Brett Halliday: The Body Came Back

He stopped spraddle-legged in front of Shayne and thrust a blunt jaw aggressively up into the redhead’s face, and Shayne got a strong smell of liquor on his breath.

He stepped backward a pace and said calmly. “You had a flashing red light. It was up to you to stop.”

“I did stop, b’God. Don’t you try’n say I didn’t. I come to a full stop and you pulled right in front of me. You wanta make sumpin of it?” His fists were doubled and he bared his teeth in the faint moonlight.

Shayne took another wary step backward. “No. All I want is to move your car forward so I can get out. No use sticking around until some cops show up and keep us here all night. I’ve got insurance. Let the insurance companies fight it out. Help me give your car a little shove, huh?”

He circled around the man to try and push the Pontiac forward.

“Oh, no, you don’t! Don’t put your hand on my car.” The man shoved forward against him and put his hand against Shayne’s chest. “We’ll stay right here and settle it. You’re not drivin’ away from here…”

Shayne sighed and stepped back one pace. This wasn’t the time nor place for an argument with a drunken fool. Poised on the balls of his feet, he swung his right fist in a looping uppercut that caught the blunt jaw of the man as he thrust it forward aggressively again.

With all of Shayne’s weight behind the blow, he went down like an axed ox.

Shayne left him lying there and hurried forward to lean inside the Pontiac and see that the brake was off and it was in neutral. Then he trotted back to try and shove the car forward, got his shoulder down against the rear end and braced himself for a shove when the one thing he had hoped to avoid happened.

A police radio car came cruising leisurely toward the scene of the accident, red light gleaming and bright spotlight focusing on the two cars.

He straightened up and fought back an impulse to run from the scene… leave the Ford standing there with the corpse locked in the trunk.

But it was too late for that. There was no place of concealment to run to. The spotlight was on him and he knew the officers would not hesitate to start shooting if they saw a man running away in the night leaving another one lying on the ground behind him.

He’d have to stay and bluff it out. If he was lucky, at least one of the policemen in the cruiser would be a member of the force who knew him and would take his word for what had happened.

He turned and walked slowly toward them as the police car pulled to a stop.

At that point Michael Shayne’s luck ran out. He didn’t recognize either one of the policemen in the cruiser. The one who got out first was tall and lanky and slightly stooped, with the characteristic lantern jaw and sallow complexion of those back country Georgia Crackers who swarmed into Miami in the Thirties and infested the police force. Pin a badge on one of them, and strap a big revolver on his hip, and he became immediately transformed from a meek and inoffensive man who had been kicked around by life into a blustering loudmouth who asserted his authority by kicking everyone else around.

He walked forward now, glaring officiously at the two cars and at Shayne standing in the spotlight, and demanded in a nasal whine, “What’s goin’ on here, huh? Only two cars in miles of here and you-uns have to crack each other up, huh?”

Shayne shrugged and didn’t bother to reply. He turned hopefully to the driver as he got out, and saw a burly, low-browed man wearing the uniform of a police officer and looking as though he carried a permanent chip on each shoulder. He scowled as he came around into the headlights, looked past Shayne at the body of the other driver lying on the ground and demanded, “He hurt bad?”

“He just needs to sleep it off,” Shayne said lightly.

“Drunk?” The burly man knelt down beside him.

“That’s his Pontiac,” Shayne said. “You can see for yourself that he ran the red light and slammed into my rear end.”

“Nobody’s ast you to say how it happened,” the other cop broke in. “That’s for us to figure out. Got a driver’s license?”

Shayne got out his wallet, flipped it open at his driver’s license in a celluloid compartment and extended it wordlessly.

The cop got up from beside the driver and asked with interest, “What’d you hit him with?”

Shayne said, “He came staggering at me looking for a fight and I gave him a shove. Look, Officer,” he went on persuasively. “Do we have to make a big thing out of this? You can see there’s no real damage done. I’m fully insured. If we could move his car about a foot, I could back my Ford out and get going. How about it?”

The big cop looked him up and down coldly. “What’s your hurry, Buster? We got to make out a report on this. His license okay, Ernie?” he called to his partner who had moved back with Shayne’s wallet to stand under the spotlight where he was laboriously writing down the number, name and address in a notebook.

“Looks okay,” Ernie replied reluctantly, as though the admission disappointed him. “Name of Michael Shayne, huh? Hey, Barkus. Ain’t that the tinhorn private dick that’s allus gettin’ writ up in the papers?”

“Yeah,” said Barkus slowly. “You’re Mike Shayne, huh? Whyn’t you say so in the first place?”

“No one asked me,” Shayne told him. “Now that you’ve got it straight, how about dropping the whole thing?”

“Not so dang fast! Being a private eye don’t rate you no special favors… not with the law in Miami, it don’t.”

“I’m not asking for special favors.” With a great effort Shayne held onto his rapidly thinning patience. “I’m a citizen. I live here the year around. I’m not going to run away, for Christ’s sake. Do we have to stand here all night?”

“We ain’t in no hurry,” Barkus said happily. “Are we, Ernie? Check out his car registration.” Two other cars had come along the street and pulled up curiously at the scene, and he moved out to wave them on and clear the intersection.

Shayne hesitated while Ernie went around to the Ford and opened the front door. He started to explain that it wasn’t his car. That he’d borrowed it for the evening, but realized he didn’t know what name it was registered in, and decided to wait for the questions to be asked him.

He heard a grunt and movement behind him and turned to see the Pontiac driver pushing himself up into a sitting position, cautiously feeling his jaw. Barkus came back and asked with interest, “You feel all right, feller?”

“Bastard hit me,” the man said thickly. “When I wasn’t looking. Brass knucks, feels like.”

“Oh, he’s a real tough hombre,” Barkus said happily, leaning down to take the man’s arm and help him to stand. “He carries a private detective’s license that he reckons gives him the right to go around beatin’ people up.”

Shayne set his teeth together hard and turned his back on the two of them. Ernie was coming back from the Ford with a registration card in his hand, and he demanded suspiciously, “Where’d you get that car?”

Before Shayne could reply, Barkus called out from behind him, “You know, Ernie? We got a li’l ole case of assault and battery here. This feller wants to swear out a warrant.”

“Do tell. An’ maybe a li’l ole case of false registration on top of that. Whyn’t you say where you got your hands on that Ford, Mister?” Ernie demanded of Shayne.

“Because you didn’t give me a chance.” Shayne’s voice was thick with barely suppressed anger. “I borrowed it. From a friend of mine.”

“Name of Duclos, huh? George Duclos?” Ernie peered down at the card in his hand.

“That’s right. Mine conked out and I was in a hurry to get some place. I’m still in a hurry,” he added. “Let’s cut out the clowning and get this over with. Call into headquarters, for Christ’s sake, and talk to your lieutenant on the traffic squad. Bemish. He’s a good friend of mine.”