Бретт Холлидей: Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 33, No. 2, July 1973

Wary, silent, they drove through the hostile night, a red-headed dick named Mike Shayne and the one man who might have saved him from getting killed — except for the fact that he had already been a corpse for weeks!

The case was closed, money in the bank. It was a good feeling.

Michael Shayne wore a wide grin as he slapped Benjamin Ames, his Chicago contact, on the back and watched Ames leg it toward the huge jet plane. Ames had brought the case to the Miami private detective. Ames had needed help, desperately. Shayne had accomodated, and he now was $2,000 richer.

He also had his first solid hot meal in days waiting for him in his secretary’s apartment. Lucy Hamilton had promised it to him.

Shayne laughed low in his throat and strode out, a hulking figure with keen gray eyes, rugged features, and an air of purpose that made clusters of travelers part as if on silent command as his long strides moved through the terminal. Outside it continued to drizzle. The drizzle was little more than a mist, but it kept the early Miami evening soaked.

Shayne laughed again as he moved quickly toward the convertible. On occasion he liked a wet night. Especially one that promised the best cognac, good food, soft taped music, and a sometimes mischievous, sometimes deadly serious brownette with a twinkle in her eye and a flash in her smile.

He was forced to brake the powerful convertible slightly as a dark hearse eased on to the airport exit road ahead of him. Briefly he thought about throwing power to the convertible but the hearse moved out and settled into a fast-enough, safe pace for a rainy night.

The hearse turned onto LeJeune Road. Shayne cruised, keeping the twin tail lights far enough ahead so that a sudden stop would not result, in a smashed front end. But the man driving behind him obviously did not give a damn about a smashed radiator. He was riding close, headlights too bright, those lights occasionally dancing out, as if the driver was going to pass the convertible, then dodging back, as if the driver had had a quick change of mind.

The driver irritated Shayne. He scowled, slowed, putting more distance between himself and the hearse as he waited for the driver behind to pass. The headlights in the mirror hung tight.

The redhead lifted his foot from the accelerator, allowed the convertible to coast. The headlights hung for a few more seconds and then suddenly rolled up beside him. A sedan flashed past, continued on down LeJeune, riding the left lane and casting a thin sheet of spray that smeared against the convertible windshield.

Shayne turned his wipers to high speed. As the windshield cleared he saw that the sedan already had moved up beside the hearse. It dipped in toward the hearse and then straightened, and Shayne was instantly alert. The driver of the sedan seemed to be losing control.

The sedan dipped again and this time the hearse gave it the roadway. Red taillights of the hearse flashed brightly. Shayne yelled as the sedan and the hearse touched metal. He saw the back end of the hearse begin to sway dangerously but the sedan didn’t give an inch. It kept edging the hearse into the curbing.

Suddenly the hearse went over the curbing and nosed into a large palm tree. Its rear end came up. Shayne stomped reflexively on his brake as the wheels of the hearse left the ground. Then he became too busy to worry about the hearse.

He caught the convertible in a half skid, spun the steering wheel so that the nose of the car went into the slide. He rode the skid. The braked sedan loomed before him. Three guys had peeled out of the sedan and were racing toward the hearse.

Shayne glanced in his rear view mirror. No headlights immediately behind him. He jammed the brake and spun the wheel, purposely putting the convertible into the spin again. He figured it was the only way he’d miss the sedan.

The back end came around. Shayne gripped the steering wheel hard, grimacing as he waited for the right second to bring the car out of the spin. That second eluded him. The rear end of the convertible came on around and a wheel slammed against the curbing. The jolt brought an oath from the redhead. But there was no explosion of a blowout.

He was stopped, the motor still purring. He growled and rolled from the seat. The sight down the street stopped him in his tracks. Vision was distorted by darkness and the drizzle, but he knew what he was seeing. The only trouble was, he had difficulty believing.

One of the three men from the sedan brought something in his hand down hard on the skull of the hearse driver. The driver hit the street.

Another member of the trio had reached inside the open front door of the hearse and had captured the driver’s companion. He yanked the prone man halfway off the seat, then brought his knee up hard into the man’s face. The man went limp and the goon left him draped half in and half out of the hearse.

The third member of the trio had disappeared into the rear of the hearse. When he reappeared, he was dragging a corpse.

Shayne shouted and broke into a run. But the movement of one of the goons triggered warning bells inside his skull. He saw the guy swing out from the others and bring up his arm. The redhead launched himself in a flat racing dive as the gun in the goon’s hand roared. Shayne felt his hat whipped from his head.

He slammed into the wet pavement and skidded on his chest. Rolling, he pawed for the .45 snug in its shoulder rig against his left side. He rolled again and came up with the .45. The three goons were stuffing the corpse into the rear seat of the sedan.

Shayne triggered a shot. One of the trio howled and spun away from his companions. Then a slug bounced in front of the detective’s nose and whined across his ear. When he looked up again, the wounded man was being jammed into the rear seat of the sedan too.

Another slug whistled low over Shayne, forcing him to tuck his jaw. He heard tires howl a tortured song. The sedan was moving when he sighted it a second time. He put a slug in the back of the sedan but the car kept rolling.

There was confusion all around him. Headlights of stopped cars splashed, the wet street glistened, there were shouts, muttered oaths, the sound of running feet slapping against pavement.

And soon there would be screaming sirens and whirling red lights.

Shayne found his hat, bolted to the convertible and put it through a skidding, tire-protesting U-turn. The tail lights of the sedan were far down LeJeune now and growing smaller fast. He tromped on the accelerator and the convertible responded by seeming to leap a few yards and then settling into gathering speed.

The sedan whipped up on to South Dixie Highway. Shayne curled after it. He saw his speedometer needle roll up to 100 mph; edge beyond, but he didn’t seem to be gaining on the sedan. He put more pressure on the accelerator. The drizzle had turned to light rain. They were catching up with the back end of the storm that had passed over the city an hour earlier, and now the combination of the rain and the speed forced the detective to hunch low over the steering wheel and squint.

Shayne caught the City Limits sign as he flashed past. It registered. They were out of the city now, the lights of Miami fading fast behind him. They were out where there was some open space and the traffic had thinned considerably. The detective glanced at his gas gauge. He had enough gas to chase the sedan a hundred miles if necessary.