“Well-I’m glad if I’ve helped,” she said, but there was still uncertainty in her tone. She got up and went into the bedroom.
Shayne went to the telephone and called Chief Gentry’s office. When the chief answered, Shayne said, “I’m getting ready to wrap things up tonight. All I need is a little help.”
“Okay, Mike.”
“Keep your man on Smith, and you’d better put another one on him too. He’ll drive over to the Beach sometime before nine o’clock. Let him get across the Causeway and then pull in on him. Warn your men he’ll have a thirty-two on him. It’s important. Have them deliver Smith straight to Painter and suggest he run a test on the gun.”
“I’m listening,” said Gentry dryly.
“That’s all. Painter can hold him on a concealed weapon charge until he checks the gun. That ought to give him a better charge.”
“Got it, Mike. Now, here’s something for you. I have a wire from Denver, Colorado.”
“Good.”
“It’s not so good,” Gentry warned him soberly. “They picked up Miss Betty Green all right, but she’s not a blonde. And she claims she hasn’t been in Miami for two years and can prove it. She never heard of Dillingham Smith, never lived at the LaCrosse, and doesn’t know anything about anything.”
“How does she explain the trunk? And have they got it?”
“She claims she never had a trunk in Miami and never lived at the address it was sent to, and can prove it.”
“Nuts,” said Shayne. “That sounds like a stall. Have them hold her while they check her story.”
“And get this, Mike. Miss Betty Green is a brunette. You claim there’s nothing but blondes in this case.” Gentry sent a chuckle over the wire.
Shayne sent back a chuckle that was heavy with sarcasm. “She wouldn’t be the first dame to dye her hair when she got tired of being a blonde-or when she was hiding out from the law. Have Denver see about her coming back to Florida as a witness.”
“Okay-if you say so, Mike. It sounds screwy to me.”
“It is,” Shayne agreed. “Screwy as hell, Will. Don’t let your men lose Smith.” He hung up and turned to see Minerva coming in the room dressed in a gaily flowered dress, minus her glasses, and her cheeks and lips delicately rouged.
Shayne looked her over with twinkling eyes. “Why, Minerva! Come on-let’s get going somewhere where I can show you off.”
“Let’s get going and get something to eat,” she answered primly.
Chapter Sixteen: TANGLED TALES
At a quarter of nine, Michael Shayne was parked on Ocean Boulevard two blocks north of Bronson’s house. His car motor and lights were off, and he was headed north. He sat sprawled behind the wheel, his hat well down over his eyes, his lips puffing on a cigarette and his mind at peace with the world.
The cards were all dealt and all that now remained was to play them. By now, Dillingham Smith should be in the custody of the police, along with Bronson’s automatic. There was nothing to do but wait for things to pop.
A yellow moon hung like a festive lantern in the dark-blue sky, shedding its light on swaying palm fronds and brightening the spray of ocean breakers. A fresh and humid breeze blew through the open car windows, refreshing and cooling his weary body.
In the rearview mirror he saw the headlights of a limousine turn onto the shoreline drive two blocks behind him. He glanced at his watch. It was two minutes after nine.
Shayne ducked lower in the seat, watching the roadway at his left from under the brim of his hat. The limousine went by with Walter Bronson sitting erect behind the wheel and looking straight ahead. He appeared to be alone and drove at slow speed in accordance with Smith’s telephoned orders.
When the car was a block away, he got out and walked half a block to a filling-station. He called Miami Beach police headquarters and said in a gruff voice, “Here’s a tip-off for Chief Painter. That private dick named Mike Shayne is up to something phony. He’s cruising north on Ocean Boulevard in a coupe loaned him by the Miami police and there’s going to be trouble. Better have him tailed by a prowl car in case he tries to pull a fast one.” He hung up and went back to his car and pulled out on the street.
He drove slowly, at slightly more than twenty miles an hour. Soon after he passed the Roney Plaza he noted the headlights of a car that had come up fast and then slowed to drop behind him. Though his police coupe was unmarked, he knew its license number could be recognized as official by any member of the local police force, and he was quite sure the trailing headlights belonged to a Beach radio car.
He increased his speed slightly and presently came up behind Bronson’s limousine crawling along at the designated speed. He stayed behind until there was a long stretch of open road and sped up to come abreast of the big car. He saw Bronson glance aside and recognize him just as he swerved the coupe into the left front fender of the limousine.
There was a grinding crash, the screeching of brakes as both cars slid off the pavement into a shallow ditch alongside. Shayne had his left door open and he hit the dirt before the cars were quite stopped. He darted around the coupe in time to see the back door of the limousine flung open and two figures lunge out with moonlight glinting on blued steel in their hands.
Dropping to the ground, Shayne snapped a shot at the bulkier figure as the police car jerked up behind him and a spotlight threw its glaring beam on the scene.
The light silhouetted Bing standing erect with a snarl of rage on his lips and a. 45 in his hand. Monk was already slithering to the ground with Shayne’s slug in his belly.
A hoarse voice from the police car shouted, “Hold it,” and two cops came pounding toward them with drawn guns.
Bing began cursing in a low monotone, and dropped his gun. Shayne sat up and grinned at the cops. “You got here just in time, boys. Watch that one on the ground. He may still be able to pull a trigger.”
They came up, grim-faced and watchful, and one of them kicked the gun out of Monk’s hand.
Walter Bronson stepped from the car with his hands in the air, shaken and fearful, and stammering over and over, “What is it? I don’t understand. What is it?”
Shayne said, “Put the cuffs on all three of them, boys, and we’ll talk this over at headquarters. I guess you saw it all. I’ll swear out a complaint of assault with deadly weapons against them.”
“Shayne!” Bronson started forward impulsively. “If we can talk this over-”
“There’s nothing to talk over,” said Shayne grimly. “You and your hoodlums are in this up to your necks. Better see about Monk,” he advised one of the officers.
The cop bent over the hulking figure. “Pretty bad. We’d better get him to a doc fast.”
“You’re the private dick we were trailing,” the other officer said angrily to Shayne. “I don’t get any of this. What in hell-”
“Ask your questions at headquarters,” Shayne snapped. “Load those three into the big car and let’s get the wounded man to a doctor.”
Shayne walked around to the front of the two cars, looked at the crumpled fenders, and saw there was no real damage done. He got in his coupe and backed it away.
One of the policemen came up beside him, breathing heavily. “I’ll take that gun you flashed.”
Shayne handed him Gentry’s. 38. “I’ve got a permit and you saw me use it in self-defense when they jumped me just because we scraped fenders.”
“We saw it,” the officer grunted sourly, “but I still don’t get it. How come we were trailing you so slick?”
“You trailing me?” Shayne asked.
With the other officer at the wheel of the limousine and the three men in the rear seat, the big car swung in an arc in front of Shayne’s coupe and turned back on the boulevard.
“It was just lucky, I reckon, we got on your tail,” the cop said to Shayne.
“Lucky for me,” Shayne agreed. “You want me to go on ahead?”