SHAYNE HIT THE THICK GREEN TURF, swerved sharply around a corner of the building as two shots blasted through the window. He zigzagged through clumps of shrubbery to a quiet side street, heard shouts and the sound of racing motors behind him.
A department store delivery truck was parked on the street with the back doors swinging open. Shayne sprinted toward it, saw the driver with a bundle in his hand ringing the doorbell of a house.
He stuck his head and shoulders inside the back of the truck, eased the doors forward to cover a part of his body. Leaning far inside with his rear end and long legs fully visible, he pretended to grope for a bundle.
He heard one car, then another race past him. Footsteps coming down the walk betokened the return of the driver. At the same time he heard Peter Painter cursing and panting behind him as he trotted to the sidewalk.
Shayne put his palms on the floor of the truck and lifted his body inside, crouched there in the semidarkness while the driver sauntered to the back and latched the swinging doors, then got under the wheel and the truck started forward with a lurch. It careened around the next corner and went west two blocks, stopped to make another delivery.
Shayne held himself as inconspicuously as possible against the front end while the driver swung from the seat and went to the back for another package. Luckily, he was a methodical sort and had his bundles placed in order for delivery. He reached in and took one out without looking toward the front.
When he left to make the delivery, Shayne eased the rear doors shut, went to the front of the truck and slid over the back of the seat under the wheel. The motor was purring softly. He started the vehicle and drove away at high speed with the driver’s shouts echoing through the street.
He drove on recklessly toward the bay shore, though he knew it would be insanity to attempt to cross either causeway to the mainland now. Painter wouldn’t lose any time throwing barricades across the only exits from Miami Beach, and the truck driver, too, would have officers searching for the stolen vehicle.
He stopped a few blocks from the east shore of Biscayne Bay and continued on foot, reaching the bay approximately halfway between the County and Venetian causeways, an area dotted with fishing-wharves and boathouses.
Strolling along the beach past picnicking parties and the swankier docks with their trim fishing-craft for hire, he came at last to an isolated and dilapidated wharf which was deserted except for a single Negro fisherman who was preparing to embark in a small rowboat tied to the end of the pier. The Negro was gnarled and old, wearing a battered straw hat and a dirty pair of too-large overalls.
Shayne strolled out to the end of the pier and looked down at the little boat with its cane pole and tin can filled with bait.
“I reckon,” drawled Shayne, “you-all’re goin’ fishin’.”
“Yassuh. Nothin’ else but.” The Negro flashed yellowed teeth at him as he stepped down into the rocking boat.
“I betcha catch mo’ fish with that outfit than a man can get goin’ out on one of them doggone fancy fishin’ boats,” Shayne said cheerfully.
The Negro chuckled. “Yassuh, boss. I kin fo’ a fac’. White fo’ks messes up dey fishin’ wid too much fancy trappin’s.”
“I’d give fifty dollahs to be in yo’ shoes right now,” Shayne said wishfully. “Ain’t had me no decent fishin’ since I left Geo’gia wheah a man can lay on his back an’ jerk out catfish when he’s a mind to pull ’em in.”
“Lawsy, man, you could sho’ nuff be in mah shoes fo’ less’n fifty dollahs.” The old Negro’s mouth spread in a happy smile. “This yere ol’ boat an’ all mah truck ain’ wuth mo’n fo’ty.”
Shayne flexed his arms and yawned drowsily in the bright sunlight. “Wouldn’t be any fun fishin’ that way,” he complained. “Couldn’t get down an’ waller in it like if I had on overalls. An’ the sun’d get me fishin’ on the bay without no hat.”
An eager glint came into the Negro’s eyes. He rolled them at Shayne and said, “Rich mens come down heah and th’ow good money away with fancy trappin’s. This heah ol’ hat makes a moughty good shade fer sittin’ in the bay till they stahts bitin’. An’ I got me on some breeches under these overhalls. I th’ows ’em in wid de boat fer fo’ty dollahs.”
“I’ll take you up on that,” Shayne said. He reached for the hat which the Negro held out, tried it on over his bristly red hair. It was a size small, but the brim turned down to conceal his features effectively.
The Negro climbed out of his baggy overalls before the crazy white man could change his mind. Shayne counted out forty dollars and donned the overalls. He stepped into the boat, and the Negro untied the mooring line, tossed the end aboard, cackling, “Theah you is, suh. They bites mostly down neah the causeway wheah it’s deeper.”
Shayne nodded and set the oars in the locks, put his back muscles into the strokes, and sent the flat-bottomed craft skimming over the gray-green waters away from the shore line.
He settled back and took it easy when he was well out into the bay, letting the boat drift toward the causeway while he rigged out the line and dropped a baited hook overboard.
The hot sun beat down pleasantly on his bowed shoulders and he gave himself over to a drowsy mood of meditation. He had to take it slow getting across the bay. To row briskly might arouse the suspicion of police launches puffing officiously back and forth along the channel patrolling the waterway between the peninsula and the mainland. As he lazily rowed, watching complacently from beneath the wide brim of the tattered straw hat, careful to keep his line in the water, he was vastly amused to see a police barricade operating, stopping and searching every westbound car before it was allowed to proceed to Miami.
He refused to let his mind dwell on the serious position he was in. There would be time for cogitation later. A lot of thought was required now that his carefully dovetailed pieces of the puzzle must be torn apart. His mind had not yet fully recovered from the shock of Marlow’s positive identification of the girl as his wife.
He had been so sure! Now, as he rowed and drifted over the lazily rippling waters in full view of the energetic officers of the law, he cursed himself for having been so positive. Damn all theories until they were indubitably proved! More than once in the past he had disdainfully said that theories were for guys like Peter Painter.
He gritted his teeth and stopped thinking about it, concentrated on the job of fishing his way across to the mainland without arousing suspicion.
It was well after noon before he nosed the blunt prow of the rowboat into the sandy shore of the mainland a couple of blocks north of the County Causeway. There were some bait casters along the shore hopefully tossing lines far out into the deeper water. One of them hailed him with the fisherman’s call, “What luck?” and he shook his head, held up empty hands. He moored the old boat carefully, grinning to himself with the thought that it might come in handy again some day, then walked ashore and circled along back streets toward Rourke’s bachelor quarters in a shabby apartment building not far from the Daily News building.
He bought the regular noon edition of the News at a stand and glanced at the headline. There it was.
Michael Shayne Accused of Murder. Makes Daring Escape From Miami Beach Officers.
He folded the paper and thrust it in the hip pocket of his overalls and pulled the old straw hat farther down over his face.
There was no use blaming Rourke for the headlines. He had a job to hold. Grim satisfaction held his thoughts, however, as he warily approached Rourke’s apartment. With this headline on the streets Jim Marsh wouldn’t feel he had to withdraw from the election in order to ensure winning the money he had bet against himself. All Marsh had to do was sit tight and let the election go against him — as it would certainly do if the murder charge stood against Shayne, who was widely known to be his chief supporter.
A uniformed policeman was lounging against a lamppost half a block from the entrance to Rourke’s apartment building. Shayne circled the block and wandered up the alley pretending an interest in the contents of garbage cans. He ducked into the rear entrance and climbed two flights of service stairs. He held his breath when he came out on the landing, but there were no cops guarding Rourke’s door. The man in front was evidently placed there as a mere precaution, since the officials were positive the fugitive was still bottled up in Miami Beach with no possible way of getting past the police cordon.
Shayne knocked on Rourke’s door but received no reply. He took out a ring of keys. The first one he selected did the trick. He went in and closed the door.
The small living-room was littered with newspapers and magazines. Shayne looked in the bedroom to be sure he was alone, then toured the tiny bathroom and kitchenette. There was nothing to eat in the midget icebox, and the shelves were bare of canned food.
There was a full bottle of whisky on the kitchen shelf. He caught it by the neck and carried it back to the living-room, settled down on the couch with a pillow behind his head. He took a drink and propped the News up on his knees.
He had no idea when Rourke would be in. Generally, he was free in the afternoon, after the regular edition was set, but Shayne realized that there was a chance he might have been detained by the Miami Beach police after his own spectacular escape.
He was afraid to use the telephone to call anyone. The chances were ten to one it was tapped in the hope that he would try to call Rourke.
He took another drink and began reading the newspaper. Rourke must have written the story — or phoned it in. It contained a brief summary of the charges against Shayne, with the evidence against him scrupulously presented.
Shayne grinned. In writing the story Rourke remembered other cases which had been solved and tossed in his lap for scoops. All through it were vague hints that the whole truth was not yet known; that Shayne’s escape had not been the frenzied attempt of a criminal to escape justice, but rather signified the determination of an innocent man to gain a temporary respite to search for evidence that would free him. It touched lightly on Shayne’s attempt to prove the murdered girl was not Helen Stallings, skillfully avoiding any statements of a libelous nature.
He read every word of it with a twisted grin on his gaunt face. This had been a tough one for Timothy Rourke to write. He took a drink, lifting the bottle in a silent toast to his stanch friend.
The story about the unidentified body found floating in the bay was played down to a simple statement of fact, ending with a note that an autopsy would be conducted on the body to determine the exact nature of death.
On the second page of the News, Shayne’s automobile wreck of the preceding night was given prominence. That, too, he knew as he read it, had been written by Rourke. He didn’t call the wreck an accident, but flatly stated that it could only be regarded as an attack on the famous detective’s life by enemies who wanted him out of the way.
Shayne lay on his back with his eyes half closed when he finished the paper and concentrated on finishing the bottle of liquor. Dusk shrouded the room when he finally heard brisk footsteps in the hall outside and the click of a key in the lock. He lay as he was without moving, trusting to luck that Rourke would be alone.
He was. Rourke saw him stretched out on the lounge when he switched on a light. His eyes grew big and round. “Gentle Jerusalem!” he murmured. “I cart a dead body around half the night hiding it from the law and now I’m harboring a fugitive from justice.”
Shayne grinned and swung his legs to the floor. He found his voice whisky-thick when he spoke. “You might as well swing for a skunk as a weasel.”
“How the hell did you make it?” Rourke demanded. “Painter’s got the Beach tied up in a knot — stopping every car on the causeways and he’s got all the harbor police patrolling the bay.”
“Yeh. I saw ’em. They were doing a fine job, too. But Petey forgot about the subway.” He grinned crookedly at Rourke.
Rourke looked suspiciously at the whisky bottle, picked it up and held it to the light and nodded. “Pickled, by God. Drunk as a coot.”
“I’ve stayed too sober on this case. That’s what’s wrong. You know my brain cells don’t circulate without stimulation.”
“It’s time you got stimulated, then,” Rourke breathed explosively. “You’re really on a spot this time. Even if you manage to wiggle out in the end, the election is shot.”
“And I’ve got five grand on Marsh.” Shayne groaned.
Rourke sank into a chair and groaned, too. “I never saw one of your climaxes backfire like that one at the mortuary, Mike. What were you trying to pull? You had me believing all that stuff about Stallings switching girls. You even had Painter almost convinced. Did you figure you had Marlow bribed, or what?”
“Was that the way it looked to you?” Shayne sat sprawled against the back of the couch. He quirked a bushy red brow at Rourke.
“Hell, I don’t know. I never saw you stick your neck out like that before. You acted so damned certain I swear I thought you had everything fixed. Then — blooie!” Rourke made a hopeless gesture, sprang up, and paced the floor.
“What about Marlow?” Shayne asked slowly. “I left so hurriedly I didn’t have time to form an accurate opinion of his reaction. Was he honest, Tim, in saying the girl was actually Helen Stallings?”
Rourke stopped and stared at him in amazement. “So you did believe that hocus-pocus you were telling? You were stuck with it and expected Marlow to bear you out.”
“Sure I did,” Shayne growled. “Hell, every man makes mistakes. I thought I had it doped. I still think so. What I can’t understand is why Marlow fell down on the job. Do you suppose Stallings could have got to him?”
Rourke shook his head. “That girl is Helen Stallings. I talked to Marlow — had plenty of chance after you did your Houdini exit. He was all broken up. He couldn’t put that on. She’s Helen Stallings — at least she’s Whit Marlow’s wife, the Helen Devalon he married in Connecticut.”
Shayne’s gray eyes slitted. Mechanically he reached for the whisky bottle and took a swig while Rourke resumed his pacing, watching Shayne out of the corner of his eye.
Shayne set the bottle down with a thud. A fierce gleam came into his eyes. “All right, we’ll play it that way. If you’re sure, Tim. Sure that Marlow wasn’t faking his identification. And that’s just as good. Hell, it’s better.” The fierce gleam became a pin point of concentration. Shayne was talking to himself, gently massaging his lean chin.
He jumped up. “We’ve got to do it tonight. Right now. The whole story has to break before the polls open tomorrow. We’ve got a lot of things to do, Tim. That is, you’ll have to do most of them.”
Rourke backed away. He put out a hand as if to protect himself from the dynamic figure towering above him. “Not me. Wait. I’m in this thing up to my goozle already. Painter kept me over there a couple of hours trying to make me admit I knew more than I was telling. I lied my soul to hell and beyond. Don’t you know when you’re licked, for Christ’s sake, Mike?”
“No. If you turn me down I’ll have to take a crack at it myself.” His voice was flat and toneless. He lowered his head and thrust out his chin.
Rourke sighed long and audibly. He circled Shayne to pick up the whisky bottle. Pensively, he drained it. Turning slowly to the detective, he said, “All right, Mike. What do we do?”
“First thing is a trip to my apartment. There’s something there on the center table I need.”
“I’ll never make it. You know the place will be full of cops. There’s even one on duty out in front here.”
“Sure it’ll be full of cops,” Shayne agreed cheerfully. “You know most of them. Kid them along. Tell them you’re trying to find me for them, that you hate my guts and want to help hang me. And while you’re there, pick up a water tumbler standing on the center table. Drop a handkerchief over it before you pick it up. It’s got the fingerprints of the dead girl on it.”
“What do you want that for? She’s right over there in the mortuary.”
“Hell of a chance I’d have to get them off her. I need that glass, Tim. Talk about a fast one!” Shayne’s voice was gloating. “I’m going to pull the great-granddaddy of all fast ones. We’ll have them sitting up and begging, Tim. Get going! I’ll slip out the back way and meet you at the alley in twenty minutes.” He grabbed Rourke’s arm and propelled him to the door.
Rourke hesitated, then changed his mind about protesting and went out. Rourke had seen that ruthless look of driving intensity in Michael Shayne’s eyes before. It always preceded a feat of wizardry — and headlines.
Shayne was waiting by the curb when Rourke pulled up almost half an hour later. He jumped in beside the reporter. “Did you get it, Tim?”
“I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t. Alonzo Hiatt and Jim Sprague are waiting for you in your apartment. They’ve drunk all your whisky and started on the gin.”
“That’s not gin.” Shayne grinned. “It’s pure grain alcohol. Maybe they’ll get in a festive mood and invite the whole force up.”
“Where to now?” Rourke inquired.
“To the Beach.”
“The Beach? Damn you, Mike, Painter’s got the causeways blocked.”
“He’s not stopping cars going to the Beach.”
“Maybe not.” Rourke shrugged and turned the car southward. “It’s your neck.”
“I’ll hunch down in the back until you’ve passed the barricade,” Shayne said as the reporter turned onto the causeway. He climbed over the seat and folded his long body uncomfortably on the floor as Rourke sped onward, regretting that the human body was possessed of only two possible folding points.
He stayed there while Rourke slowed to a snail’s pace, then crawled back into the front seat when the reporter said, “Okay.”
Rourke chuckled happily as the police barricade was left behind them. “They had forty cars lined up waiting to be searched. I damned near exploded laughing when they waved me past. Would Petey’s face be red if he could see you blithely sneaking back into his trap!”
“Painter’s face will be red anyhow before this night is over,” Shayne asserted grimly. “Know where the Patterson Sanitarium is?”
“Sure. I was thinking about taking the cure there once. What do you want there?”
Shayne grinned. A relaxed grin of real mirth. He looked at Rourke and deliberately forced a look of cunning to his gray eyes. “Don’t tell anyone,” he said ominously. “But I have an operative planted in the sanitarium.”
“An operative?” Rourke took his eyes from the road for an instant to look wonderingly at Shayne, saw the look of sly cunning in his eyes. “By God, Mike, maybe I’m taking you where you belong.”
“S-h-h,” Shayne said. “It’s a dead secret, but I’ve got Sherlock Holmes in with me on this case.”
Rourke’s hands tensed on the wheel. “Now look here, Mike, you’ve let this thing go to your head.”
“The Duchess was murdered there last night,” Shayne went on in a low cautious tone. “I’ve got to get the details and report to the Duke. They’re going to try to pawn off a phony on the Duke.”
Rourke risked taking his eyes from the road once more to stare at the detective. He turned away with a shudder at what he saw.
Shayne chuckled crazily and sank back. He lapsed into silence until Rourke neared the sanitarium, then sat up and directed, “Pull around to the side or back. I’ve got to get in without being seen.”
Rourke’s teeth chattered when he said, “I’ve heard of breaking out of one of these dumps, but I never knew anyone who wanted to break in before. You’re still drunk, Mike.” He slowly circled around the block and stopped at the rear in the shadow of the thick hedge outside the ten-foot wall.
“Keep the kitty purring.” Shayne chuckled as he got out. “I’m liable to come back in one hell of a hurry.”
Rourke compressed his lips to hold back a protest, nodded silently, and let the motor idle.
Shayne worked his way through the intertwined limbs of the hedge with difficulty. When he was within ten feet of the wall he got a running start, leaped up, and grabbed the flat top and swung himself over.
Inside the grounds a floodlight showed some of the inmates circling about aimlessly in the cool evening air. Keeping in the shadows of palms and Australian pines, he stealthily groped his way toward the group, studying them hopefully.
It was difficult to distinguish features in the dim light, but he finally picked out the figure of a little man who looked familiar. He waited until the man wandered nearer to him, then hissed, “Audentes fortuna juvat.”
The little man came to a sudden halt and jerked his head in Shayne’s direction, then casually detached himself from the others and moved aimlessly toward the crouching detective. An orderly who was supervising them paid no particular attention to the self-dubbed Sherlock Holmes.
He stopped in front of Shayne on his short legs and shook his head disapprovingly. “You shouldn’t have come so soon. It’s very dangerous.”
“Sure, I know, but we’re too smart for the Gestapo.” Shayne rose slowly until his face was level with that of the short, wizened man. He reached out and toyed with the zipper of the shapeless garment worn by him — identical with the attire of all the other inmates.
“I’ve been wondering how you get these things on and off. Do they pull all the way down?”
Shayne snapped the zipper down as he spoke.
The little man gave a shrill yelp, but Shayne’s big hands pinioned his shoulders, stripped the garment from his body and wadded it under his arm.
The orderly sensed the struggle in the shadow near the wall and came running, shouting loudly.
Shayne sprinted away, made a leap for the wall, and threw his lean body over the top. He crashed through the hedge and darted toward the waiting car, leaped in, and panted, “Go like hell, Tim.”
Rourke roared away.
When they were a few blocks away from the sanitarium Rourke asked shakily, “What in God’s name did you do in there?”
Shayne spread the purloined garment out on his knees, folded it up tightly. The words, Patterson Sanitarium, were stamped on the back.
He said, “I was just verifying a hunch I had. Those poor devils don’t wear anything under these nighties. I left Sherlock Holmes as naked as a jaybird in shedding time and howling his head off.”