“I think,” Mike Shayne said, “you and I had better have as little talk.”
The man in the checked sports jacket gasped and turned around, his arms automatically rising above his shoulders. But surrender was not in the thickset man’s plan. Instead, he locked his hands and brought both of them down hard on the wrist of the redhead’s gun hand, the while aiming a hard kick at the detective’s shins.
Neither blow found its mark Shayne leaped a foot backward, causing houndstooth jacket a double-miss, then brought up his right hand in a roundhouse blow that laid the flat of the heavy Colt automatic hard against the left side of the thickset man’s head.
He went down like a felled ox. Shayne rolled him inside the garage and brought the door down, wedging it firmly in place with a piece of wood. He judged his erstwhile pursuer would be but of action for some time to come.
Then, holstering his weapon, he walked up a narrow path to the house beyond.
X
The path ended at another hedge, a low one, beyond which a brief stretch of badly manicured lawn covered a slight rise to the rear of the house. A row of French windows glittered a vivid reflection of the sunset behind him. Shayne thought of walking around to the front door, then thought, To hell with that! and pushed one of the windows open.
As he entered the sun room behind them, a resonant baritone said, “For Christ’s sake, Shayne — don’t you ever knock?”
It was Carl Meadows, silver haired, newly shaven, one of the few men the detective knew who could carry a considerable paunch and still look trim and vital. His striped slacks looked expensive, as did the blue-and-white Shantung sports shirt above them. A platinum wristwatch with diamond inserts glittered at the detective.
If he was bankrupt, Carl Meadows had to be the most costfully attired bankrupt in the redhead’s knowledge.
Seater opposite him, fox-red of hair and complexion, wiry as a sculptor’s armature, was Meadows’ attorney, Alan MacRae, “Slimy Mac” to the legal profession for his genius at slipping his clients through legal loopholes other attorneys missed.
MacRae said, “That’s breaking and entering, Shayne.”
“But obviously without intent to commit burglary,” the detective replied. “How about trespassing instead?”
“Knock it off, fellows,” said Meadows. “Help yourself to a drink, Shayne.” This with a nod toward a well equipped cellaret on a sunporch corner. Then, “As a matter of fact, I’ve been trying to convince Mac we should contact you.”
“Thanks, Meadows.” Shayne helped himself. There was no Martell, so he settled for a belt of Napoleon on the rocks. “Is that why you put that dog on my tail?”
Meadows sighed. “I’ve been against that from the first, as has Mac.”
The attorney nodded. Mike Shayne said, “Then who...?”
Meadows opened his mouth to reply. MacRae gestured him to silence, said, “Let me tell it. Shayne, I don’t know whether you are aware of it or not, but my client is not entirely alone in his desire to obtain deserved retribution from the Daily News.”
“If you mean Ryan Akanian, I already know.”
Meadows slapped a thigh, said, “I told you, Mac. You’ve got to get up mighty early in the morning to get ahead of Mike Shayne. Yes, it’s Akanian. He wants to pick up the News for a song. But...”
A pause and again MacRae took over. “We don’t like Akanian’s methods. We don’t believe this violence is helping our case. Even if it proves legally defensible, it can’t help but create a climate unfavorable to us before a jury.”
“What do you want me to do?” Shayne asked.
“We want you to go to Akanian, tell him to call off his dogs before anyone else gets killed,” said Meadows.
“Why don’t you go see him yourself?” said the detective. “I’m not your bird dog.”
Meadows and MacRae looked at one another and sighed. The attorney said, “Don’t think we haven’t tried. But once committed to a course of action, Ryan is... well, hard to change.”
“Ruthless is the word,” said Meadows. “Shayne, he scares us.”
The redhead said, “What I don’t understand is how the murder of Cathy Whiting helps your case.”
Another exchanged look between the two men, then, from Meadows, “That’s what we’ve been trying to tell Akanian. He insists there’s no way the Whiting murder can be connected with our case.”
“He’s right on that,” MacRae agreed. “But it creates a bad court climate.” He shook his head.
“What do you want me to do to him?” the detective asked. He was amused by this turn of events. Also, he wanted to know where Akanian could be reached.
“Make him listen to reason, Shayne. Then, maybe we can get this thing settled.”
“Where do I reach Akanian?”
“The Royal Pineapple,” said MacRae. “The Presidential suite.”
Mike Shayne finished his brandy and left. As he recrossed the lawn, he pondered the unreality of the scene just behind him. Were Meadows and MacRae playing a game or were they really as worried and bewildered as they seemed? Why had there been no query as to the fate of the thickset man in the houndstooth sports jacket? Above all, what on earth was their motive in requesting him to visit Ryan Akanian?
Good questions all — but where were the answers? Nor had there been mention of Myra Rainey. Why not? This made it a full quartet.
Shayne considered releasing the garage door so the thickset man could get out. Then he decided against it. No sound came from within, so the detective assumed his follower was still unconscious. The piece of wood was still in place. The redhead got into the Buick, started it and drove off.
He was not followed this time.
When Shayne reached the approach of South Bayshore Drive, he pulled over, parked and used the car radio-telephone to call Roy Latimer. When he told the News publisher that MacRae had hinted at a willingness to settle the case, Latimer snorted and said, “To hell with that. If they’re chickening out now, we hit them all the harder.”
Shayne repeated their request that he visit Ryan Akanian, and Latimer told him to go ahead. “See what you can make of him,” the publisher said. “What about Myra Rainey?”
“Dead ended again,” the redhead replied. “You got anything on her?”
“Negative, Shayne. But Mrs. Fowler, the landlady, got in him was there when she landed. She claims to know nothing about any of it. She’s with the police now for what it’s worth.”
“I might drop by her house later. I have the damnedest feeling about that place — that we’ve been missing something all along.”
“Could be, I suppose,” said the publisher. “But you’d better take a crack at Akanian first.”
“If he’ll see me. He’s probably well barricaded.”
Before resuming his drive, Shayne called the Royal Pineapple. He did not get through to the newspaper owner, but a secretary — male — informed him that his call was expected and that Mr. Akanian would receive him at 8:30 that evening.
Curiouser and curiouser, he reflected a la Alice in Wonderland. The date allowed him ample time for dinner, so he headed for The Beef House again, parking in the space behind it.
XI
Tim Rourke was in his usual booth and Shayne slid onto the opposite bench. The lanky reporter was picking at the remnants of a large platter of spare ribs and sauerkraut, with a boilermaker, two thirds empty, alongside.
“You talked to the Fowler broad?” the detective asked when laconic greetings had been exchanged and a double Martell and steak sandwich had been ordered.