“You’ll need it in cash,” Curt said, refusing to believe that he couldn’t reach Shayne if he named a large enough figure. “Take what I’ve got there as a down payment. Another two or three thousand would be no problem at all. And all you have to do to earn it is get on a plane.”
“Where would you get that much cash at this time of night?”
“I said it wouldn’t be a problem.”
Shayne smiled and took Cheryl’s bag out of her hands.
“Oh, no, you don’t!” she said, snatching for it.
“Goddamn it! Will you people get it through your head that you’re in trouble? I can take you in and charge you with assault. I know you don’t worry about gun registrations in Texas, but does Morrie have a permit in Washington? This would break in the morning papers, just before the hearings. Use your head.”
He emptied the girl’s bag, and in addition to the usual feminine equipment, he found a folded letter addressed to Miss Cheryl Remick, at a Northwest address, and postmarked Houston. Inside there was a single sheet of paper, on which was typed, “Royalton Arms,” followed by a 16th Street NW address and that day’s date.
“Reading other people’s mail,” she said.
“I’ve heard that Manners likes good-looking girls your age,” Shayne said. “Is that where he is now, at the Royalton Arms?”
“You can always go there and find out,” she said.
“No, Cheryl,” Curt said. “Shayne’s right, this has gone sour. What do you want to talk to him about, Shayne? I might just tell you where you can find him.”
A car with a long aerial approached slowly. Shayne swept up the wallets and the handbag and dropped them into his already bulging pockets. He closed the Buick’s back door before the cruising police car reached them, and pulled his coat together to hide the blackjack.
“You don’t want to call it a night,” he said to the girl. “Let’s call up some people. It’s my birthday, isn’t it? I want to celebrate.”
The police car went out of gear as it came abreast. The uniformed cop beside the driver looked them over impassively. Curt smiled at him.
“Evening, officer,” he said in a thick Texas accent. “Warm tonight.”
“Take it easy,” the cop said, chiefly to Shayne.
The redhead grinned. “Little birthday celebration.”
The cops went back into gear and proceeded to Wisconsin Avenue, where they joined the southbound traffic.
“He’s a hard man to get in to see,” Rebman went on, “but I think I can talk him into it. I agree with you, if you’re going to be talking money, you might as well talk about it with the man who has it. He expects me to handle things like this without bothering him, but never mind. Let’s get going.”
“I don’t want to be outnumbered when I get there,” Shayne said.
He slapped Curt lightly with the blackjack. The Texan made a sick sound and sat down in the street.
“What did you do that for?” the girl cried.
“Because he talks too much,” Shayne said. “Are you wearing stockings?” He flicked up her white skirt. “Let’s have them.” She didn’t move until he said it again. She reached under her skirt to unsnap her garters. Hopping on one foot and then the other, she skinned off the stockings. Shayne used one of them to tie Curt’s hands.
“What are you-” Curt said, dazed.
With the other stocking Shayne improvised a gag. Opening the rear door, he tipped Curt in with Morrie.
“Now I’m going to need your slip, if you’re wearing one.”
“I’m not,” Cheryl said.
“That’s too bad. Take off your dress.”
“This dress cost one hundred and ninety-eight dollars plus sales tax,” she said grimly, “and if you think you’re going to tear it up, you’ll have a fight on your hands.”
“I might enjoy it,” Shayne said, “but I don’t have the time. Make up your mind in a hurry. It can be one of two ways.”
He flicked the blackjack hard against the Buick’s front fender. The thin steel crumpled.
“You wouldn’t hit me with that,” she said.
“Take a good look.”
She looked into his eyes. “Damn it, Mike,” she said after a second. “Why did we have to meet like this? I’d better warn you-I’m not wearing much underneath.”
Leaning down, she pulled at the hem of her skirt, trying to tear it. “I’ll do that,” Shayne said. Cheryl touched his shoulder to keep her balance while he ripped her skirt all the way from the bottom hem to the waist. He tore out a long panel, tore that into strips and bound Curt’s ankles. After that he bound and gagged Morrie and turned to the girl.
“I don’t suppose you’ll make an exception,” she said.
“Why should I?”
She stood quietly while he tore off more pieces of her skirt and tied her wrists and ankles. “I’m sorry about that dumb trick in the bar,” she said. “I told Hugh I didn’t want to do it, but he said I had to. Am I going to see you again?”
“I hope not.”
He placed the gag and fastened it, then put her into the back seat with the others.
“My advice,” he said, addressing everyone who was still conscious, “is to keep your heads down and try not to move. If anybody calls the cops, you’ll get your picture in the paper. Manners won’t like that. I’ll tell him where he can find you. Just be patient.”
He cranked up the windows and went back to his Ford. As he drove past the Buick he tapped his horn.
CHAPTER 8
1:10 A.M.
The Royalton Arms, a shabby brick apartment house in an out-of-the-way neighborhood, seemed an unlikely place to find Hugh Manners. Probably, Shayne decided, the industrialist didn’t want the public to know that he was sufficiently worried by the Hitchcock investigation to come to Washington to take personal charge of the counteroffensive.
Shayne reviewed quickly the few things he knew about Manners. Before World War II, Manners’ fighter planes had been the fastest in the world. He tested them himself. He had grown up during the glamorous early days of aviation, and he had an obsession with speed. He had walked away from a dozen serious crashes. He ran his company the way he flew his planes-as enormous as it had become in recent years, it was still a one-man business, the last in the industry. His business methods were unorthodox and sometimes brilliant. One year he might make one hundred million dollars, and the next year be in serious danger of losing his shirt. He never gave interviews, believing that his private life was nobody’s business. Nevertheless, he had often been in the headlines with spectacular paternity and alimony suits.
There were twelve apartments in the building. Manners’ name didn’t appear beside the doorbells in the cramped, poorly lit lobby. Curt Rebman was listed as the tenant of a third-floor apartment. Shayne pressed that bell and waited.
There was no answering buzz. Before long he heard footsteps and the door opened. A large man stepped out all the way, closing the door behind him. He was easily six feet six, with the chest-spread of a steer and the relaxed expression of many powerful men. He had been hit in the face various times over the years, by various things that were harder than fists. His eyes were quick and intelligent.
“Michael Shayne to see Mr. Manners,” Shayne said.
The big man looked puzzled. “You rang 3-B. Nobody there by that name.”
“Curt sent me,” Shayne said. “You can give Manners this.”
Inside the last piece of Cheryl’s skirt, the redhead had tied all the trophies he had taken from her little party: the two wallets, her evening bag, the blackjack, the.38, the loose rounds of ammunition. It made an odd-looking bundle. The big man’s eyebrows disappeared in the scar tissue on his forehead. But as he felt the hard outlines of the gun through the cloth, the eyebrows came down in a frown.
“I hope you’re not trying to be funny.”