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.”
“I reckon I’ll call in all right, but I won’t be talking to Lieutenant Bemish,” Ernie told him with relish. “On account he’s on sick leave.”
“Then call Chief Gentry,” grated Shayne. “He’ll vouch for me.”
“Boy, you sure do toss them important names around,” said Ernie admiringly. He turned his head to spit down on the ground. “Scares hell out of just a plain cop like me. Hey, Barkus? You reckon we had oughtta apologize to Mister Shayne an’ shine his shoes for him?”
“Get on the radio and call in,” grunted Barkus. “Have ’em call the owner of that car to come to headquarters and pick it up. We’ll be bookin’ Shayne, I reckon. Mr. Seymour, here, is ready to sign a complaint.”
Shayne turned back with a sigh as Ernie went to the radio car. The owner of the Pontiac had lighted a cigar and was puffing on it furiously, leaning against the fender of his car. Shayne said placatingly, “I’m sorry this happened… Mr. Seymour, is it? It was purely a misunderstanding. I apologize, and I’ll pay for the damage to your car even though I don’t think it was legally my fault. Could anything be fairer than that? Let’s shake on it?” He took a step forward and held out his hand.
“Damn well right you’ll pay for the damage,” muttered Seymour thickly. “Pulled right in front of me and then ’saulted me without pro…” He hiccoughed. “… provocation,” he finished. He folded his arms across his thick chest and pointedly disregarded Shayne’s outstretched hand.
Shayne turned to Barkus and said to him in a furious undertone, “For God’s sake, Officer. Hasn’t this farce gone far enough? He hasn’t got a leg to stand on in court. He had the red light. I was going through the intersection about ten miles an hour when he hit my rear end. Then he came rushing around spoiling for a fight and threatened me. Goddamn it, you know I won’t stay at headquarters for ten minutes if you’re silly enough to take me in on a trumped-up charge like this. You must know Will Gentry and I have been friends for more years than you’ve been on the Force. You’re not going to get a medal for dragging me in.”
“I reckon I’m not lookin’ for any medals,” Barkus told him coldly. “It’s my sworn duty to make an arrest if a citizen swears out a complaint.”
Shayne drew in a deep breath, held it a long moment, and then exhaled slowly. He moved to Barkus’s side and took his arm and moved him away a few feet. In a low voice, he said, “I’m working on a hell of an important case and I can’t afford to go in to headquarters and straighten this up right now. I’ll come in in the morning, Goddamn it. Let me post a personal bond and get the hell away from here right now. How much?” In his hands he held the wallet which Ernie had given back to him after checking his license. He opened the bill-fold and began taking out bills, keeping his back to Seymour.
“You know the bond won’t be more than fifty dollars if you drag me in,” he went on persuasively. “Make it a hundred… two hundred… to guarantee I’ll show up in the morning to answer any charges that are laid against me.”
He held out a sheaf of twenty-dollar bills and the policeman’s big hand closed over them greedily. He crumpled them up into a wad and called over to his partner who was in the front seat of the cruiser operating the radio.
“We got another charge against him, Ernie. A real good one this time. Attempting to bribe an officer. I got the evidence right here, by God.”
“How much?” Ernie called back with interest.
“Two hundred bucks.”
“Cheap bastard deserves to be run in.” Ernie got out of the police car and approached them with a grin on his long-jawed face. “Headquarters says come on in. They’re callin’ Mr. Duclos to come down an’ pick up his Ford. Come on, you.” He grabbed Shayne officiously by the arm and turned him about. “I’ll ride in with you and my partner’ll follow.”
Shayne hesitated and held back, looking about him wildly. The last thing in God’s world he wanted was to drive that Ford in to headquarters. He wasn’t worried about what would happen to him after he got there. He was on close personal terms with most of the higher-ranking officers of the Miami police force, and he knew he wouldn’t be held for more than a brief period no matter what fantastic charges these two stupid cops placed against him.
But he was very much concerned about the Ford. He had… foolishly, he now realized… stated that it had been loaned to him by the owner… someone, apparently named George Duclos. Perhaps that was the name Al Donlin was using in Miami. Or it might be some friend of Al’s who had loaned him the car for the evening.
No matter how it worked out, he was very definitely losing control of the Ford… with a corpse locked up in the trunk.
Barkus had walked around in front of the Pontiac with Seymour and was helping him pull the crumpled fender away from the wheel so the car could be driven without damaging the tire. He was alone with Ernie for a moment, and was tempted to grab the police revolver from the man’s holster, slam him across the head with it and try his luck at making a get-away.
But even if he succeeded, that wouldn’t change anything in the long run. They knew who he was. It was on the record that he had been driving the Ford when they took possession of it. The instant the body was discovered in the trunk, he would be held responsible.
Better go along submissively, he decided, and simply hope for some sort of break. He slumped his shoulders and said in a defeated voice, “Okay, Ernie. Whatever you say. If you end up getting your ass kicked off the Force for this… don’t blame me.”
“I’ll take my chances on that.” Ernie led him toward the Ford, wheezing happily, and shoved him roughly inside under the steering wheel. He slammed the door shut and leaned both elbows on it and told Shayne with a sadistic grin that showed yellow front teeth:
“You know what I’m plumb hopin’, Mister? That you’ll try to make a run for it while I go around to get in on t’other side of you. I’d plain love to gut-shoot hell out of you… long as it was in the line of duty.”
He hooked both thumbs in his pistol belt and strolled around the back of the car, humming a little tune happily. Shayne sat stiffly behind the wheel and waited for him to get in. The Pontiac moved out of the way behind him, turned into the one-way westbound street and moved away.
Shayne started the motor and backed away from the curb, then followed the Pontiac toward the police station. The police car moved into line behind him and remained less than a hundred feet in the rear.
Shayne didn’t look at Ernie and didn’t speak until he put the Ford into a space in the parking lot at headquarters. The police car moved in beside him as he turned off the ignition and lights, and Barkus leaned out to inform Ernie happily:
“You know what, Buddy-boy? I reckon we done hit the jackpot this here time. Just come over my radio that Ford you’re ridin’ in is a stolen car.”