The Violent World of Michael Shayne (10 page)

He snapped awake. The car seemed to start itself and glide away from the curb with no help from Shayne. He was finally beginning to adjust to Washington’s pattern of avenues and circles. A short drive north brought him to the Capitol, and after that it was no problem to find Connecticut Avenue and the Park Plaza Hotel. Leaving the Ford double-parked, he asked at the desk if Senator Wall was in. Again the answer was no.

He lit a cigarette after getting back in his car. At some point, he knew, Bixler had stopped telling the truth and started lying. He had sold one set of facts to Shayne, another to Senator Wall. In spite of his denials, had he sold still a third to Toby?

The detective smoked the cigarette down to the stub before deciding that, late as it was, he had to tell Hitchcock what he had learned. Bixler had worked for Hitchcock’s committee. If he had been dealing with Toby, Hitchcock should know about it. Not in the morning, but right now.

Sighing, Shayne tried to get his bearings. He turned the wrong way on Massachusetts Avenue, realizing his mistake after several blocks. He was relieved to see the big mounted statue of General Sheridan. He knew his way from there.

He was surprised to see the lights still on in Hitchcock’s house. As he slowed, he heard a car door slam. Fully awake now, he accelerated, cut in sharply, then slammed on his brakes. The car that was backing out of the Hitchcock driveway, a big station wagon, slithered to a stop inches away from his front fender.

A woman wearing dark glasses, with a scarf tied over her hair, craned out the window. “Move your car, please,” she said, in a voice that showed she was used to having her suggestions followed. “You’re blocking me.”

Shayne got out to look the situation over. “Yeah, you’re right.”

She raced her motor angrily. “Do you want me to ram into you?”

“That might work,” Shayne admitted. “Your car’s heavier than mine.”

“Is this some kind of joke?” she demanded. “Move out of my way this instant or I’ll call the police.”

“You wouldn’t really do that,” the redhead said politely. “Would you mind taking off your dark glasses? I just want to be sure you’re Mrs. Redpath before I say the wrong thing.”

She took out her feelings on the motor, racing it violently. “Damn it, you only saw me for ten minutes. It’s dark, and I hoped you wouldn’t recognize me. Please, Mr. Shayne, I can’t talk to you now.”

Shayne grinned at her. “You were friendlier the last time I saw you. You even said you’d help if there was anything I didn’t understand. Mrs. Redpath, there’s hardly anything I
do
understand.”

“I said that hours and hours and hours ago.” Her voice climbed.
“Will you get out of my way?”

Shayne went on grinning. “I’ve been wondering what your husband did for Sam Toby on that Manners contract, and why. That’s what you’ve been talking to Hitchcock about, isn’t it?”

She managed to control herself, but the effort showed. She took off her dark glasses.

“I understand you’ve been doing all right without any help.” Drawing a quick breath, she produced a fairly presentable smile, though her arms and shoulders were still tense. “My husband doesn’t know I’m here. I hate to think what would happen if he wakes up before I get back. Senator Hitchcock can explain. If there’s anything else you need to know, come to see me in the morning. I’ll arrange to be alone.”

She smiled again, and this time it looked more real. With her foot on the brake, her skirt had slipped back from her knee. Her legs were brown and slender. She was effective, and she knew it.

Shayne said stubbornly, “This will only take a minute. I need the answers right now.”

Her smile departed. “You won’t get them! I can’t answer that kind of question on the spur of the moment! I need some advice first.”

“Legal advice?”

She switched off the motor and hauled at the emergency brake. “I can’t make you move. At the same time I don’t think you’re sure enough of yourself to hold me by force. I’ll find a taxi.”

She unlatched the door. Shayne shut it again.

“I’ll give you some advice, Mrs. Redpath. If you can’t help being anxious, don’t let it show so much.”

“You know nothing whatever about it!” she snapped.

“God knows that’s true.”

He returned to his Ford and backed out of her way. She came past him, stopping when the two cars were parallel.

“Shall I expect you in the morning?” she said in a low voice.

“Maybe. It depends on what I find out in the meantime.”

“Leave one or two things for me to clear up. I’m sorry I screamed at you—I should have known better. Goodnight.”

After she was gone, Shayne backed in against the curb and parked. His face was thoughtful. He opened the door and got out. Stevens, the big man who took care of letting people in and out of Hugh Manners’ apartment, was waiting for him.

He looked relaxed and deadly, like a sleeping rattlesnake. “Mr. Manners thought you’d be turning up here, Shayne. He wants to talk some more. He doesn’t think you leveled with him the last time.”

Without turning, Shayne knew that somebody else had materialized behind him. His only chance was to move fast.

“Always glad to talk to Mr. Manners,” he said easily, and swung from the heels.

He put his full weight into the punch. It exploded at the point of Stevens’ jaw. The big man’s relaxed smile slackened. Shayne grasped the front of his shirt and pulled, pivoting. Now he saw the other man, a Mexican, wearing a loose, brightly patterned sports shirt. He had his hand inside his belt, but he wasn’t quick enough. The big man plowed into him, his arms windmilling. He was already on his way down, and he took the Mexican with him. Shayne stepped in close and kicked the gun out of the Mexican’s hand. Another kick sent it under the nearest car.

Stevens was still partially conscious. The other man pawed at him, trying to push him off. Shayne knew he didn’t have time to cramp his car out of its tight berth; there was too good a chance that Stevens also had a gun, and his head would clear soon enough to use it. Shayne plunged into Hitchcock’s driveway and across the garden, making for the back wall. From a lighted window at the rear of the house Trina Hitchcock called peremptorily, “Is that you, Shayne? Mike Shayne!”

Shayne hit the brick wall without breaking stride, straightening to his full height as his body hurtled upward. He caught the top of the wall with both hands. In one fluid motion he was up and over.

He dropped into somebody’s flower garden. He was in darkness. He felt his way along the wall to a brick barbecue pit and stepped up on it, raising his head cautiously. He was concealed from the street by the Hitchcock garage. He heard running footsteps. Swinging onto the wall, he rolled over, landing lightly. The side door to the street, which he and Hitchcock had entered by earlier, had a spring lock and could be opened from the inside.

He looked out carefully. The street was empty. By this time, if Shayne had figured correctly, Stevens and his friend were a block away, waiting to cut him off when he emerged on the next street. He checked again at the corner, feeling like a foot soldier in an enemy city. He went around fast, leaped into the Ford and hit the starter and the gas. He backed violently into the car parked behind him, then came forward, the wheel all the way over. Fenders scraped, but he broke through and roared away, the gas pedal on the floor.

He swung onto Thirty-first, shifted, and was doing seventy before he reached M Street. He turned north, tires screaming. He didn’t think there was anybody behind him, but he didn’t ease up until he had circled through the cloverleaf and was on the freeway, heading south along the river.

3:10 A.M.

HE HIRED A TAXI TO LEAD HIM TO OSKAR’S, THE AFTER-HOURS club on Larue Place. After they found it, Shayne signaled the driver to follow him until he found a better place to park. Then he transferred to the cab for the brief trip back.

“Will I have any trouble getting in?”

“Not if you’re not a cop,” the driver said cheerfully. He was short and fat, with a dead cigar clamped between his teeth. “And a cop wouldn’t have to pay cab fare to find it, would he?”

“I got the address from a bellhop,” Shayne said. “It sounded OK, but I don’t like the looks of the neighborhood. I never appreciate getting rolled.”

“Who does? You won’t get rolled inside; they run a pretty clean operation. It’s after you leave you want to keep your eyes open. I mean, don’t let anybody inveigle you into a hallway.”

Shayne checked the license posted on the back of the front seat. The driver’s name was Edward Siemanski.

“I’ll buy you a drink, Ed,” he suggested. “Plus a buck for your waiting time. Then we can pick up the Ford and you can show me how to get back to my hotel.”

“Sure, glad to. I’m knocking off in fifteen minutes anyway.”

He put up his windows and checked the locks all around after he parked. Shayne waited on the sidewalk, rattling the change in his pockets. The only indication that drinks were on sale in No. 17 was the number over the door: it was much larger and more conspicuous than the numbers on nearby buildings. The door was several steps below street level. On one side was a store selling trusses, crutches, and artificial limbs. The building on the other side was empty, with white crosses on the windows, marking it for the wreckers. On the corner there was a theatre specializing in nudist movies. Except for a prowling cat, nothing moved anywhere on the block.

“Let’s go,” the driver said. “And remind me to come out to look every couple of minutes, so they don’t steal the paint job off me. Not that it’s my cab.”

He knocked at the door beneath the big 17, and a moment later it opened. This was Shayne’s night for running into big men. The blond man in the doorway wasn’t as tall as Stevens, but he was equally broad through the chest. He looked like a guard or a tackle on a good pro football team: A pair of muscular arms bulged out below the rolled-up sleeves of a blue work shirt. One of the forearms was tattooed with a snake and an American flag.

“Hey, Pete,” the driver said. “We’re thirsty.”

“Eddie,” the doorman replied. “Who’s your friend?”

“He’s OK. I only met him ten minutes ago, but from what I know about human nature, he’s no cop.”

The big blond gave Shayne a hard look. “That’ll be one dollar membership.”

Shayne paid him and they were allowed to enter a large air-conditioned room. The air was damp and clammy. Shayne glanced around quickly, without seeing Senator Wall. Several couples were dancing to music from a jukebox at the far end of the room. The customers were all surprisingly well dressed, having started the evening in other parts of town. Some of them were having a very good time, others seemed to be contemplating suicide. At this time of night there was nothing in between.

Eddie started for the bar, but Shayne pointed toward an empty table. “Let’s get comfortable.”

“Why not?” Eddie agreed.

A waitress came over to take their orders. Her straw-colored hair was nicely arranged and her black uniform did everything that could be done for her sturdy figure. Her arms were nearly as muscular as the doorman’s. Her face also resembled his, with heavy blonde brows and craggy cheekbones.

“Old Granddad on the rocks,” Eddie said.

She looked at Shayne. He said, “Isn’t your name Olga Szep?”

Her reaction seemed considerably overdone. She drew in a sharp breath and put her hand to her throat.

“Now,
listen,”
Eddie said. “If you’ve been conning me, I mean if you’re working some kind of an angle here, you’d better change your mind right now. These guys are selling liquor against the law. They can’t afford to kid.”

“I didn’t insult anybody,” Shayne said. “All I did was ask her if her name was Olga Szep.”

The girl’s Adam’s apple went up and down. Eddie called after her as she turned, “Anyway, get my bourbon.”

The bartender met her at the service end of the bar. She spoke to him quietly.

“I’m going to be marked lousy in here from now on,” Eddie complained. “I should have asked for your fingerprints. What did you have to pick on me for?”

“Relax,” Shayne told him. “You’ll get your drink. If they won’t serve you, I’ve got a bottle of rotgut in the car.”

The bartender came out, drying his hands on his apron. There was no doubt that this was a family business. He was six or seven years older than Pete, just as blond and powerful, but without the tattoos.

“Don’t look at
me,
Oskar,” Eddie said. “I don’t know the guy from Adam. He said he got the address from a bellhop. It sounded legit.”

“That was just to get in,” Shayne said easily. “My name’s Michael Shayne, and if you want to sell drinks the full twenty-four hours it’s OK with me. I’m trying to locate a guy. From the way your sister is acting, I think he was in here earlier.”

Oskar jerked his thumb toward the door. “Outside.”

“In a minute,” Shayne said lazily. “You probably have to pay the precinct a good percentage of the gross to stay open this late. But is that kind of street-level protection going to help you if a United States Senator has any trouble in here?”

Reaching out, he squeezed Oskar’s knuckles, which were scuffed and inflamed. Oskar jerked his hand away, wincing.

“Better put some iodine on that,” Shayne said. “It’s recent, isn’t it?”

“What are you talking about, a United States Senator?”

“Tom Wall is his name,” Shayne said, “and it’s true he doesn’t look like a Senator. Very wound up and jerky. Little mustache.”

“No Senator come in here,” Olga said sullenly.

Pete had moved into position beside his brother. The resemblance between them was very marked.

“Let’s heave this guy,” Oskar said. “He don’t want to use his own legs, he wants to make it tough for himself.”

“Before you throw me out,” Shayne said, “I’d like to ask your sister a few questions about a diary.”

Olga gasped. “Oskar, maybe we ought to—” she began, but her brother cut her off.

“No questions,” he said savagely. “This is my place, and I make the rules.” To Shayne: “Get out. On your own steam or Peter and me help you.”