Brett Halliday - Blood on the Stars

But Ray Huggins had slipped from power eighteen months ago and there had probably been two or three uneasy successors since then, men who might not even know Mike Shayne except by reputation, and who certainly had no way of knowing he was back in business at the old stand.

Shayne’s belly muscles tightened as these vagrant thoughts drifted through his mind. Was he actually back in business in Miami? He hadn’t publicly announced any such intention, for he hadn’t made up his mind yet. But he knew, as he drove meditatively along beneath Miami’s golden moonglow that the decision had been made for him tonight-by Peter Painter.

He knew without going into involved thought processes, that he had accepted the challenge of the Miami Beach detective chief. It was Painter’s own fault for dragging him into the case. He had no intention of being told what he could or could not do. The threat of arrest on charges of complicity if he dared arrange a deal for the return of the bracelet would be laughable had it come from anyone except Painter. It was the sort of statement any cop might toss off in front of an aggrieved citizen, but from anyone else it would have been accompanied by a sly wink to take away any sting from the official warning. Everybody in the know fully understood how such matters were arranged. It was, in a sense, a kind of tribute levied by the underworld, and one played along with it whether he liked it or not.

Shayne didn’t like it himself, but he had picked up some nice fees that way in the past, and the insurance companies were glad to pay a moderate reward instead of sustain a huge loss. A case such as this, involving a fortune in gems which could not be fenced to advantage, was perfect for a fix. The important thing was to get oneself into it as a go-between who could be trusted by both parties. The thing now was to figure out a way to contact the jewel thieves in a hurry before someone else got to them with a proposition.

He turned off on one of the side streets before reaching Fifth and drove slowly, sitting erect behind the wheel and watching each side of the quiet street calculatingly.

A few blocks from the ocean he stopped in the middle of the block. The houses on both sides of the street were dark and there were no cars in sight in either direction. A gravel drive led off to the right, through stone gateposts into the landscaped grounds of a moderately large estate.

He was driving a light sedan which he had bought secondhand when he learned that Lucy Hamilton was coming to Miami. It was of pre-war vintage, but he had given it a new black paint job and it glistened now in the moonlight.

Shayne backed up a few feet, put the sedan in second gear and rolled smoothly toward the entrance of the estate, keeping close to the left-hand side of the drive. Directly opposite the stone gatepost, he wrenched the steering-wheel sharply to the left and there was a loud grating crash as the fender was crumpled against solid stone.

The sedan shivered and rocked to a halt. He calmly put it in reverse and backed out onto the macadam, then went forward and around a corner and on southward past Fifth to South Beach. He parked inconspicuously on a dimly lit side street, got out and hurried to the garish boardwalk, the Coney Island of southern Florida.

There, among hotdog stands and shooting-galleries, he hastily entered a hole-in-the-wall barroom and moved swiftly back behind the row of occupied stools, catching the proprietor’s eye as he passed the cash register and jerking his head significantly toward the rear.

The proprietor was a thin, tubercular looking man with pallid cheeks and small eyes sunk far back beneath bulging brows. He nodded his head slightly in response to Shayne’s signal, rang up a sale and made change, then slid off the stool behind the register. He said something to the nearest bartender, and strolled to the rear where Shayne awaited him.

“Haven’t seen you around much,” he began casually. Shayne seized the man’s thin arm and said, “I’m in a jam, Bert. A hell of a jam.” He paused to lick his lips and went on hoarsely, “Ran into a guy up the street a few minutes ago. I wasn’t going too fast, but it knocked him ten or fifteen feet.”

“Hurt bad?” Bert Haynes pursed his thin lips and looked concerned.

“Hell, I don’t know. Afraid so.” Shayne shrugged and went on rapidly, “I didn’t stop to find out. You know the way I stand with Painter here on the Beach.”

Bert nodded. “I know he’d like to hang something on you, all right.”

“My crate’s parked up the street. Busted fender and headlight. If they pick me up my garage will tell ’em it was all right when I took it out tonight.”

“Tough,” Bert murmured with commiseration.

Shayne’s big hand tightened on his arm. “I’ve been out of circulation a long time, Bert. There must be some place where I can get a fast job done on that fender without any questions.”

Bert Haynes blinked both eyes and tightened his bloodless lips against his teeth. “Try Mickey’s Garage. Down near the end of the beach and over a block.” He gave Shayne explicit directions. “I hear around that they know how to keep a buttoned lip on the sort of work they do.”

“Hot stuff?”

“I wouldn’t know. Wait a minute.” He caught Shayne’s sleeve as the redhead started away. “You’re not working?” he asked anxiously. “You wouldn’t work me for a tip with a phoney come-on?”

Shayne laughed shortly. “Have I ever pulled a fast one like that?”

“No. You ain’t for a fact,” he agreed.

“But I am working again,” Shayne said quietly. “You can pass that along to anyone who might be interested.” He hurried out of the small barroom and back to his damaged car, got in and drove around to a neon sign that read: Mickey’s Garage. Gen’l Repairs, Body Work a Specialty.

The wide wooden door leading into the garage was closed. Shayne turned off the street and stopped with his front wheels on the sidewalk. He got out and found a button on one side of the door with a metal plate above it that read: Night Bell.

He put his finger on the button and held it down until the door slid open enough to let a man come through. He wore grimy coveralls and a greasy mechanic’s cap. He scowled inquiringly at the man who had disturbed him, blinked in the glare of the single headlight of Shayne’s car and said, “Yeh? Whadya want?”

“Had an accident.” Shayne gestured toward his car. “I need a fast job before the cops pick me up.”

“I dunno.” The mechanic came through the aperture and went to study the damage to the fender and head light. He shook his head and said, “Rush jobs come high.”

“I don’t give a damn about the cost.” Shayne had his wallet out and began pulling out twenty-dollar bills. “How much to fix me up with a new fender and headlight?”

“Trouble is, we’re busy.” He furtively considered the bills fanned out in Shayne’s hand. “Anybody hurt bad?”

“I’m not paying for a lot of questions,” Shayne countered. He added another twenty to the four in his hand, then, more slowly, another. He closed the wallet and returned it to his pocket. “It won’t be hard to match this new paint job of mine.” He smoothed the six bills together, folded them lengthwise, and slapped them against his palm.

The mechanic nodded and reached for the money. “Drive on in. I’ll get on yours just as soon as I finish the job I’m on.” He stepped back and slid the door all the way open.

Shayne drove inside a big room with half a dozen cars parked around the wall in various stages of dismantlement. He waited just inside while the mechanic closed the door and said, “This doesn’t look too good. If the cops come around-”

The mechanic stepped on the running-board beside him and grinned widely, showing a gap in his front upper teeth. “Never you mind about the law, buddy. Drive straight ahead and turn in between them white lines on the floor.”