Brett Halliday: Mike Shayne's Torrid Twelve

“I said wait! No use killing if we don’t have to. We’ll see how things go. Now get out there. I’ll wait in here with the door open, so I can listen. And you’d better lemme have the knife — just in case.”

Whitey handed over the knife and went out into the other room. Shorty pulled up a chair beside the bed, snapped out the light, closed the door except for a crack, and sat down beside Shayne.

“All right, shamus,” he said. “Play it smart and nothing worse will happen to you. All we want is a little information from Tolliver. You can’t make any noise — but when he comes, don’t even try.”

He touched the redhead’s throat with the point of the knife and chuckled.

There was nothing to say, and Shayne said it. In the other room he could hear Whitey pouring a drink. Beside him Shorty’s breathing was slow and deep.

A minute passed. Two. Then the buzzer shrilled. They heard Whitey open the door.

“Mr. Shayne?” a voice asked. “I’m Captain Tod Tolliver.”

“Come in, Cap’n, I’ve been expectin’ you.” The door shut. A chair scuffed. Springs squeaked. “Drink, Cap’n?”

“Not for me, thanks. I don’t drink when I got navigatin’ to do. And I reckon I’ve got some important navigatin’ ahead of me tonight.”

“Goin’ after th’ treasure, Cap’n?”

Tolliver chuckled. “Well, mebbe I’m going after treasure tonight. I’m not saying yes, I’m not saying no.”

“That’s right, Cap’n, play it safe,” Whitey agreed. “I’m not meanin’ to be inquisitive. But what was it you wanted to see me about?”

“I need some help from an honest detective,” Captain Tod Tolliver said bluntly. “Judgin’ from everything I heard about you, you’re tough and you’re honest.”

“Thank you, Cap’n, I take that right kindly.”

“Now it’s like this,” Captain Tolliver said. “I got a big deal in hand and I need somebody to help look after my interest, so—” He paused, as if his attention had been diverted. “Say,” he continued after a moment, “Mr. Shayne, that’s a mighty nice shirt you got on.”

“Kind of like it myself,” Whitey said.

“Yes, sir, a nice shirt.” And suddenly Captain Tolliver’s voice seemed a shade too hearty. “Mind if I touch it? Looks like mighty good material.”

“The best, Cap’n.”

Michael Shayne waited, alert. What was the unseen Tolliver getting at? He couldn’t believe the caller was interested in a linen sport shirt. He strained to catch every word.

“Yes sir,” Tolliver was saying, “I wish I had a shirt like that. But I tell you what, Mr. Shayne. To make my story clear, I got to go get the map. Left it in my car, just in case I decided not to hire you. But I’m convinced now you’re the right man for the job, so I’m going to run down to get it. I’ll be back in a minute.”

“Suppose I come with you.” There was undisguised eagerness in Whitey’s tone.

“No, we’d just have to come back here anyway. Won’t be but a minute. Don’t need two to fetch a map.”

The apartment door opened and closed. Beside Shayne, Shorty leaped up so abruptly that the knife he’d been holding on his lap skittered to the floor.

“God damn it!” Shorty cursed in the darkness. Letting the knife lie where it fell, he dashed into the living room. “Whitey!” his voice was thick with rage. “You let him get away, you knuckleheaded cracker!”

“Calm down, will you? He’s just goin’ for th’ map. Th’ treasure map. Once we have that—”

“Map hell! He got wise somehow. He came over and looked at your shirt, didn’t he? What did he see, now? Why would that — Oh, for God’s sake! It was all on account of that bird-brained beauty-shop tramp of yours, Ireneabelle. She didn’t do a complete job. Come on! We can catch him before he gets very far.”

The apartment door opened and slammed shut. Before their footsteps were gone down the hall, Shayne rolled off the bed. Contorting himself on the floor, he slid his taped hands down past his hips until he could draw his taped ankles through the circle of his arms. Now his fingers were in front of him.

He slid head first under the bed, scrabbling on the dusty boards with his fingertips for the switchblade knife Shorty had dropped. He hit it with his knuckles, knocked it away, found it again, and wriggled back out with the knife clasped between his fingertips.

He got to his knees, rose to a standing position, and hopped to the bureau. The top drawer was open a crack. He slid the handle of the knife inside the opening and wedged it in place by leaning against the drawer so that his weight held the weapon in place, caught between drawer and dresser.

Now he could saw the edge of the tape which bound his wrists against the sharp blade. It cut easily. The drawer held the knife firm. When he had half cut through the tape he twisted his wrists and broke the rest. Swiftly he pulled the sticky stuff free, wincing a little as it pulled off the red hairs on his forearm. Then he stooped, cut his ankles free. Taking time only to rip the tape from his mouth, he went after Captain Tolliver and the two thugs.

The elevator was in use. He went down the emergency stairs three at a time. They had at least four minutes’ start on him. But if they caught Tolliver they might decide to bring him back to the apartment.

Six strides took Shayne through the empty lobby. At this time of night there was no one on duty. The street outside was empty.

Around a corner garbage cans banged. The detective raced to the service alley. Old Sam, the night maintenance man, was manhandling garbage cans to the street for the morning pickup.

“Sam,” Shayne rapped. “Did you see anything just now? Two men chasing another man, maybe?”

“I sure did.” Sam paused and mopped his face. “He was a-runnin’ like a scared little rabbit. They caught him, too, up by the end of the block. Dragged him into a parked car and lit out. Maybe they was just funnin’.”

“They weren’t funning,” the redhead said grimly. Whoever Captain Tod Tolliver was, and whatever he knew, he was gone now. Whitey and Shorty had him, and by now they were miles away, lost in the maze of Greater Miami.

A bitter rage burned in him. He didn’t like to be sapped in his own room. He didn’t like having a client kidnaped from his place, either.

Shayne swung about on his heel and went back to his apartment.

Michael Shayne sloshed brandy into a glass, gulped it, and scowled. Something about Whitey had tipped off Captain Tolliver that he was a phony. There had been that business about the shirt, and Tolliver had obviously gone over to get a closer look at it. Then he’d caught on and fled. What had tipped him? Not the shirt — it had to be something to do with Whitey.

But the single look Shayne had had of him before he’d been sapped hadn’t revealed anything that should make a stranger immediately suspicious. Unless it was something that didn’t become obvious until he had put on an open-necked sport shirt and—

“Well, by God!” Shayne said aloud. Tolliver was a smart old bird. Whoever heard of a redhead being nicknamed “Whitey” anyway? Whitey had had his hair dyed especially for this job. But the hair on his chest had still been blond, and Tolliver had spotted it because of the open sport shirt. That was why Shorty had been sore at somebody in a beauty shop. For not doing a complete job of turning Whitey into a redhead. Deena — no, Ireneabelle.

Hell, already he was learning something about the two thugs who had sapped him and tried to take his place. One of them was named Shorty, the other was called Whitey. Whitey had a girl friend named Ireneabelle — an unusual name — who worked in a beauty shop and had done a hurried dye job on him.