Brett Halliday - Shoot to Kill

Still there was no sign of the private detective. There was no other car at all moving in either direction on the empty street, and the one behind them was moving up now, and Sutter clenched his Perfecto tightly between his teeth and resigned himself to handling the situation as best he could with no help from Michael Shayne.

The taxi continued to cruise south sedately in the righthand lane, and the following car was coming up fast. It swung out to go around the taxi on the left, and Sutter saw that the driver was a man, alone in the car. As he came abreast of them he honked his horn three times, shortly and sharply, and began to turn in to force the cab to the curb on the deserted street.

His driver exclaimed, “Hey. What the hell?” twisting his wheel to the right to avoid a collision, and Sutter leaned forward and said hastily, “It’s all right, driver. A… friend who wants to talk to me. Just pull in and stop.”

The taxi eased in to the curb and stopped, and the other car did likewise, nosed in at an angle in front of the cab.

It was a late model Pontiac, and the driver leaped out as it came to a full stop, circled the back of his car and came up to the cab and jerked open the back door.

“Is that you, Sutter?”

In the dim light of a street lamp half a block away, Sutter saw a thin black mustache across the young man’s face peering in at him, and recognized Victor Conroy, the late Wesley Ames’ private secretary.

He replied with some asperity, “Of course it is I. Who else do you expect to be cruising around this section of Miami at midnight in this fashion? Have you the documents we discussed over the telephone?”

“Right here.” Conroy withdrew a thick envelope from his pocket. “What have you got for me in exchange?”

“Exactly what I promised you I would have,” Sutter told him. He reached across the length of the back seat for the envelope Conroy held. “I’ll have to check the contents before we conclude our deal.”

Conroy drew back his hand and said grimly, “You can check mine while I check yours. Let’s see the color of your money first.”

At that moment the front door of the cab came open and the driver came out from behind the steering wheel all in one lithe movement. The man’s figure was no longer slouched, but was tall and broad-shouldered, and Sutter saw the glint of blued-steel in his right hand and heard a harsh voice come from his lips that held no trace of a Southern drawl:

“All right, Conroy. Step back from the car with your hands in the air.”

Before he had finished speaking the young man leaped at him. Perhaps he didn’t see the gun in Michael Shayne’s right hand, or perhaps he didn’t care. His rush carried both of them back into the vee formed by the front fenders of the taxi and the Pontiac, and the vizored cap went spinning from Shayne’s head, and Sutter saw his face and the red hair and realized for the first time who his driver had been.

He saw the rangy redhead straighten with his back against the from fender of the taxi, saw Conroy raining furious blows on his face and body, and saw Shayne swing the heavy automatic in his right hand against the side of the younger man’s head where it made a smacking sound in the night and caused him to stagger back from the attack, and then Shayne calmly measured him with a straight left to the jaw which sent him backward and down like an expertly axed ox.

Shayne leaned down over him and impassively picked up the bulky envelope which had fallen from his fingers, and stepped to the open door of the taxi and leaned in to proffer it to the shaking attorney.

“Let’s get this part of our business finished before Conroy comes around or anyone else turns up to start asking questions. Hand over the two envelopes you’ve got.”

“But… but…” stammered Sutter.

“No goddamned buts. I’ll take the money. See if your stuff is all in here.”

Dazed and bewildered and frightened, Sutter hesitantly withdrew the two envelopes containing currency from his pocket and silently passed them over to the detective and seized the envelope Shayne had taken from Conroy in return.

Shayne stepped back a pace and hastily thumbed through the contents of both envelopes, then wadded the money into his pocket and turned to kneel beside Conroy who was beginning to stir and groan on the pavement.

He lifted the lax figure of the secretary as easily as he would have lifted a rag doll, and draped him forward, face down, across the front fender and hood of the Pontiac while he shook him down carefully for a weapon.

He found no weapon, but in his right-hand jacket pocket Shayne encountered a key with a heavy metal tab attached to it which he took out and held up to the light. The key had the number 25 stamped on it, and the metal tag was inscribed: Motel Biscay Rest, with an address on Biscayne Boulevard north of 79th Street.

Shayne turned it over and over questioningly in his hands, then scowled down at Conroy’s unconscious body. He dropped the motel key in his own pocket and checked the man’s pulse, found it was strong but irregular, and that his breathing was steady.

He turned his head as the New York attorney emerged from the back seat of the taxi, and exclaimed, “You certainly did give me a surprise, Shayne. I had no idea you were impersonating the driver. Is the young man hurt badly?”

“Just knocked out. He’ll come around soon enough. You get your stuff all right?”

“Yes. All the papers seem to be in order. What are you going to do with Conroy? Will he have to be charged with attempted blackmail, with me subpoenaed as a witness? After all no harm has really been done. I have the papers I came for. If this entire affair can possibly be kept quiet you will be doing my firm and our client a great service, and I assure you that adequate payment will be made.”

“I’ve got a fairly adequate payment in my pocket already,” Shayne told him bluntly. “I’ll consider that my fee if I can keep this quiet. Unfortunately, though, it may be evidence against Conroy for murder, and you may be required to testify.”

“Murder? I don’t understand. I thought that was all settled.”

“I told you things had changed. Here’s what I advise you to do,” Shayne went on swiftly. “Can you drive Conroy’s car?”

“I presume so. It seems a standard model.”

“Then get back to your hotel right away. No. You’d better stop some place. At another hotel lobby on the way where you can address that envelope and get some stamps for it. Put it in the mail for New York before you go to the Costain. Then leave the Pontiac parked a block or so away and go in and straight up to your room. The cops will either be waiting for you, or they’ll be around soon. They’ll be asking you questions about the period you were in the Ames house before he was shot, but we’ll hope they have no lead on this and won’t question you. Don’t volunteer anything. Be evasive about where you’ve been since checking in at the Costain. If I can clear up Ames’ murder in the meantime, there’s no reason this blackmail caper has to enter into it. Just sit tight and hope you’ll be allowed to take a morning plane to New York. Get in that car and drive it away so I can get out of here,” he went on gruffly, turning back to Conroy and getting the limp body onto his shoulder.

He carried the man around to the other side of the taxi and thrust him into the front seat where he huddled down in a crumpled heap, breathing stertorously but with his eyes still tightly closed.

Sutter was behind the steering wheel of the Pontiac starting the motor when Shayne hurried around and got into the cab. He got the other car moving, and headed sedately southward toward downtown Miami, and Shayne made a left turn in the taxi at the next corner and drove to Biscayne Boulevard where he turned north.