t use language like that as a rule, but it seems to me the situation calls for something.”
“I’ve heard the word,” Shayne said. “When’s he due back?”
“At four-ten, depending on how long it takes him to get in from the airport in New York, pick up the money and get back. He wants to put the whole sum in Doc Waters’ hands before breakfast.-Please don’t look at me that way, Mr. Shayne. I really tried to discourage him, but nothing worked. I know you thought those drinks would slow him down, and they did. But they wore off.” She glanced at him, worried. “Did the police beat you up?”
“No, that dates back to early tonight.” He pointed to two lighted phone booths, side by side on a corner. “Over there, Miss Moore.”
“Won’t you call me Theo? Miss Moore sounds so-” She turned in to the curb. “How could I have stopped him? Doc Waters was less than no help. I didn’t know how to get in touch with you. Harry made a half dozen calls around town first, and they were angry calls. There was one person he was sure was lying to him, and he was about to sail out and shake the money out of him. How would that have ended? I thought at least he could calm down on the plane, possibly get some sleep. Up to the last minute I thought he was taking me with him. But he absolutely refused. We had to depend on cancellations. There was one, only one, and that ended the argument.”
She leaned forward to look in the mirror. “Mike, there’s a car behind us. It stopped when we did. Are they following us?”
“Just a couple of Painter’s boys,” Shayne said without looking back. “We can lose them if we have to. How much change have you got?”
She opened her bag. “I don’t think enough for a New York call.”
They pooled their silver. Shayne shut himself in a booth and dialed the number of a New York private detective named Hawkins. The man Harry Bass had gone to see was the elder statesman of the gambling business, an oldtime bootlegger and slot-machine man who had lost most of his real power, but was still a headline figure. Hawkins had worked for him during a contempt-of-Congress proceeding.
The New York detective answered sleepily.
“Think nothing of it,” he said, when Shayne had identified himself and apologized for calling so late. “I’m always glad to take a call from you, Mike. Nine out of ten times it means money in the till.”
“I just want somebody’s phone number,” Shayne said, and told him the man’s name.
“Jesus, Mike. How important is it? He’s always in bed by midnight these days-he’s slowed down a lot. And would it mean any trouble? Believe it or not, and I know what I’m talking about, in the last eight or nine years he’s been more sinned against than sinning.”
Shayne assured him that his reason for wanting the number was to prevent trouble, not to cause any. Hawkins gave him the number without further objection. Shayne waited for a dial tone and used a dime to put in a person-to-person call, collect, to Harry Bass. He read the number to the operator.
The phone rang over and over in New York. Finally a hoarse, rasping voice said irritably, “Hello?”
Immediately after the first click, Shayne heard a second, as an extension was opened. There were subdued noises in the background, low voices and somehow the feel of tension.
The operator said, “A collect call for Mr. Harry Bass?”
“There’s nobody here by that name,” the voice rasped.
The phone was slammed down with a small controlled explosion, but the extension remained open. A man’s voice said quickly, “Operator, who’s your call for?”
“Mr. Harry Bass.’ Michael Shayne in Miami calling. Do you accept the charges?”
“Yes! Put him on.”
“Is this Mr. Bass speaking?”
“This is Sergeant Fino of the New York Police Department. We’ll accept the charges. Let me speak to your party.”
“Cancel the call,” Shayne said, and broke the connection. In a moment he lifted the hook again. Finding the line still open, he left the phone dangling and moved to the next booth, where he used his last dime to call Tim Rourke.
“Tim?” he said when the reporter answered. “Do something for me. I know I’ve got a lot to explain, but I can’t take the time now. Do you know anybody on a morning paper in New York? The Daily News would be best.”
“I have an intimate friend on the Daily News,” Rourke said promptly, “but if you want to know can I trust him, it all depends.”
“Give him New York rights to those pictures your man took, and he’ll cooperate. I’m trying to get in touch with a client. I called a New York number where he’s supposed to be, and a cop answered.”
