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He whirled and his hand shot out to get hold of the cognac bottle.

Joe was on his feet, circling forward. Shayne threw the bottle at Joe’s head. Joe ducked and the bottle sailed over him, through the open bedroom door where it smashed against the bedside table and toppled it over.

Leroy leaped forward as the bottle left Shayne’s hand. He swung his short gun in a vicious sideswipe against Shayne’s head. As the redhead swayed backward under the impact, Joe stepped close and measured him coolly. He swung the blackjack in a lazy arc and it tore the lobe of Shayne’s right ear loose from the scalp.

Shayne got to his knees with blood streaming from the side of his head. He teetered crazily back on his heels like a Russian dancer.

“What’s the matter with you bastards?” he taunted them.

Leroy called him a son of a bitch and kicked him in the face.

Shayne reeled back to the floor. Slowly he pushed himself up. He licked his lips and laughed again. “You lads had better tighten up your diapers and go to work. I can take a lot of this stuff.”

“Okay.” Leroy sighed. “He likes it, Joe. He must be one of these goddamned masochists you read about. Slug him, but easy. He wants us to knock him cold so he won’t have to watch his wife get raped. Cross him up-slug him easy so he don’t pass out.”

Joe slugged Shayne easy. The detective went flat on his face with arms and legs spread out. He drew in great gasping breaths, then painfully began to draw himself up again.

Running feet pounded down the corridor outside the apartment. A fist thundered on the door and rattled the knob. A hoarse voice shouted:

“Open up in there before we break the door down.”

Leroy said, “Sounds like cops-but how the hell? Come on, Joe! Out the fire escape.”

They ran through the kitchen to the fire escape while the pounding went on. Shayne was still working on the job of getting to his feet. He lurched to the door and jerked it open, sagged back against the wall while two red-faced policemen burst in, followed by the desk clerk.

Shayne pointed to the kitchen and muttered, “They went that way.”

The cops ran through the kitchen and a moment later were clattering down the fire escape.

Shayne drew in a deep breath and grinned weakly at the clerk. “The telephone, eh? When I threw the bottle it knocked the phone to the floor.”

“That’s right, Mr. Shayne. I was on the switchboard and I could hear noises and voices. I knew something must be wrong. There were two policemen still in the lobby, so I thought-”

“Didn’t a couple of thugs ask at the desk for me?”

“No, sir.” The clerk shook his head emphatically. “They must have slipped in the side door and up the stairs.”

Shayne nodded. He stumbled away from the wall and made the distance to Phyllis. He pulled her robe together, and the clerk helped him loosen the tape binding her mouth and limbs while he clucked solicitously and asked anxious questions which Shayne did not answer.

Phyllis tried to laugh and drew Shayne’s battered head to her bosom when she was released. Through lips that were sore and swollen from removing the tape she cried, “Oh, Michael! I thought I’d die. Sitting here unable to move-”

Shayne muttered, “I was afraid I wouldn’t” He lifted his head and said over his shoulder to the clerk, “Thanks a hell of a lot, bud. I guess you’ve done about all you can do right now.”

The clerk stammered, “Yes-I guess I have, Mr. Shayne,” and went out hastily.

It was very quiet in the apartment. Shayne was on his knees with his arms around his wife, and he kept his head pressed against her for a long time. Then he drew away and said, “I’m getting your robe bloody, angel.” He got up, steadying himself with one hand on the table.

Phyllis covered her face with her hands and began crying.

Shayne said, “It’s all right, Phyl. Some good cognac spilled-that’s all the real damage. And we’ve learned something important. A while ago we were wondering whether the scrap of cardboard meant anything. We don’t have to wonder about that angle any more.”

Phyllis took her hands away from her face. Tears were rolling down her cheeks. “C–Couldn’t you-have thought of an easier way to find out?”

Shayne fingered his swollen jaw, the lump on the side of his head, and his bleeding ear. “I’ve always done things the hard way. And,” his voice hardened, “I’ve never yet taken a beating that someone didn’t pay for later.” He leaned over and caught her face between his palms. “Don’t think those birds won’t pay for this.”

Phyllis shivered and caught his wrists. “Can’t you drop the case, Mike? Give the police that piece of cardboard-tell them the whole truth?”

Shayne stood up. He took a backward step and dragged air into his lungs. He asked, “Do you want me to quit, Phyl?”

She looked at him with tears still streaming down her face. His bare flesh was bruised and crimsoned with his own blood. Through her dimmed eyes she saw him as he had been when he inexorably stalked Leroy and the menace of his gun. It seemed to her that she could still hear the sound of his laughter ringing through the room. Terrible laughter. She shuddered and closed her eyes.

“Shouldn’t you-this time?” she pleaded. “You’re pitting yourself against the federal authorities, the police-and against those horrible thugs. If the G-men were after Lacy, don’t you suppose it was because of the piece of cardboard? Shouldn’t you co-operate-just this once?”

Shayne asked more gently, “Are you sure that’s what you want, Phyl?”

Against her will, she felt compelled to open her eyes. She saw his face, bruised and bloody, but still set in lines of grim determination. Her gaze wavered for a moment, then searched his eyes. Her tears stopped flowing and she shook her head slowly. A smile that had in it something of maternal anguish touched her lips briefly. She said:

“No, Michael. I don’t want you to quit-ever.”

He leaned over and kissed her lips. “Thanks, angel,” he said. “And now you’d better get the stickum from that tape washed off with alcohol. I’m going to the bathroom to see what cold water will do for my face.”

CHAPTER SIX

The telephone rang while Shayne was painfully getting into a clean shirt. Phyllis was in the tub having her long-delayed soaking, and Shayne sat on the edge of the bed to take the call.

Will Gentry said, “I’ve got some news for you, Mike. We’ve turned up a line on that Jim Lacy killing this afternoon.”

Shayne growled, “Painter won’t thank you if it takes the heat off me.”

Gentry made an uncomplimentary remark about the detective chief from Miami Beach. “A man and a woman appear to have witnessed the shooting,” Gentry explained. “They were driving across the County Causeway from the Beach about four o’clock when they saw a car ahead of them cut in sharply on another car headed this way, and force it to the guard rail. Two men jumped out of the first car and ran back to the one they had stopped. This couple drove past slowly and realized there was some sort of an argument going on, and they got the license number of the car with the two men, but didn’t stop. They didn’t want to get mixed up in anything because the woman is married, but not to her companion.”

Gentry paused, and Shayne asked, “Lacy was in the second car?”

“There was one man in it, and their description of him fits Lacy to a T. After they had gone on about a hundred yards they thought they heard two or three shots behind them, but weren’t positive it wasn’t a car backfiring. A few minutes later Lacy passed them, hunched over the wheel and driving like hell. So they decided it must have been backfires instead of shots, and agreed not to make any report of the incident. But when they read about Lacy’s death they realized they must have actually witnessed the shooting without realizing it. So they came in and told their story. It sounds straight enough.”

“What about a description of the two men?”