Майкл Бретт - Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 36, No. 6, June, 1975

It ran like clockwork. The first body was left on the hood of Mike Shayne’s car. The second came addressed to the detective. But no one knew where the other two kidnap victims were — nor how they would be returned!

The lone thief bolted from the self-opening door as Michael Shayne curved from the sidewalk to enter the bank. The robber was hooded. He carried a gun in his right hand and a brown paper bag in his left. He crashed into the Miami private detective’s shoulder, yelped and spun off.

Shayne was off balance. He pitched toward the curbing, slammed palms against the fender of a parked car.

He whipped around to see the robber dodging and dancing between pedestrians in a weaving pattern along the sidewalk. A bank guard raced out of the door of the tall building, leveling a service revolver. There were screams of surprise and instant terror, hoarse shouts. The pedestrians split as if divided by a giant knife.

But the bank guard had a second thought. He did not fire the weapon.

Shayne moved out in a long-legged run, bulling and spinning and darting as the pedestrians moved back in on him like the receding of a tremendous wave. He no longer could see the robber, but his eyes picked up the split of the sidewalk crowd far ahead. Then suddenly there was no more division of pedestrians and the redhead knew his quarry had left the street.

Shayne puffed up to an alley entrance, saw the stares from the curious facing down the alley. He entered the alley. There was no one in sight, only the garbage cans and the litter. Near the opposite end of the block, a car was parked against one of the alley walls.

Shayne looked up. No climbers. He searched the opposite end of the alley. Walkers moved back and forth across the opening without breaking stride.

So his man was still in the alley somewhere, hunched, waiting. He could have a gun leveled on the detective’s middle in this instant, eyes squeezed down, muscles taut, trigger finger tensed. He could be waiting for one more step from the detective, just one more…

Mike Shayne knew he was a huge target.

He heard police sirens in the distance. The sound of the sirens was sweeping in fast.

He moved in behind a dented garbage can, squatted, then yanked out the .45. The movement should have triggered reaction from the robber. It didn’t.

Shayne sweated as he searched the shade of the macadam cavern. Had the robber found a hole in the alley and dived in? A door in one of the walls that formed the alley! That had to be it. Perhaps the escape route had been planned, a door left unlocked for a reason.

The robber could be inside one of the buildings, going up to a roof. Or he could be ridding himself of the hood, the paper sack, transferring the money to a legitimate-looking airline bag. In just a few seconds, he could be going out a front door of the building and blending into the sidewalk crowd, striding along with the noon walkers, moving just like anyone else with intent and destination on a short noon hour break.

Shayne left the meager protection of the garbage can and moved deeper into the alley, large jaw thrust, gray eyes searching every cranny, the gun ready in his hand. He tried a couple of doors. They were locked. He moved in behind the parked car, looked back down the alley.

All the redhead saw was the cluster of curious, pedestrians, still packed in the alley entrance, still watching.

No one had gone out that way. There would have been shouts, shrieks.

Shayne moved cautiously along the side of the parked sedan, and glanced inside. He froze. The man was on the floor of the rear seat, face down and hunched slightly, arms covering his hooded head as if he were warding off imaginary blows, the paper bag stuffed into a corner beside his elbow.

Shayne yanked open the car door and stepped on the man’s gun wrist. The man yelped and squirmed, but made no effort to lift his head. Rather, he seemed to be attempting to snake out of sight into a non-existent hole.

Shayne stared at the gun in the man’s hand. The gun looked like it had come from a grave. It was rusty and moldy and stiff.

The detective holstered his .45 and jerked the rusty gun from the man’s hand, and pitched it on the car seat. The gun hadn’t been fired in years, and was probably inoperable. Shayne caught clothing at the man’s shoulders and jerked him out of the car. The face was screwed up in fright, the eyes held a gleam of terror. The man attempted to lift his hands.

Shayne knelt on one knee and clutched the man’s shirt front, jerked him into a sitting position.

The man babbled, “D-d-don’t shoot me, officer.”

Shayne sighed, stood. “Come on, pal. On your feet.”

The man cowered. “I was — desperate. I ain’t got a job. I’m hungry.”

Shayne grabbed the paper bag, looked inside. There were a few one dollar bills. Nothing more.

“It… it’s all the woman gave me,” the man babbled. “Honest — officer. I didn’t lose none of it running.”

Shayne almost felt like giving the guy fifty bucks and telling him to scramble. The guy would be ahead.

Novices!

The detective snorted.

Donald Varga was a novice at this kind of game, and he was nervous. He gripped the steering wheel of the parked panel truck tightly as he stared across the intersection. Fingers worked, perspiration filmed his dusky skin.

Beside him, the girl glanced at the cheap silver watch on her wrist. “It’s five o’clock, doll,” she said, tone flat. “Time.”

“She’ll be along,” Varga said in a voice that broke. “I’ve timed her four Tuesdays in a row. Five to five-fifteen, that’s when she hits this corner. We’ve got—”

Varga stiffened. “There she is!”

The girl who had appeared on the sidewalk across the street was a stranger, long-legged and narrow, but she moved with a certain grace. She walked alone toward the intersection, her arms crossed, holding library books against her middle.

Varga started the motor of the stolen truck. He had to time this right. The act had to be quick. If they were spotted, weeks of slide-rule planning would be wasted.

And he would not have his revenge!

From the back of the truck, a swarthy man chuckled. “Hey, man, she’s a looker too. Huh, Artist?” Dark eyes gleamed in new anticipation.

“Heavy, Pope,” breathed the long-haired youth who was squatted beside him. He sniffed hard through a long nose, then coughed.

Varga winced. In the last month, he had learned to dislike Artist Bass and to fear Steve Pope. But they had been Iris’ selections when he first had laid out his plan to her. And his plan called for help. He and Iris couldn’t pull the job alone. There was too much scheduled to happen in the next twenty-four hours.

So artist and Pope had been brought in. They were regulars at the joint where Iris had been a nudie. She knew them, knew what made them tick. Iris had few talents, but she had a lush body, and she was an exhibitionist. The combination had made her an expert on men. She had vowed Artist and Pope were the kind of men needed in a million dollar caper.

“Move, man, or you’re going to miss her!” Pope hissed, jerking Varga back at the moment.