the banker decided not to believe Michele’s evaluation of Shayne and to take a chance that he was bluffing, a quick reflex action on Shayne’s part would destroy the truckload of drugs there on the street instead of at the Sanitation Department’s incinerator. Everything seemed to be covered. And yet-
His eyes fixed on the TV picture without really seeing it, he started over, and again he failed to find the loophole he was sure was there. The minute hand on his watch worked slowly around. He was still dissatisfied when the phone rang during the four-o’clock station break.
“Maguire?” the familiar voice said.
“Yeah,” Shayne said, swinging off the bed. “Could you make it?”
“Not quite. I have four hundred and twenty thousand.”
“Too bad,” Shayne said shortly. “Hang up. I want to use the line.”
There was a brief pause.
“Five hundred then,” the voice said in a resigned tone. “Where do we make the exchange?”
Shayne told him, then went on to give instructions on how he wanted the money packed. He gave a detailed description of the way the truck would be wired, as a precaution against treachery.
“So make sure you do it all by yourself,” he said. “You’ll recognize me. I’ll be leaning against the front fender smoking a cigar. I’ll leave the motor running. All you have to do is put it in gear and go. You do know how to drive, I hope.”
“One of those immense rubbish vans? Don’t be childish. Make a different arrangement, or I’ll have to bring a driver.”
“No,” Shayne said. “You can have a driver waiting at the corner of Tenth Avenue, but the transfer has to be strictly one to one. Take off the hand brake and put her in low. It’s right where it is on any manual shift. Stay in low till you get to Tenth.”
“Perhaps,” the man said with a sigh. “I won’t claim to be glad our paths have crossed, Mr.-Maguire, but I’m impressed, as always, with American speed and ingenuity. Do you care to tell me where you’ve secreted Michele?”
“I’ll tell you after you hand over the dough.”
“You made quite an impression in that quarter, it seems. Too bad. It might have worked out to your advantage.”
He hung up, and Shayne moved fast. He went out carrying his tie and jacket, and put them on waiting for the elevator. A cab took him downtown on Ninth Avenue and let him out in front of the Department of Sanitation Motor Shop at four-sixteen.
The big overhead doors were down. He knocked on a smaller door. Inspector Power opened it almost at once.
“Did he agree, Mike?”
“We’re getting the full price,” Shayne said, “and I think he’s bringing it himself. This could pay off.”
“It’s about time something broke right for our side,” Power said. “Let’s change the plugs.”
The big yellow truck Shayne had brought in was easy to pick out of the deadlined vehicles because of a bad dent he had put in its front fender by knocking down the iron fence. After replacing the three spoiled spark plugs, he swung into the cab and started the motor. It took hold with a roar. He pulled onto the floor, where Power was waiting with two one-gallon jars of kerosene.
“You’ll want to be sure of the connections, Mike. Open the side hatch.”
Shayne threw the heavy clamps. The side door swung open. The space inside was crammed with cartons, canvas bags and bundles of nine-by-twelve manila envelopes, tied with twine. He flipped one of the cartons open and pulled out an envelope. All the necessary information about the case of one John Gonzales, arrested two summers earlier for possession of narcotics, was entered on the front of the envelope in a careful clerk’s hand: the police code number, the name of the arresting officer, a listing of the evidence and the disposition of the case. Gonzales, seized with a broken eyedropper and eleven one-ounce bags of heroin, had pleaded guilty. Unless he had been paroled in the interim, he was still in jail.
Shayne shook one of the innocent-seeming glassine packages into his hand. He tossed the envelope back with the rest and shook his head.
“What a haul.”
“Here, Mike, put it as far in back as you can reach.”
Power passed up one of the jars of kerosene. A blasting cap had been fitted into the lid and sealed there with paraffin. Shayne paid out the wire carefully and wedged the jar into a nest of cartons.
“One would probably be enough,” Power said, “but let’s not take any chances.”
He handed up the second jar, identical with the first. Shayne placed it and jumped down. Power closed the hatch gently, leaving it unlatched so it wouldn’t pinch the wires.
The detonator was already tied in. Shayne took it into the cab with him.
Power pressed a button activating the overhead doors. Shayne drove through, parked pointing east and left the motor idling. The gas gauge was three-quarters full.
Power lowered the big door and came out by the small one. His movements were as deliberate as usual, but Shayne could see excitement in his eyes.
“That detonator. You know how to work it, Mike? Give the crank a couple of turns. There’s a safety latch, and you’ve got to give it a real hard push. Tim Rourke’s in a panel truck on the other side of the street. Jamieson’s in with him. Tim’s the only one who can see out, but all he has to do is say the word and Jamieson’ll jump. Try to work your man so they get a good picture of his face. Where do you think you ought to count the money?”
“Up in the cab would be the best place.”
Power nodded. “Just don’t push the plunger while you’re in there. I think the body is strong enough to contain it, but just the same.” He glanced at his watch. “Four-twenty-three. Not bad.” He looked at Shayne, liking and respect for the big private detective obvious on his lined face. “We’ll have a few snorts together when this is over.”
Shayne gave him a crooked grin. He leaned back against the dented fender and lit a cigar. Power went into the lobby of the next building. After a moment Shayne turned idly to look for Rourke’s panel truck. It was a battered maroon and white International, to all appearances a bakery delivery truck. The aperture for the camera lens was well concealed. Even knowing what to look for, Shayne couldn’t spot it.
The detonator was roughly the size of a cigar box. Shayne had it in a paper bag, holding it loosely in his left hand. After cranking the handle of the plunger, he was ready. Anyone who looked closely could have seen two wires coming out of the bottom of the bag, running down to the gutter and from there to the side hatch; but Shayne already knew that this was a city where people minded their own business. A block from the waterfront, there were few pedestrians, most of them looking like longshoremen or teamsters. Three out of four of the vehicles turning in from Eleventh Avenue were trucks.
Shayne’s big body was relaxed, his eyes sleepy, but in fact he was as alert as a terrier watching a woodchuck hole. The motor of the big truck ticked behind him. Trouble, he knew, could come from any direction. Power covered him on one side, Jamieson on the other, but he was relying mainly on the detonator, and he kept the paper bag in plain view.
He smoked his way through two cigars. He was in the middle of the third when the big rearview mirror on the truck’s fender showed him a man in a black Homburg and a well-cut dark suit, which made him conspicuous in that neighborhood. Shayne came around without hurrying, his right hand hovering above the mouth of the sack. The man was carrying a Val-Pack, an army officer’s suitcase. It was heavy enough to pull him down on one side. He was in his sixties, wearing horn-rimmed glasses. He seemed oddly self-conscious.
Shayne touched the plunger lightly, his cigar cocked at a steep angle. The man approached at a plodding gait. He was clean-shaven, but there were ingrained dirt specks around his eyes. Several paces from Shayne he said, “Mr. Maguire?” and thrust the suitcase forward.
His voice, high and squeaky, confirmed what Shayne already knew: the shadowy Mr. A. had sent a substitute. Shayne reached for the suitcase, and at that instant he was struck a blow on the left shoulder. The detonator fell to the sidewalk. He pivoted on the ball of one foot, his brain registering automatically that he had been fired on from across the street.
The man in the new clothes started at him in horror. He dropped the suitcase and turned to run. Power was on the sidewalk a few paces ahead of him. He fired. The man tumbled to the sidewalk, hit in the knee.
