“By whom?” Lowman countered.
“By a grey Mercedes that looked very much like the car I saw fleeing the Whiting killing earlier this evening,” Shayne replied.
“You’ve got to be kidding!” The attorney’s previously apathetic voice now sounded like the crack of a whip.
“I assure you I’m not.”
There was long silence from the other end of the line, then, “Shayne, are you sure?”
“Just as sure as you are.”
“What does that mean, Shayne?”
“It means,” said the detective, “that I followed your pursuer and you south from the News building this evening — and that you suddenly became aware of your tail. At least you upped your speed from fifty-five to eighty-five.”
“That was because I changed my mind and decided to get back here for reasons I shan’t go into.”
“You must have run all the way home,” the redhead told him.
“You are insolent, Shayne.”
“Good night, Counsellor,” said the detective. “Better check the locks on your doors and windows, just in case.”
“Shayne...”
There was a hint of urgency in Lowman’s voice that made the redhead wonder if he weren’t about to hear either an appeal for help, a revelation — or perhaps both.
“Yes, Mr. Lowman?” he said when the silence had gone on a little too long.
“It’s nothing, Shayne. Goodnight.”
The lawyer hung up.
Shayne cradled his instrument and pondered the attorney’s strange behavior that evening. During the meeting, it seemed to the redhead that Lowman had been in something close to a state of shock. Nor had his behavior since been outwardly rational — heading south toward an unknown destination, shaking pursuit and then winding up at the northern end of the city.
And what had he been about to reveal via the telephone, only to change his mind?
The detective went to the inner office, switched, on the lights, dug into the bottom drawer of the green metal file and came out with the bottle of Martell he kept on hand for just such occasions — or for no occasion at all. He got ice from the mini-freezer in the corner, made himself a stout cognac on the rocks, put his feet up on the desk and lit a cigaret, further pondering the case.
If Myra Rainey did not appear to testify for the defense, Roy Latimer, along with his co-defendants, would lose the case in all probability. Faced with a seven-figure adverse verdict, plus court costs and penalties, the vital little publisher might well have to sell his newspaper to keep afloat.
If the defense could tie Cathy Whiting’s killing to the case, they might get a sorely needed continuance. Shayne decided that this was the point he should concentrate his investigation upon. What investigation? He hadn’t got off the ground yet.
He finished his brandy and cigaret simultaneously, decided to go home and get some sleep and began his real investigation under way in the morning. He had only two days and two nights remaining. He hoped to hell it would be enough time.
He turned off the lights, locked up, walked downstairs and out the back door to the little rear lot where he had left his Buick. It was no longer alone in the twelve-slot parking area. There was a grey Mercedes blocking the Flagler Street exit less than sixty feet away.
Caught in the open, Shayne did the only thing he could think of — he went into a spin, crouching and straightening, changing course but actually moving at a near-sprint toward the only cover available — that of the Buick.
The first bullet whizzed past him, cutting a brief air-hole in the exact spot his head had occupied a split second earlier. The second shot was another miss by inches, as was the third. The fourth bullet, aimed low, took the heel cleanly off his left shoe — but by that time he had gained the shelter of his car and had unholstered his Colt .45.
At such short range, his ambusher’s long-barreled target pistol would have little or no advantage over the automatic. In fact, Shayne’s heavier slugs might well do the more damage.
The redhead managed to draw two more shots by raising his head, then ducking quickly, and a third lift drew no response at all. Shayne could just see the left shoulder and the left portion of his would-be killer’s head protruding beyond the rear of his car. He seemed to be engaged in putting a fresh magazine into his weapon.
Mike Shayne took careful aim, holding the Colt with both hands, resting his elbows on the hood of the Buick. He wanted merely to nick the exposed shoulder of his overconfident opponent well aware that even a full shoulder wound at that distance with the Colt could well be fatal.
He wanted this killer alive.
But just as Shayne squeezed the trigger, his target leaned forward and down, evidently to jam the fresh clip into place. Result — the detective’s heavy .45 slug caught its target full in the side of the head, causing him to pitch forward on what was left of his face.
The redhead uttered a four-syllable word of frustration as he holstered his gun and moved toward the corpse he had just created out of living man.
V
Miami Chief of police Will Gentry sat behind his desk, chewed on the end of a dead perfecto. The stubble of white beard on his lower face, the tousled state of his white hair, usually well groomed, revealed the length of his working day.
“Dammit,” he growled at Mike Shayne, seated across from him. “I should have guessed you were involved. Why didn’t you stand by after calling in the Whiting woman’s murder?”
“I had to report to my client, Chief,” said Shayne, “and you know better than to question me on that.”
A gleam lightened the glower in the burly Police Chiefs expression. He leaned back, removed the cigar, said, “I not only know better, Mike, I know all about it. Hell, man, I recommended you to Roy Latimer.”
The redhead managed not to blink, uttered a dry, “Thanks, Chief.”
“But now,” Gentry, went on as if Shayne had not interrupted, “I’m beginning to wish I’d negatived you. This was one night when I was planning to turn in early.”
“Sorry.” The detective tried hard to look sympathetic.
“I suppose you’ll want to know what we’ve got oh the bodies. I can tell you right now, it’s not much. This latest victim of yours was a hit man — name of Mac Straka. Originally from Detroit. A record as long as your arm.”
“Any idea what brought him to Miami?”
“Sure — we’ve both got a damn good idea. But don’t ask me who paid his fare. You know and I know they never work through direct contact.”
“What about Cathy Whiting?” Shayne inquired.
“So far, probably less than you have. At least you talked to her.”
“On the phone — and only to set up our meet.”
Gentry shook his massive head. “It puts you one up on us. Mrs. Fowler — that’s her landlady, the owner of the big house — is flying in from Bermuda sometime tomorrow. Maybe she can help.”
“What’s the b.g. on Whiting, Will?”
The Police Chief shrugged, eyed the dead cigar, said, “Just what we picked up in her place. From Summit, New Jersey. Rutgers graduate. Catherine Gibbs secretarial school. Been down here about a year. No criminal record.”
“Will,” said Shayne, “do you have any scam on why this Meadows-Latimer lawsuit should erupt into murder?”
“If I did, do you think I’d be turning you loose, Mike?” Gentry replied. “I’m hoping you’ll save the taxpayers some of their hard-earned money.”
“You’re a hard man, Chief.”
“And you’re not a funny one, Mike.” The Police Chief eyed his chewed-up cigar with distaste, dropped it into a wastebasket, said, “Now, what have you got for me?”