except to Homestead Beach, a jerry-built, high-rent community occupied mainly by married non-coms from the air- base.
Ordinarily Shayne might have moved more discreetly, but he had used up most of his resources, and all of his patience. Somebody had killed a woman in downtown Miami, and had then travelled thirty miles to a rendezvous with somebody else. It was time to find out what was going on.
He pulled out, turning on his headlights after committing himself to the turn toward Homestead Beach. The station wagon was poking along, in no hurry. Shayne, on the contrary, was anxious to wind this up quickly, so he could resume the pursuit of the small bearded man in the Olds. He came up fast, blinking his headlights and mashing the horn. The Volvo eased over. Shayne swung wide, but as soon as he came abreast he closed in to the right and began to herd the other car off the road.
He started the move gradually. Then he twitched the wheel hard, heard a clash of metal and went back to the gas. After a quick spurt to open a gap, he activated the grenade he had considered using on the Oldsmobile, and rolled it out the window.
It exploded in the road, and Shayne hit the brake.
He was straddling the center line. The other driver, coming out of the impact area, plunged into a mango grove.
Shayne brought the Buick to a stop and backed up. Before stopping again, he turned his wheels to the right and aimed his lights at the wreck. The station wagon had struck at right angles. One rear wheel was off the ground, revolving. Dust rose.
Shayne picked the pistol off the seat and stepped out. Suddenly the Volvo’s door came open and the driver emerged. His heavy face was the color of cooked liver. He had a haircut out of the old Army, close to the bone. He was strongly built through the shoulders, but his stomach hung out over his belt, which cut into him cruelly. Shayne wanted to get through the night without further trouble, and brought up his gun. The other man didn’t seem to know he was there. He started walking away, but tripped on his own foot, and went headlong.
He raised his head slowly, shook it from side to side, as though to find out if anything rattled. He worked himself erect, spun around and came running toward Shayne, swinging his arms and moving in a side-to-side waddle, as though he had never tried anything faster than a walk, and he wasn’t sure how people did it. His eyes were pale blue, opaque, with a peculiar surface flatness. As yet nothing was registering on the brain behind them.
Shayne swung the gun in a short arc. If the man saw it coming, he didn’t react. He went facedown in the dirt.
Wedging the. 357 inside his sling, Shayne pulled the unconscious man over on his back. Something bulged inside the shirt. Shayne opened the top three buttons and took out a long sealed envelope. There was no doubt about what was inside. It had the unmistakable feel of money.
Shayne slit the envelope. There were thirty or forty bills, all seeming to be hundreds. He slipped the envelope inside his own shirt.
The man was wearing a metal plate around his neck. Shayne tipped it into the light, and learned that he was dealing with one Marian (NMI) Tibbett, USAF, Blood Type O, serial number 456-9994-07. His wallet, which Shayne checked next, yielded little information except that he was a master sergeant with twenty-two years service. Twenty-two years earlier, his home had been Stillwater, Oklahoma.
Leaving Tibbett in the dirt, Shayne went to the Volvo, where he found two things that interested him. One was a pint of good bourbon. Tibbett had been working at this and there was little left. Shayne finished it in two pulls, waited until he felt the warm surge, and continued his search of the car.
The rear seat had been folded forward to increase the cargo space. There was nothing there now except a few empty beer bottles and some torn green wrapping paper, heavy gauge, with a hard, shiny surface and a slippery feel. Shayne examined the paper closely. It was streaked with grease. He picked up some of this on one finger and smelled it. It was cosmolene, in which guns are packed when they leave the factory or arsenal.
Tibbett was breathing harshly, with a catch at the end of each breath, as though that one might be his last. Shayne broke a handful of ice out of the refrigerating unit in his back seat and applied it to the unconscious sergeant’s temples until his eyes opened and he said feebly, “What are we trying to do?”
“You had an accident, sergeant. Are you drunk, or did you fall asleep?”
“Fall asleep?”
“That’s the way it usually goes. Do you remember any dreams, like a hand grenade going off?”
The sergeant raised his head just enough so he could look at his smashed car. Comprehension returned slowly to his eyes. He clapped his hand to his chest and found that the envelope was gone.
“What’s the matter, sergeant?” Shayne said. “Have you been hijacked or something?”
“You bastard-”
He shifted weight, but before he could start his roll, Shayne kicked him in the neck.
He fell back hard. Shayne slid the butt of his pistol into view.
“Tonight I don’t want to wrestle anybody. I’d probably lose. If you try anything physical I’ll have to shoot you.”
The sergeant looked toward the wrecked Volvo and croaked, “There’s a jug in the front seat.”
“I found it, but I’ve already killed it. I also saw the paper the guns came in.”
The injured man was already feeling miserable, but now he began to feel worse. The flesh around his eyes contracted and the eyes themselves seemed to become smaller.
“Guns?” he said unhappily.
Shayne dropped into a squat to be on the sergeant’s level. “I took the liberty of checking your ID. The only reason to stay in the Air Force twenty-two years is to get that pension. And the one thing you’ve got to watch out for is a bad discharge.”
“I don’t know what you’re trying to say.”
“What’s your job on the base?”
“Headquarters company, sergeant major.”
“The Air Force wouldn’t like it if they knew you were stealing guns. But I don’t care that much about it. There are hundreds of loose guns floating around. A few more won’t change anything. I’d like to know who you sold them to, and how he’s planning to use them. It could be something I might want to get in on.”
“I’ve got a headache,” Tibbett complained. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, man.”
“Nine or ten new Thompson machine pistols, 45 caliber. Of course I’m just going by the grease marks. It could be something harmless, except why would anybody pack something harmless in cosmolene?”
Tibbett’s breathing was still ragged, but otherwise he was on the mend. “You smashed up a good car and stole some money. And now you expect me to cooperate? Tell me why.” He started a movement, but looked up warily. “Are you going to let me sit up?”
Shayne motioned, and the sergeant came forward into a sitting position. “I mean, be realistic. You can’t prove anything with some smears of grease. They keep a pretty tight control of weapons on the base, especially automatic weapons. You’re right, that’s the one rip-off they don’t forgive. So with twenty-two years in the service, don’t you think I know enough to be mighty careful? I’m in charge of the paperwork, I’ve got it down to a science.”
“This can’t be your only angle. If they get the idea you’ve been stealing, you’ll be watched. That might cramp you a little.”
“It might. What do you want out of me, outside of my money?”
“The name of the guy in the Oldsmobile.”
“I’ll sell it to you for half the bread in the envelope. Fifteen hundred.”
“No, Marian. I like money as much as the next man.”
The sergeant’s lips worked in and out as he considered. “All you want is that one name and you’ll forget mine, is that it?”
“I may not forget it, but I won’t do anything about it.”
“Let alone could they prove anything,” Tibbett said grudgingly, “I honestly don’t want those intelligence jerks blowing down the back of my neck. Not that my few little swindles amount to anything, because they don’t. I’m not one of those big swingers. The opportunities down here in this off-corner of the world aren’t too extensive, believe it or not, especially now that the base is more or less closed down, with the budget cuts-”
