Brett Halliday: Murder Takes No Holiday

Alvarez sniffed. In his hiding place Shayne heard the supercilious little sniff clearly. “I hope you don’t think I could do anything so stupid.”

“Not personally. But if Watts was working for you, if he broke a contract and you had him killed, I intend to see that you hang for it, even if somebody else actually used the knife.”

“That Watts was working for me?” The amazement in Alvarez’ voice seemed genuine to Shayne.

The policeman continued, “I don’t think he was stabbed on the street where he was found. I think he was stabbed in a car, and dropped where he was because the murderer knew that no one in that neighborhood would give any cooperation to the police. From that day to this, we’ve done nothing but follow blind leads. I, for one, am tired of it. So I’m taking in a few of your people. With any luck at all I can hold them for twenty-four hours. I don’t know how this Michael Shayne fits into the picture, if he fits into it at all, but perhaps in twenty-four hours I can get them to admit he was here.”

The Camel’s voice was suddenly choked and ugly. “You are making a mistake, Sergeant.”

“That may very well be,” the other responded. “We will find out.”

There was a quick clatter of footsteps. Alvarez said urgently, “I will speak to them. Why should they not admit the American was here? He means nothing to me. One word will clear it up.”

“Tomorrow, Alvarez.”

A little scuffle followed, and the Englishman’s voice came again. He said coldly and quietly, “Take your hands off me.”

Shayne made an interested face in the darkness. He had a cramp in one leg; in another minute or two he would have to move, no matter what stage the argument had reached below. But that ended it. There were more footsteps. The door slammed. Alvarez swore angrily in Spanish and kicked over a chair. He went out, and Shayne at last was able to roll over. He moved his wrist so he could see his watch. It was ten minutes to eleven. If the radio schedule had indicated an eleven o’clock appointment, it was rapidly approaching.

Again the door opened and closed. “Shayne?” the Camel’s voice said. “Come down now.”

Shayne lifted the trap-door and lowered himself. As his feet touched the desk, one leg caved in and he nearly fell.

“You-you-” Alvarez said incoherently. “Why couldn’t you call on the phone and tell me quietly? But no. You had to get out on the dance floor so only a blind man could fail to see you.”

“I didn’t know they had a Wanted sheet out on me already,” Shayne said, massaging his leg. “You ought to put an air mattress up there. What’s the charge, did the guy on the phone say?”

“Armed robbery.”

Shayne chuckled. “Could be worse.”

He reached up into the little attic for the rum, then worked the door back into position. After he got down from the desk, Alvarez wiped off his footprints with his silk handkerchief.

“What I should do,” Alvarez said, “is wash my hands of the whole thing. You make trouble for me, I knew that the first minute I saw you.”

He looked at his watch again, and clapped his hand over his wrist. “I could choke you with these hands! A mess you make of this, you blundering imbecile!”

English was not a flexible enough language to express his feelings, and he fell back on Spanish. He took a few nervous steps, and returned to the desk. He looked searchingly at Shayne, who was unscrewing the cap of the rum bottle.

“Something wrong?” the redhead said innocently.

“Wrong! One works everything out carefully, takes all possibilities into account, and then a large stupid North American lumbers in like a bull in a parlor-”

He broke off abruptly. “Can you drive a car?”

Shayne raised his eyebrows. “Sure.”

“Then I will do you a service and get you off the island. But first you will do a service for me. The two men I could trust, they are now, thanks to you, in jail. You will have to take their place.”

Shayne balanced the bottle lightly in both hands. “Better tell me something about it, amigo. I like to know what I’m doing.”

“It is nothing so complicated, after all. You are to follow me in a car and pick me up when I tell you. Then we go another place, and after that, directly to the dock and you leave St. Albans before you get me into more trouble, God forbid. First the bullets, please.”

He put out his hand. Shayne gave him the clip for the. 45 and watched him load the gun.

“You don’t just want a driver,” the redhead said, settling himself on the desk. “Even an American imbecile like me can figure that out.”

The Camel’s mouth was twitching again. “That is true,” he admitted, and continued reluctantly, “I meet a certain person tonight. I am not altogether sure I trust this person. I would not wish an accident to happen. No special exertion on your part is necessary. It will be enough if you are present.” He added more sharply, “And are you in any position to refuse?”

“I’m not refusing,” Shayne said. He fished out a cigarette and a match, and struck the match on his thumbnail. “But when the cops showed up, you bumped the tariff from fifteen hundred to twenty-five. Now let’s be reasonable. Make it an even thousand and I’m with you.”

Alvarez looked at him with distaste. “So. It is a bargain. Although you exaggerate the value of your service, Mr. Shayne. It is merely insurance against an unpleasantness. I am delivering a car. You are to follow me closely. I will leave the car in a garage, and you will take me where I tell you. There I will exchange the keys to the car for a sum of money. That is all.”

Shayne laughed and stood up. “It’s a hell of a complicated way to run a railroad.”

“But it is not your railroad, is it? I begin to think that I will be relieved to see the last of you, Mr. Shayne. Now,” he said with the spinsterish primness that seemed to be habitual with him, “here is what you must do.”

Michael Shayne, cigarette dangling from his lips, switched out the light after Alvarez left the office. Going to the window, he adjusted the slats of the blind and raised it all the way. The window was already up as far as it would go. Kneeling and keeping close to the window frame, he looked out cautiously.

He would have only a three-foot drop to a cobblestoned alley. A cat was prowling along it, a big yellow tom. Seeing Shayne, the animal froze and gave him a look of intense suspicion-possibly wondering, Shayne thought wryly, if the American was actually wanted for armed robbery by the Florida police.

He heard an automobile motor. It idled a moment, then stalled. That was the signal. When it took hold again, Shayne swung one of his long legs over the sill. At his first move, the cat whirled about and disappeared. The redhead let himself down to his full length and dropped to the cobblestones as a small British car with Alvarez at the wheel turned the corner. The motor and transmission seemed very loud to Shayne in the narrow alley. As the car braked, the door swung open. Shayne backed in.

Alvarez snapped, “Get down. They may have another man in back.”

“What do you mean, get down?” Shayne growled. “I’m down as far as I can go.”

But by putting his head between his shoulders and twisting sideward, he managed to slide a little farther. Alvarez accelerated rapidly. The tires squealed as he turned the corner.

“Not yet!” he said, as Shayne started to raise his head.

After a few more blocks he gave Shayne permission to get up on the seat. They were leaving the narrow, twisting streets of the Old Town, Shayne saw, heading inland. The Camel’s eyes darted busily back and forth between the road ahead and the rearview mirror. Presently he swung to the right and pulled up beside another of the little cars which, with the exception of bicycles and carriages, were the only means of transport on the island.