recognized it as having been made by a small-caliber handgun, probably a. 25. Shayne, or Shayne’s car, was not the target.
The street and sidewalks were empty. There were parking spaces nearer the lighted WKMW sign; Shayne had chosen this one because he could get into it without backing. He stood up quietly, letting the door close enough to turn off the dome-light inside.
He was still a long way from normal. The sidewalk seemed to be slipping beneath his feet. He waited, holding the radio antenna, until he came into balance. After releasing the antenna, he waited another few seconds before he moved. He was very much off duty, and unlike off-duty policemen, he felt no obligation to intervene in other people’s quarrels. This was the main reason he was still alive, and reasonably healthy. But it seemed likely that this quarrel was over. One explanation for the two closely-spaced shots, one sharp, the other muffled, was that when the second shot was fired, the gun muzzle had been pressed against a body.
He moved past the station and on to the corner, keeping to the outside of the parked cars so he could go either way.
He stopped in the shadow of a parked truck, as near as he could get to the corner without coming out into the light. Diagonally across the intersection was a five-unit shopping center, a chain supermarket flanked by smaller stores. The parking space seemed excessive, and was probably rarely filled. There were two cars in it now, and several abandoned carts. Shayne studied the scene through the truck’s side window and windshield. The two cars were well back, facing the street. The shadows changed, and the rear trunk of one car snapped up.
It was a black sedan, with a license combination identifying it as part of a rental fleet. Someone was attempting to manhandle a bulky object into the luggage space. The angle was wrong, and the raised hatch concealed what was happening. The object was heavy as well as large; the person doing the lifting had difficulty getting it off the ground.
Suddenly a woman’s bare arm flopped into view.
Something fell and rolled. A figure emerged and moved to retrieve it. In the night illumination from the supermarket windows, Shayne saw a small man with a beard, wearing a light-colored fisherman’s cap with a long bill. He was in the open for only a second, stooping. There was something puzzlingly familiar about the slight figure, but he was gone before Shayne could pin it down.
Headlights were approaching. Shayne moved to the other side of the truck and waited, crouching.
In the parking lot, the man in the long-billed cap finished what he was doing. The lid slammed down.
Shayne lifted the pistol into the light, and was disgusted to see that the barrel was trembling slightly. He had already decided that he was too far away for an accurate shot. There was no nearer cover. In the ungainly, disfiguring cast, he was more visible than usual; certainly he felt more visible. The small man in the parking lot, now burrowing in the front seat of the rented car, would know he had been seen stuffing a body into the trunk, and he would hardly stand still and put his hands out meekly for the handcuffs.
The parking lot exit was within easy range, and ordinarily Shayne would have waited, and shot out a tire. He wished he had more confidence in his accuracy with his left hand. Making up his mind abruptly, he loped back to the Buick. His own luggage hatch was controlled by a release inside the fender. The lid rose soundlessly and a light came on.
Everything was carefully arranged. Reaching for a grenade, Shayne saw a spray can of luminous paint, and hesitated briefly. In the end he took both, the paint can and the grenade, tucking them into the elbow-bend of his sling.
He came back to the front seat, where he listened intently for an instant. Hearing nothing, he opened his phone and signalled the mobile operator.
When she came on he told her in a low voice to call WKMW and insist on being put through to Will Gentry, a guest on the Rourke show.
“Tell him there’s a black rented Ford in the shopping center on the next corner. If it’s still there, he’ll find a body in the trunk. And hurry.”
“Right, Mike, underway.”
Shayne heard a car door slam. He broke the connection and returned to the corner at a half-run, using his left hand to support the cast and the weight of the weapons. He was in time to see the fishing cap duck into the second of the two parked cars. This one, also a sedan but longer and heavier, was an off-white Olds, carrying scars from minor scrapes.
Shayne was bothered by the feeling that if he could get close enough to see the face under the jaunty cap, he would recognize it. This part of town was nearly deserted at night, and there was a strong possibility that what had just happened here had some connection with Rourke’s radio show, being aired less than a block away, or with Shayne himself. He placed his automatic on the truck fender. Moving quickly now that he had made up his mind, he snapped his cigarette lighter and sprinkled the paint can with the highly inflammable fluid. Using his teeth and his good hand, he tore a handkerchief-sized piece out of the sling, drenched it in fluid and tied it around the can with a shoelace. He left six inches of lace dangling, and soaked that in fluid so it would work as a fuse.
In the parking lot, the Oldsmobile’s engine took hold with a nice even roar. It moved out fast, grazing one of the derelict shopping carts and sending it careening away.
Shayne was holding his paint-bomb well back, ready to throw. The Oldsmobile rocked toward the exit. He noted that the front suspension needed some work. As it began to come around, he touched the fuse to the lighter flame, and threw.
Hissing, the can went up and out in a long arc. The timing was fair. But the Oldsmobile’s driver made his cut sooner than Shayne had expected, and his aim was a bit off. The can exploded ten feet from the ground, five feet to the car’s right and slightly behind it.
Shayne fired twice. Probably neither bullet hit the rapidly moving car.
He raced back to the Buick and jackknifed himself in. Hurrying, he knocked his elbow, and the pain was so bad for a moment that he wasn’t really conscious of starting the car. He left the seat-belt hanging and shot away from the curb, lights off, accelerating hard. He missed the moment for the first upward shift, and the Buick responded with a loss of momentum. Shayne bit down hard, to keep the pain at a manageable level. This would be a difficult pursuit.
The Oldsmobile had a three block lead, and was moving dangerously fast. The explosion and the shots must have startled the driver, and he would be startled even more when he picked up Shayne’s lights in his mirror. Hampered by the necessary changes in his driving rhythm, Shayne lost another half block. On a fast skidding turn into Biscayne Park and through it into Biscayne Boulevard, he came close to losing control. After that he let up slightly. It was much too soon to spend any more time in the hospital.
The driver of the Olds seemed to know his way around town nearly as well as Shayne himself did. He was heading for the Northwest-Northeast interchange, probably hoping that once he was out in the open he could run away, using nothing but speed. This was a mistake. Shayne’s Buick, in spite of its shabby exterior-it was never washed or polished, or withdrawn from service for cosmetic repairs-was powered by a Mercedes 4.5 liter V-8 engine with overhead cams, and cruised easily at 125. Shayne was at more of a disadvantage here, with the constant cornering and changes of speed.
He noticed that he was low on gas.
Coming up from a shift, he knocked the phone off its bracket, opening the connection. After shifting again he managed to retrieve the phone and hang it from the dashboard. His operator was calling him.
“I’m kind of occupied here,” Shayne said, his teeth set. “A call to Watson Park heliport. Either Larry Dietrich or a guy named Norman. If there’s no answer try the Yacht Club bar. It’s urgent.”
He went into the interchange ramp too fast. For a moment the heavy car seemed to want to leave the pavement in an attempt to fly. He came back with wheels locked and skidding, and nearly left the ramp on the opposite side. Less than a foot from the edge, the skid reversed. Shayne fought the wheel, trying to keep away from the brake. He missed a Yield sign by inches. Tonight it was the traffic already on the expressway that would have to yield for him. An oncoming car hurtled sideward. Shayne shifted up into fourth with the pedal on the floor. There were taillights ahead. The car they belonged to had a splotch of luminous paint on its roof. After making this identification, Shayne dropped back and held steady.
“Mr. Shayne?” the operator said. “Ringing the heliport. I gave Chief Gentry your message. The switchboard picked it up and it went out on the air. Is that bad or not?”
“Christ, I don’t know.”
