Brett Halliday - Blood on the Stars

As Shayne drove in he neared a solid ten-foot panel that rose slowly to admit passage onto a rickety freight elevator.

The mechanic chuckled at the detective’s surprise when the panel closed soundlessly behind them when the sedan was on the elevator. He stepped from the running-board and pressed a button and the elevator descended slowly to the floor below, which was brightly lighted and resounded with the thumping sounds of a wooden mallet on sheet metal.

“Pull it off over here,” he directed Shayne. “We’ll get to you just as soon as we finish up this other one.”

Shayne drove off the elevator onto a clear space in the underground workroom and cut the ignition. The mechanic strolled over to say a few words to his fellow workman, who was pounding out dents in the right front fender that had been removed from a black limousine.

After lighting a cigarette, Shayne got out and strolled over to the workman to ask casually, “How much longer will you be on that job?”

“Quarter of an hour, maybe. All you got to do is sit tight and you can drive that hack of yours out of here fixed so nobody in God’s world’ll ever know you been in an accident.”

Shayne said, “Fair enough.” He walked around the limousine, looking at it with casual disinterest, memorized the number of the Dade County license plate, then returned to the mechanics and said enthusiastically, “That’s the kind of crate I’d like to own. I suppose a guy would have to be a millionaire to get one like it these days.”

One of them grunted some noncommittal reply, and they both went on with their work.

“I always wondered,” Shayne went on, “how it felt to sit behind the wheel of a buggy like that.”

Neither of the men said anything, but went on with their hammering as though their lives depended upon getting the job finished within a few minutes.

Shayne shrugged and dropped his cigarette to the concrete floor and ground it out with his shoe. He yawned and strolled back to the limousine and leaned inside the front window to study the rich upholstery and the gleaming dashboard.

Glancing at the mechanics, he saw that neither of them was paying any attention to him. The windshield of the big car appeared to be faintly opaque, and Shayne felt the window glass between his thumb and forefinger. It seemed extra thick, and he had a hunch it was intended to be bulletproof.

He unlatched the door and slid onto the soft cushion behind the wheel, switched on the dashlight and pretended interest in the speedometer and various other gadgets.

There was a single key in the ignition lock, and Shayne pressed a button on the glove compartment to search for some clue as to the car’s owner. It came open easily, and he was groping inside the small opening when two men appeared on a wooden stairway leading down from a room upstairs.

The men came slowly toward the limousine, halted, and glared at him. They were both neatly dressed in dark suits, and the slimmer one was quite young. He had thick lips and his eyes bulged a trifle, giving his face an expression of boyish astonishment. His companion was heavier and some twenty years older. He had a thick black mustache and looked like newspaper photographs of Molotov.

He said, “What the hell you doing in there?” and put his right hand inside his coat pocket.

Shayne straightened up and withdrew his hand from the glove compartment. “Sorry,” he said nervously. “Wasn’t anybody around and I didn’t think it’d hurt any to sit here a minute and pretend I was a big shot like the guy that owns this heap.”

The bulky man stopped beside the car and opened the right door with his left hand. He said, “Get out.” He reached inside and slammed the glove compartment shut. “So you didn’t think it’d hurt any if you snooped, huh?”

Shayne slid out from behind the wheel and closed the door on his side. The younger man came around the front of the car and looked at him intently. He said excitedly to his companion, “Listen, Blackie. Ain’t this the dick that had his pitcher in the paper last week?”

Shayne started to turn away, but Blackie caught him by the arm and peered suspiciously at his face. “By God,” he snarled, “you’re right, kid. It’s Mike Shayne. That tough shamus from across the bay. I heard he was back in town lookin’ for trouble.” His right hand was in his coat pocket. He let go of Shayne’s arm and took a backward step. “Shake ’im down, kid.”

Shayne lifted his arms to let the kid shake him down. He said mildly, “I don’t care what you do just so you don’t tell the cops I’m in here getting a busted fender fixed.”

The kid felt over him carefully and said, “It’s okay, Blackie. Do you think-?”

“I think he’s too damned curious,” Blackie said angrily.

“You can see for yourself.” Shayne nodded toward his sedan. “I can’t go out on the street till that’s fixed.”

“Had an accident?”

“Little bust-up on Collins Avenue. You know I don’t stand in with the Beach police, and I’d just as leave not have Painter ask me any questions about that fender and headlight.”

Blackie’s eyes were narrowed and suspicious. “I’ll just check on that, shamus. Watch him, kid.” He turned aside to a pay telephone against the wall, put in a nickel, and called police headquarters.

He got the traffic bureau and said, “I’m checking on an accident this evening. Anything reported in the last couple of hours?”

He listened a moment, hung up, came back with an ugly scowl on his heavy features and both hands planted deep in his pockets.

“You’re lying, Shayne. What’s the big idea?”

Shayne shrugged and said, “It could have something to do with a ruby bracelet.”

The kid’s eyes widened with anxiety. Blackie’s scowl grew deeper yet. He muttered, “Wise guy, huh?”

“I’m just trying to tell you that I’m back in business and I’ve got the same in with the insurance people that I always had. If you know anybody that’s got a ruby bracelet for sale, I’m ready to make an offer. Just pass the word around. That Mike Shayne is in the market and can be reached at the same old place.”

“Jeez, Blackie,” said the kid uneasily. “I don’t think-”

Blackie said, “Keep your trap shut and watch him.” He went back to the telephone and dialed another number. This time he put his mouth close to the mouthpiece and talked in a low mumble which Shayne could not hear.

He hung up after a time and came back to the detective with a pleased smile on his dark features, pushing his Panama hat up on his forehead.

Shayne said, “No hard feeling. I don’t blame you-”

Blackie’s left hand came out of his pocket in a swinging arc. Light was momentarily reflected from a pair of brass knucks before they connected solidly with the side of Shayne’s chin. He went down and out under the smashing impact.

A heavy hand on Shayne’s shoulder shook him back to consciousness. He was slumped over the steering-wheel of his own car and moonlight was shining in the window. There was a heavy stench of cheap whisky inside the car.

The side of his jaw felt as though it had been kicked by a mule, and his belly was sore. He straightened up groggily and turned to look into the broad face of a uniformed policeman leaning in through the open window.

“H’lo, officer,” he muttered. “Where am I? What-?”

“Mike Shayne!” the cop said with incredulity. “Passed out, by God, like a high-school kid. You feel all right?”

“I feel like hell.” Shayne lifted his hand to tentatively waggle his jaw. “Did a house fall on me?”

“You must of got that lick on the jaw when you ran off the road and hit this culvert.” The policeman turned on a flashlight and sent the beam forward to show Shayne the front end of his sedan crashed against the concrete abutment of a culvert. “Probably would of broke your neck if you hadn’t been drunk as a coot when it happened.”