Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 22, No. 5, April 1968

Men and money — these had been her life. But now she lay crumpled in death, as Mike Shayne raced against a murder deadline to avenge the luckless party girl who had talked too much, too freely — and to the wrong man...

I

Michael Shayne returned to his office at 4:30 that afternoon. Lucy Hamilton looked up at him urgently and nodded her pretty head toward the inner door to his private office.

“There’s a lady waiting, Michael,” the brown-eyed Lucy said. “She looks like she’s in terrible trouble.”

Shayne arched a ragged red eyebrow. “You’re sure she’s a lady, Angel?”

“I am, Michael,” his secretary said, “and see that you remember it.”

Shayne winked at Lucy and painted a wicked leer on his face as he walked on into his private office. When he saw the “lady” in his office the leer faded instantly. He saw why Lucy called his visitor a lady.

“Mr. Shayne?” she said nervously, trying to smile.

She looked like someone’s mother — everyone’s mother. A small, stout, white-haired lady of about sixty-five. Her kind, pink face was motherly; her small hands fluttered in motherly fashion; she wore a motherly print dress that had not cost much but was heat and looked good on her.

“I’m Mike Shayne,” he said, as he sat behind his desk facing her, and gave her his most confident smile. “What can I do for you, Mrs.—?”

“Delany,” the woman said. “Mrs. Mary Delany, and I know Sharon would never have — killed herself. No—”

Mrs. Mary Delany’s voice shook as she spoke, and there were tears in her wide blue eyes. She dabbed at her eyes with a wadded handkerchief that had mopped up a lot of tears recently. Her effort to pull herself together was visible.

“Who is Sharon, Mrs. Delany?” Shayne asked gently.

“Sharon, Mr. Shayne, was my daughter. She is dead — since two days ago. She killed herself, or that is what they say. I do not believe them.”

“Why, Mrs. Delany?” Shayne said. “And who says it was suicide?”

The motherly woman folded her hands in her lap and looked down. “The police, her roommate, her young man, all say that Sharon took her own life. But I know!”

Mrs. Delany’s pale blue eyes looked up at Shayne. “She was much too full of life, Mr. Shayne, and her religion forbids suicide.”

Shayne considered the woman. Was it refusal to believe? Probably. A religious mother and an irreligious daughter, it happened too often these days.

“What do you think happened, Mrs. Delany?”

“She was murdered, of course!” Mrs. Delany said with sharp certainty. “Murdered by those terrible people she’d been with these past months. Them and their money and immorality, and dirty power!”

“Tell me more about them? Names, for instance.”

She bit at her lip. “Well, the important one calls himself Menander, Mr. Cristos Menander, but I know that isn’t his real name. I swear I’ve seen his face somewhere, but I don’t know where. Then—”

“You’ve met Mr. Menander?”

She nodded. “Once. I was at Sharon’s apartment when they all came for a party. Everyone, even Larry and that Mr. DiDonna who owns the club. I left early, and they were pretty quiet while I was there, but I waited outside for hours. No one came out and I could hear all the yelling and wild stuff going on.”

“Who is Larry? Her young man?”

“Yes. Larry Ames. I never thought much of him either. He was the one got her into that crowd.”

“And DiDonna?”

“Mr. DiDonna runs the San Simeon Club. Sharon danced in his show. She... she was a lovely girl, a good dancer. Now—”

“All right, Mrs. Delany. Now how about anyone else?” Shayne said quietly.

His quiet voice seemed to bring her back to her anger. “I don’t know most of the others, except Mr. Bey, who seems to be Mr. Menander’s manager or something, and a vicious young animal named Ben something. Sharon told me that this Ben someone had big eyes for her.”

Mrs. Delany blushed. “Of course, that was her way of saying it. She... she had been in bad company before. I—”

“Easy, Mrs. Delany,” Shayne said.

She brushed her eyes with the wadded handkerchief. “I tried to raise Sharon right, Mr. Shayne, but she was a beautiful girl at fourteen, and the boys badgered her and flattered her, and she had no father to help me. Poor Mr. Delany passed on when she was only six.”

“I’m sure you did your best,” Shayne said. “Now tell me why you think her friends were terrible, and just exactly who and what they are.”

She dabbed at her eyes. “Well, I’m sure I don’t know what they are, except that Mr. Menander is some kind of foreigner and has more money than is good for any man. He never goes anywhere alone. He lives in this mansion just up toward Palm Beach, and he is driven around in an enormous black car.”

“You don’t know what he does?”

“No. Something illegal, I have no doubt.”

“All right. I gather Mr. Bey and this Ben are employed by Menander?”

“Yes, and a lot of others,” Mrs. Delany said. “I don’t like any of them. They’re arrogant and mean and wild, and they all carry guns. I’m sure of it.”

“Why was Sharon mixed up with them?”

“She found them exciting,” Mrs. Delany said in a bitter voice. “She was only twenty-two, Mr. Shayne. This Menander got her the job with DiDonna, and there was talk about a musical show she was to star in and go up to New York.”

“And Larry Ames? What about him?”

“He’s a flashy young fool! Some sort of investment man, I think. He moves a lot in nightclub circles, from what Sharon told me. He has some connection to Mr. Menander, but I don’t know what.”

“Just what proof do you have that Sharon didn’t kill herself?”

“I told you! Besides, that roommate of hers wouldn’t look me in the eye. And something she said makes me sure that Sharon was not alone when she died.”

“What’s the name of the roommate?”

“Lucille Lawson.”

“Address?”

Mrs. Delany gave it to Shayne. The redhead wrote it down. He stood up and smiled at Mrs. Delany.

“All right, Mrs. Delany. I’ll look into it,” Shayne said, and added gently, “but the police usually know what they’re doing in a suicide case. They don’t make many mistakes.”

“They did this time!” Mrs. Delany cried. She blinked up at Shayne and reached into her purse. “I must pay you a retainer, I believe.”

“A small one. My secretary will arrange the details. One half day’s work in advance will do.”

“Thank you, Mr. Shayne. I want no favors, only justice!”

Shayne smiled and watched the motherly woman leave. The redhead sighed and sat down. A mother with religious scruples against suicide was probably the worst judge of a suicide in the world. He did not think that this case would take long.

Mike Shayne was wrong.

Ten minutes after Mrs. Delany had gone Shayne made an appointment to see Miami Chief of Police Will Gentry. The instant he hung up his intercom buzzed.

“A man to speak to you personally, Michael,” Lucy’s voice said. “Foreign, somewhere in Eastern Europe, I’d say. He sounds anxious, and I think the voice is a little disguised.”

“Put him on, Angel,” Shayne said.

The voice wasted no time. “Shayne? You will refrain from the matter of Sharon Delany. One warning, no more.”

“Why? Wasn’t it suicide?” Shayne snapped.

“You have been warned. One more word: it was a suicide, tragic and a waste, but there are those who would be annoyed by any further attention in the affair.”

The phone went dead. Shayne tugged slowly on his left ear as he lowered the receiver.

II

Will Gentry chewed on his cigar stump and eyed Mike Shayne without expression.

“Suicide, Mike, open and shut,” the Chief of Police said. “And I do mean shut.”

“Shut by you?” Shayne said.

“By me, and a lot higher,” Gentry said, “or at least by someone a lot wider.”

“You’re satisfied, Will?”

“If I wasn’t satisfied, it wouldn’t be shut no matter who put the pressure on, and you know it,” Gentry growled.

Shayne nodded. “Sorry, Will. You want to fill me in on it?”

Gentry swivelled in his chair and faced one of his high windows. “Sharon Delany, twenty-two, Caucasian, female and you didn’t have to be told. She was the kind of female who knew it six seconds after she was slapped on the rump and gave her first squawk, and she’d been using it ever since.”

Gentry swivelled back to face Shayne. “It’s an old, old story, Mike. Old and quick. She was a good-looking girl who slayed every boy in high school and went on from there. Too much in a hurry for college. Into the show-biz circuit. Fast company, some quick jobs, and then into big company who did things for her.”

“And she did things in return?”

“No one gets something for nothing,” Gentry said, “although there are a few special women who nearly make it. Our Sharon tied in with Larry Ames, who got her to a party named Menander, who got her a featured spot in Lew DiDonna’s San Simeon Club show.

“All rosy, until the roof fell in two weeks ago. She was up for a big show, the lead, and out came the rug. No show, out of DiDonna’s club, exit Larry Ames, and, so, exit Sharon the hard way.”

“Pills?”

“A hard sidewalk,” Gentry said. “Ten stories down. No note, no last calls. Alone in her apartment, time about four A.M., and she had a snootful of more than whisky.”

“No note?”

“They often don’t when they mean business.”

“She had a mother,” Shayne said. “She had a boy friend who you say had just dumped her. Could it have been an accident?”

“No, unless it was the half-accident kind, which I sort of figure,” Gentry said. “The apartment is air-conditioned. She had to raise the window, and climb up over the conditioner. The window is never open. It took some muscle to close. I figure she got soused, maudlin, decided to play suicide in the window while she was feeling sorry for herself, and slipped off.”

“No struggle? No prints on the window?”

“No signs of any struggle. No prints except hers and the roomie’s. Smudges, but anyone could have leaned on the window.”

“What was she wearing?”

“Street clothes: dress, high-heels, pants, bra. She didn’t need anything else.”

“All right, but why the pressure, and where is it coming from?”

Gentry rocked, in his chair and eyed Shayne from his dark eyes. The Chief toyed with an old switchblade he had taken from a mugger in his young days and still used as a paper knife. Slowly, Gentry shook his head.

“I can’t tell you exactly, Mike,” Gentry said quietly. “It’s part of the pressure, that we all keep quiet. I’ll say this much; it’s Federal and International.”

“State Department and Menander?”

“I didn’t tell you,” Gentry said.

“Who is Cristos Menander?”

Gentry decided to light his cigar at last. “Are you going to dig some more? No matter what I say?”

“I’m a citizen,” Shayne grinned.

Gentry nodded. “Okay. Officially I don’t know who Menander is, so I’ll let you dig for it. That won’t be hard. But the rest is. It’s suicide, Mike, believe me this time, and I can’t protect you against Menander unless he tries to kill you. I have a right to make him stop that. But if you bother him, and he pushes you around, I’m blind, deaf and dumb.”

“That important?”

“No,” Gentry said, “but! think that delicate. I gather we don’t exactly like him, but we have to have him.”

“His privacy will be backed by Federal muscle?”

“That’s how it reads. If you bother him, be very legal. Very.”

“Menander has his own goods?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Gentry said and scowled. “Damn it, Mike, I don’t like this kind of thing any more than you do. No one is above the law. But a guy like Menander just about is, because State Department says hands off unless we catch him putting in the knife! The way it works he’s not above our laws, but State and everyone else sees to it that no one, but no one, bothers him enough to tempt him to break a law. Short of murder, we wink at what he does and drop the lid.”

“But this could be murder,” Shayne said.

“Except it isn’t!” Gentry snapped. “Mike, I practically had the leader of all good FBI men on my neck because I sweated Menander over Sharon Delany. It was put up or shut up. I couldn’t put, so I shut. I’m advising you to do the same.”

Gentry smoked and looked up at the ceiling. “Only you never would take advice, would you?”

“No, hot often,” Shayne said.

“Too bad. Well, I can’t be responsible for headstrong young men, can I? Let me hear if you turn up anything fascinating.”

“Then you’re not sure, Will? Off the record?”

Gentry shook his head. “I’m sure, Mike, on and off the record. But I’m not sure of her motive. Maybe there was something else on her mind—”

Gentry let the words hang in the silent air of his office. Mike Shayne got the message. Sharon Delany had killed herself, as far as Gentry was concerned, but maybe there was something bigger or dirtier behind the brodie than hurt pride and a fickle lover.

Shayne stood up. “I’ll see what is happening in high circles.”

“Remember, Mike, you’re on your own if you get bruised, and in trouble with the high and mighty if you bruise them. It’s not cricket, or even fair, but it’s the game.”

Shayne nodded and left the Chief chewing on his cigar. The stogie had gone out again.

III

The apartment of the late Sharon Delany was a tall luxury building in an elegant section of Miami. The sun of evening seemed to shine specially on its high windows. In the lobby Sharon Delany’s name still shared a mailbox with the name of Lucille Lawson. Either Miss Lawson wasn’t superstitious or she was very much so.

Superstitious or not, Lucille Lawson was a female. If Sharon Delany had been any better to look at the path to their door should have been made of steel. Miss Lawson was tall, dark and curved. She was also beady-eyed as she stared at Shayne as if he needed a bath.

“Miss Lawson?” Shayne said, trying to imply that he had had a bath recently.

“Yes.” Lucille Lawson did not waste words.

“My name is Mike Shayne. I’m a private detective. I’m working for Sharon Delany’s mother.”

She blinked but said nothing.

“Do I come in to talk?” Shayne said.

“Talk about what?” Lucille Lawson said.

“Sharon Delany,” Shayne said.

Lucille Lawson blinked again. “You like to beat a dead horse, Mr. Shayne? Or are you just a ghoul?”

“It all depends on how the horse got dead.”

She watched Shayne closely for a full thirty seconds. The redhead felt like a cheap menu. Then Lucille Lawson stepped back into the apartment, turned her back and walked toward the windows. Since she didn’t close the door Shayne assumed she was inviting him inside. He closed the door.

She looked out the window. “So the old lady’s hired a real peeper? I didn’t think she had if in her.”

“She’s religious, and Sharon was her daughter.”

“Sharon wasn’t religious and a lousy daughter,” Lucille Lawson said with her back still to Shayne. It was a nice back, especially where the hips curved out full and firm. “But she was a drunk and dramatic. Didn’t you talk to the police? I told them all I know.”

“What was that?”

Now she turned. Her face was as neutral as a face could get. Too neutral: held in and controlled. “I left Sharon about ten o’clock that night. She was hitting the bottle and feeling sorry for herself. Alternating between crying and being mad at the world. When I got back she was dead and gone. The cops were here. I told them she probably climbed up on the window in a moment of ‘to hell with the world’ and slipped off. Period.”

“So you don’t think it was actually suicide?”

Lucille Lawson shrugged. “It was suicide by accident, that’s my guess. She climbed up to jump, but I don’t think she would have really jumped unless she slipped. On the other hand, maybe she did jump. She was out of the show, out of Larry, and maybe out of the club next.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why was she out of the show, out of Larry, and maybe out of the club next?”

“How the hell do I know?” she snapped, but her eyes flickered and her cheek twitched. Lucille Lawson was holding herself under tight control for some reason — like a person with a gun aimed at her from somewhere.

“Come on, Lucille,” Shayne said. “Roommates talk, especially female roomies. It’s half the reason for rooming with another girl, right?”

“You’re telling the story.”

“Did Sharon do something to get Menander down on her?”

“I don’t know!” she cried. She cried it too fast and too loud, and her cheek twitched wildly.

“So you know Menander?”

“I’ve seen him.”

“You wouldn’t be taking Sharon’s place with Menander, would you?”

She reddened. “I don’t have to stand here and listen to insinuations from a cheap shamus.”

“I guess you don’t. Call the cops,” Shayne said. “Only the Chief is a friend of mine, and he knows I’m here. As long as I stay in line, I can look around.”

“I see. Then look around. Nothing says I have to talk to you. Sharon killed herself, in or out of her right mind, and that’s all there is.”

Shayne watched her stalk off into another room. It had been a good speech, but a little bit too good.

Lucille Lawson had the speech on the tip of her tongue because she had something else very much on her mind.

After the Lawson girl had gone, Shayne went to the window and studied it. As Gentry had said, simple accident was out. The window was closed. Shayne raised it. It did not go up easily, but a woman could have raised it.

Shayne leaned out. The drop was sheer, but there was a wide ledge outside where a drunken woman could have stood in maudlin heroics, pretending suicide, and then slipping and making it all come true.

Shayne’s eyes peered at the wide ledge. He looked closely. There were faint dark marks. Long marks that had been scrubbed at. Shayne frowned. They were the marks of something, probably black shoes, being dragged across the ledge, and someone had worked hard to remove them.

He came back inside, and looked at the air-conditioner. There were a few small scratches on the top of it. Nothing out of the ordinary to a casual eye.

Shayne bent and pulled back the rug that covered the floor up to the air-conditioner. The rug was out of place by a foot or so — too close to the air-conditioner. Underneath, where the rug should not have been, there were deep scratches in the wood. They were the kind of scratches that conceivably could be made by the steel spike heels of a woman’s high-heeled shoes.

Shayne returned the rug to its place and stood with his grey eyes brooding. It wasn’t much, but what he had found could indicate a small struggle, or at least something being dragged to the window. He turned and called to Lucille Lawson. She appeared in the doorway wearing a thin red wrapper that hid little of her. With her hair down she looked younger, more vulnerable.

“Well?” she said.

“What is it, Lucille? Are you scared? Have they got a gun on you?” Shayne said.

“Go to hell!”

Her face was suddenly white. Shayne watched her. She did not move. Her voice was toneless:

“Sharon’s dead. She killed herself.”

“Tell me where I find Larry Ames?” Shayne said.

“He lives at two-twenty-two Flamingo Road, The Flamingo Arms, Miami Beach, U.S.A., and Sharon killed herself,” Lucille Lawson said.

Shayne left her still in the doorway into what had to be her bedroom. He had the feeling that she would stand there as long as he was in the apartment, repeating her words about Sharon Delany over and over like a parrot.

IV

The sun was almost gone when Mike Shayne returned to his office. The door was locked and Lucy Hamilton had gone home. Shayne let himself in, went into his private office, and picked up the telephone. He dialed the number of the Miami Daily News and asked for his friend, Tim Rourke.

“What’s up, Mike?” the lean reporter said.

“I need a little help on an identification, Tim.”

“Shoot.”

“There’s a party around town by the name of Cristos Menander. A foreigner and something important. He travels guarded and with an army, from the sound of it. A certain Mr. Bey seems to be high in the entourage.”

There was a silence, then Rourke said, “It rings a small bell, but I’ll have to check.”

“Get some pics if you can. I’d like to know what they look like.”

“Will do,” Rourke said.

Shayne hung up and called information for the phone number of Larry Ames. He dialed the number. There was no answer. He called The San Simeon Club. Mr. DiDonna was not in yet.

Shayne went to dinner. He ate alone and slowly enough to enjoy the meal. The paella was perfect, but the wine was too sweet. He finished with a Remy Martin and coffee, and then tried Ames and DiDonna again. He got no answer at Ames’s place, and DiDonna was still not at his club.

Shayne got into his car and drove to the Daily News budding. He found Rourke in his office. The elongated reporter waved Shayne to a seat.

“The boys are working on it, I expect them any minute,” Rourke said. “This Menander is a bigshot, right?”

“So I’m told, Tim,” Shayne said.

“It’s boiling around in my head, just out of reach. He bought a plush place just north, I seem to remember, and he’s political as hell. Only the Menander doesn’t click. If it’s a phony name, it’s not one he uses a lot.”

“He’s using it now. What do you remember about a Sharon Delany?”

“Showgirl suicide, a looker. Two days ago. Worked at Lew DiDonna’s trap, except he said he fired her that night. Big one-day story with pics, fast fadeout. Is Menander connected?”

“He’s connected,” Shayne said. “Only I don’t know how yet.”

After that the two men waited in silence. Six minutes later a copy boy arrived with a morgue file. It was a thick one. Tim Rourke weighed it in his hand and whistled. The reporter whistled louder when he opened the file.

“Damn, sure! Josip Mercori, the Foreign Minister of that little country near Greece they kicked out about a year ago! Remember, Mike? It was a big story because he got out one jump ahead of a firing squad with half the national treasury.”

Shayne nodded. “I remember, Tim. We’re not sure we like him, but we had to give him political asylum. He’s got all the money there is, and he rides high.”

“Right,” Rourke said. “We especially don’t want anything to happen to him because he is more-or-less against us and the other side would make a hell of a stink about it.”

Rourke read the file. “It looks like he’s really nothing but a bandit playing all sides against the middle, but we’re stuck with him.”

“Is there a pic?”

“Plenty,” Rourke said, and handed Shayne some cuts.

Shayne studied the pics. They showed a small, slender man with deep-set dark eyes, a small sneer, and a sharp nose like a scimiter. The Levantine eyes were both shrewd and cruel. Josip Mercori, alias Cristos Menander, looked like a man it would be dangerous to cross.

“What about the rest of the crew?” Shayne asked.

Rourke shook his head. “Nothing, except a few names as being with Mercori. It looks like he’s the wheel, and wants to keep it that way. And no mention of any aliases, Mike, or of where he is living in the States. All these stories are either international or about visits to Miami.”

Shayne rubbed his chin. “So he likes publicity, but he doesn’t want to be too exposed. I wonder if Sharon Delany made some kind of mistake in front of the wrong people?”

Rourke closed the file and watched Shayne. “You think maybe there’s more to the Delany suicide than we know, Mike?” he asked.

“Could be,” Shayne said.

The lean reporter’s nostrils quivered like a bloodhound who just got the scent. “A story? Big?”

“I don’t know, Tim. I know that Will Gentry wouldn’t hide a murder, or sit on any doubts. On the other hand—”

“On the other hand?” Rourke said eagerly. The reporter’s eyes had the glow of a news hawk on the trail.

Shayne scowled. “It’s possible that the State boys would hold out on Gentry, Tim. They have a different problem. I’m not saying they’d wink at murder, but they might not want to dig too deep.”

“What are you going to do?” Rourke asked.

“Dig a little deeper,” Shayne said grimly.

“Let me in on what you find if it’s interesting.”

Shayne stood up. “I will, Tim, and thanks.”

The detective left his friend studying the Mercori-Menander file again. Shayne stopped at a pay phone. Larry Ames still did not answer, Lew DiDonna did.

“Yeah, I know you, Shayne,” the nightclub owner said over the phone. “What do you want?”

“A little conversation, DiDonna,” Shayne said.

“I always like to talk,” DiDonna said quietly. “What about?”

“I’ll tell you when I get there.”

“Okay, but make it about eleven tonight. I’m tied up until then.”

“Eleven,” Shayne said.

In his car Shayne drove to his apartment-hotel. He had time to change and shower. It had been a long day. He parked in the garage under his building and went up in the elevator.

He stepped into his apartment, and closed the door, and knew that something was wrong. He reached for the light switch and his gun at the same instant. He didn’t get either.

Something hard hit him in the belly.

Something quick, and hard, and skillful. Shayne doubled over. Something hit him on the back of the neck. He went to his knees. A kick shot flame through his belly. Shayne went down until his head touched the floor and his dinner spewed out.

Hands gripped his arms and he felt himself dragged to a chair, sat down, his head pulled up by the hair. Strong hands held him by the arms in the chair.

The lights came on. Shayne blinked through his nausea. A small, slender man with half-oriental eyes stood looking at him. No more than a boy, but with the eyes of a cobra.

The boy held a large pistol of some make the redhead did not place at once.

Shayne could not see the three men who held him, forced his head to face rigidly front. But he saw the last man. This man was fat: the oily, smooth fat of a well fed and privileged type who made you think of silk cushions and hookahs and dancing girls.

“So, Mr. Shayne, you are a stubborn man,” the fat man said softly. “I do not like that, sir. You were warned. I am quite pained. I do not usually take the pains to warn a man. Warnings are usually a waste of time. In your case I made an exception, and then you forced me to violence anyway. Quite annoying.”

Shayne took a deep breath. “I’ll make a note about it.”

The fat man sighed. “Please, Mr. Shayne, do not be so stupid. To hurt you severely would put me in a most unhappy position, yet I cannot allow you to continue this ridiculous matter.”

“Why not?” Shayne said, the nausea easing in his stomach.

The fat man shook his head. “Even that question pains me. You imply there is some question about Miss Delany’s death. I assure you there is not. But we cannot allow anyone to go around stirring up interest and attention in us. That is all.”

“Why?”

“That is not your business. Surely by now the police must have assured you that there is no mystery about Miss Delany’s death? Your investigations cannot have uncovered anything, because nothing exists. However, I understand that you work for money, as do we all, and I have no desire to see you lose work. Therefore I will pay you, say, five hundred dollars to return to Mrs. Delany and assure her that her unfortunate child did kill herself.”

“Only five hundred dollars?” Shayne said.

The fat man waved a curt hand. “It is not a bribe, Mr. Shayne, simply a reimbursement for the work you might lose. If you are a good detective, you would quickly find that there is no mystery anyway. I simply wish the affair to end now.”

“I’ll bet you do, and your Mercori or Menander or whatever he calls himself at the moment loves publicity and attention, so don’t con me!”

The fat man stared at Shayne, unblinking. Then he nodded, said:

“All right, Ben-Anni.”

The thin boy with the oriental eyes stepped to Mike Shayne and kicked him in the stomach. The boy wore sharply-pointed shoes. Shayne doubled over. The boy kicked him on the chin. The hands let him go. The boy kicked him in the head. Even as Shayne was falling out of the chair he thought that the boy, Ben-Anni, was an expert with his feet, used them as most men used their fists.

On the floor Shayne tried to rise. Ben-Anni kicked him in the stomach again. Shayne held grimly to consciousness. He was kicked in the kidneys. Then the fat face bent over him.

“Stop. Now.”

Then they were gone.

Shayne lay there fighting to stay conscious, nausea and a sick pain all through him. He struggled to his feet and made it into the bathroom where he vomited the last of his dinner. Then he doused his head, holding tight to the sink. Finally, he swayed out, managed to strip off most of his clothes, and collapsed onto the bed.

He had to sleep, but tomorrow there was work to do.

V

Mike Shayne awakened with a sore belly and an ache in his back, but he felt a lot better. He showered and shaved and saw that no bruises showed. He ate six eggs and had a pot of coffee. Then he checked his automatic and went out.

He drove his car out of the garage and north out of Miami. The morning sun was bright and strong. Shayne drove straight to the mansion where Josip Mercori lived.

The mansion was an imposing structure set back from the road behind a high wall. Shayne drove up to the locked front gate. A sallow guard in uniform came to the gate.

“No visitors,” the guard said, and started to turn away.

Shayne said, “Hold it. Right there.”

The guard turned back and looked at the automatic in Shayne’s hand. The redhead grinned like a wolf.

“Open up. Now,” Shayne said. “And no tricks, no gun.”

The guard hesitated. “You can’t get close, mister.”

“I can get to you. Open!”

The guard looked at Shayne’s eyes, then walked to the gate and opened it. Shayne closed the gate behind him, took the pistol from the guard’s belt, and turned the man around to face the house.

“Walk ahead of me,” Shayne said. “Off the driveway and keep very quiet.”

“Mister, you can’t make it! The place is a fort. You’ll get us both killed.”

“You’ll be first,” Shayne said. “Now walk. Keep quiet, and don’t think.”

The guard walked. They moved off the curving driveway toward the big house. For the first fifty yards trees hid them. For the next fifty there were bushes and a sunken lawn and only the top windows of the house were visible. The sunken lawn ended in a wide flight on concrete steps, and a long concrete wall on either side of the steps.

Shayne looked right and left. To the left the wall ended some distance away, and the sunken lawn sloped up to the main lawn. Shayne pushed the guard left. At the slope he forced the guard down, and they crawled up the slope. Shayne raised his head a fraction.

The corner of the house was some hundred feet away across open lawn. Nothing seemed to move in the big house, but Shayne would take no chances. A little farther left a series of large trees shaded a path that seemed to curve around to the rear of the house.

“Move when I say, and move fast,” Shayne said to the guard. “Make for those trees and flop behind the first tree.”

“You’re crazy! They—”

Shayne prodded the guard. “Now!”

The guard jumped up and ran for the trees. Shayne pounded on his heels. They sprawled in the cover of the trees. Nothing moved in the house. Shayne pushed the guard ahead of him from tree to tree. They reached the rear of the mansion and Shayne saw that the path came close to the rear windows. His grey eyes flashed.

The voice spoke from somewhere inside the house. A quiet voice with an accent.

“Remain where you are! Don’t try to do anything. I can see you; you can’t see me. You would die in one second if you attempt to move. Look around you!”

Shayne froze flat to the ground. He looked around. Three men stood around him on the grounds some fifty feet away. One of them was the boy with the sharp shoes, Ben-Anni. All three held submachine guns.

“A foolish attempt,” the unseen voice said. “You have been watched all the way. You are trespassing and you are armed. I can kill you with complete legality. Stand up!”

Shayne touched the guard and began to stand slowly as if beaten. Halfway up he pushed the guard away, and dove for the cover of a thick tree. His hand snaked into his pocket, and came out with a wrapped package the size of a can of soup. He held the package up.

“This is an impact bomb, Mercori!” Shayne shouted. “I know what window you’re behind. One move by anyone and I throw it! Your boys get me, but I get you!”

There was a frozen silence. The cobra-eyed Ben-Anni moved a step toward Shayne. The redhead drew back his arm. Ben-Anni stopped. The other men were all frozen where they stood. Shayne watched them, shouted toward the house:

“I’m not after you, Mercori! I came to talk, nothing else, but I won’t be pushed around by your goons! Now I’m going to drop this bomb, and I’m going to stand up. I’m going to keep my gun in my hand. I could kill you now if I wanted to. I don’t want to. When you step out here and show yourself I’ll put up my gun, and your goons put up their guns.”

Shayne laid the soup-can sized package on the ground and stood up and out in full view. Ben-Anni raised his submachine gun.

“No,” the voice called sharply. There was another silence, and Mercori appeared in the back door of the house. The small, slender man with the sharp nose stepped out toward Shayne with a pistol in his hand and his deep-set eyes fixed on Shayne.

“All right. You now see me,” he said.

“Tell your men to put up the guns,” Shayne snapped. “You keep yours.”

Mercori made a motion. Reluctantly, his men uncocked their machine guns and raised the muzzles. Shayne holstered his automatic. Defenseless, he stood there watching Mercori. For a long five seconds Mercori held his pistol. Then the small man lowered it and nodded.

“Come inside,” Mercori said.

Shayne walked to the rear door and inside. Mercori sat down behind a desk in what was a study. The fat man who had warned Shayne stood beside the desk.

“Now who are you?” Mercori said. “What do you want with me?”

“The name is Shayne. Mike Shayne. I’m a private detective working on Sharon Delany’s death. Don’t tell me your friend there didn’t tell you all about who and what I am?”

Mercori’s eyes flickered to the fat man. “I know nothing about you, Mr. Shayne. Do you think I should?”

“I figured you’d know what your own boys were up to,” Shayne said. “That fat one there, and some others, including the snake-eyed kid outside, worked me over last night. They wanted me to cease and desist from investigating the Delany case. If you don’t know about it, your men are playing games behind your back.”

The fat man watched Shayne. “You are a bolder man than I expected, Shayne. My name, by the way, is Makros Bey. I am Mr. Mercori’s assistant and I often handle small matters for Mr. Mercori. It is my job to see that he remains safe and unannoyed.”

“You ought to be better at your job then,” Shayne said.

Makros Bey nodded. “Yes, I under-estimated you. An error. Perhaps I should be replaced.” The fat man looked toward Mercori. “I will tender my resignation, sir.”

Mercori waved a curt hand. “Don’t be stupid, Makros. We all make errors. And, Mr. Shayne, Makros is quite correct that he often acts to forestall trouble without informing me, it is part of his great value to me. He has excellent judgment. However, perhaps you had better tell me why you want to talk to me about poor Miss Delany?”

Before Shayne could answer the door burst open behind him and the slender Ben-Anni ran in, holding the soup-can size package.

“This isn’t a bomb!” Ben-Anni cried. “It’s a can of soup!”

“Of course,” Mercori said quietly. “The instant Mr. Shayne laid it down that was obvious. If he had brought a real bomb, he would have come to use it. Mr. Shayne was merely making a point. Isn’t that so, Mr. Shayne?”

Shayne nodded, and looked at Ben-Anni. “I won’t bring a bomb when I come to talk to the little punk, and that’s the first point I’m going to make, Mercori. Keep your goons away from me or they’ll get hurt, and so will you.”

“I don’t accept threats,” Mercori said quietly, “and I do as I feel necessary. What is your next point?”

“That maybe Sharon Delany didn’t kill herself,” Shayne said bluntly.

“If that is so, then I hope you find her murderer. I liked the child. Beautiful and pleasant.”

“Yet someone was kicking her out of her set-up, Mercori,” Shayne said.

“Really?”

“You’re telling me you didn’t know about that?”

Mercori blinked. “I’m not telling you anything, Mr. Shayne. I know nothing. Sharon was a pleasant young woman. I enjoyed her company. I am fond of pretty women; they soothe me. Miss Delany was one of many, in no way special.”

“She’s special now, Mercori,” Shayne said.

“But not to me.”

“That’s what I’m wondering about,” Shayne said. “You live inside an army. Why? Who are you afraid of, and what did Sharon Delany perhaps learn?”

“My security is no secret, Mr. Shayne,” Mercori said. “The present government of my country has tried me in absentia and sentenced me to death. There is a price on my head. I am naturally careful of who comes close to me. As for Miss Delany, she learned nothing at all about me beyond the fact that I am a man and could help her career. That was all she was interested in.”

“Why did you stop helping?”

“I did not. I simply grew tired of Miss Delany and returned her to her former friend. I did nothing against her.”

Makros Bey laughed. “Perhaps she simply could not stand losing her place with Mr. Mercori.”

“Maybe,” Shayne said. “But, you know, I don’t think Mr. Mercori is really the man Sharon Delany would have killed herself over. I think there’s more than that.”

Mercori said, “You begin to bore me, Mr. Shayne.”

“You people are awful anxious to hush this up.”

Makros Bey said, “I explained that it is my job to keep fleas from bothering Mr. Mercori. You are merely a flea.”

Shayne grinned. “Fleas bite, and remember that even an elephant is afraid of a flea — the flea is too small to get at.”

Makros Bey flushed angrily. Mercori only watched Shayne as if the redhead really were a flea.

“Do not threaten me,” Mercori said. “Now I suggest you leave. Leave me alone, Mr. Shayne. I have no interest in your problems.”

At some signal Shayne did not see, the skinny Ben-Anni was in the room again, with his two buddies. Mercori turned and left the room without a word. Makros Bey watched Shayne a second, and then followed his leader out.

“Come,” Ben-Anni said.

Shayne walked out of the room, and out of the house. The three men escorted him to the gate. The snakelike Ben-Anni never spoke again. Outside the gate Shayne climbed into his car and drove off.

His grey eyes were cold as he thought about Josip Mercori. The exiled leader was a cautious man, one who would not wait one second to act if he were threatened. It was an odd coincidence that Sharon Delany was involved with Mercori and had killed herself for small reason.

Shayne did not like coincidences.

VI

The San Simeon Club was closed, but the doors were open and men worked inside. Mike Shayne asked for Lew DiDonna and was directed to a second floor office. The club owner was working over his books.

“Mr. Shayne,” DiDonna said. “I expected you last night.”

“I was held up,” Shayne said.

“I’m pretty busy now,” DiDonna said.

“I won’t take long.”

“Okay,” DiDonna said, and laid down his pen. The owner sat back in his chair. He was a tall, slender man with a drooping left eye and nervous hands. “What can I help you with?”

“Sharon Delany,” the redhead said.

DiDonna frowned. “Sharon? I don’t see what I can do for you there. I told the police all I know. The poor kid just up and killed herself.”

“Why?” Shayne said.

DiDonna rocked in his chair. “To tell you the truth, I’m not sure. Sharon wasn’t the type to knock herself off. But you never know about these neurotic dames, do you?”

“Was she neurotic?”

“Hell, yes. A real up-and-down dame. Hot and cold, you know? Big plans, and then way down in the dumps.”

“Was she up for a big part in a musical show?”

“Yeah,” DiDonna said, “but the producer canned her. It broke her up, I admit, but I didn’t think it was bad enough for her to knock herself off.”

“Why was she pushed out?”

“She wasn’t good enough, period.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure,” DiDonna said, and his dark eyes stared straight at Shayne without a flicker.

“No other reasons to help her out of the show?”

“I wouldn’t know,” DiDonna said.

“Who’s money is behind the show?”

“Who knows, Shayne?”

“Mercori’s, or Menander maybe?”

“Not on the record.”

Shayne watched the club owner light a cigar and puff nervously. DiDonna was the second one in the case who seemed nervous, as if there were things he knew he wished he did not know — like Lucille Lawson.

“Does Mercori have money in your club?” Shayne asked.

“No,” DiDonna snapped.

Shayne heard something behind the denial. Mercori did not have money in The San Simeon, but—

“Who has money in your club?”

“A lot of people,” DiDonna said evasively. The owner stood up. “Listen, Shayne, I’m pretty busy. I told the cops all I knew. Sharon jumped, and that—”

“Who is in the club with money, DiDonna? Makros Bey?”

It was a shot in the dark, but not in the complete dark. It was pretty clear that Sharon Delany had been recommended to DiDonna by someone with influence. A girl her age didn’t get a featured spot in a big club on talent alone. DiDonna sat down again.

“Well,” DiDonna said slowly, “let’s say Mr. Bey did lend me some dough, yeah.”

“Bey made you take Sharon on?”

DiDonna squirmed. “He asked me. The kid had talent, so it was okay.”

“Bey works for Mercori, DiDonna,” Shayne snapped. “It’s a thousand-to-one if Bey had money, he got it from Mercori.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Why did you fire Sharon?”

“I didn’t.”

“But you were going to? She knew?”

DiDonna twisted in his chair. The owner took out a handkerchief and mopped his face. “Look, Shayne, the girl wasn’t that good. I told her I was going to have to let her go as soon as I had a new show ready. It’s not so unusual. I change my shows from time to time.”

“But you keep the same faces a lot of the time,” Shayne said. “You could have found a spot for her in the new show. Who told you to drop her?”

DiDonna sweated. The club owner seemed to be looking for a way out. Shayne watched him. DiDonna squirmed.

“Listen, Shayne, I don’t know from nothing, see? The girl had no talent, really. Then, well, Mr. Bey sort of hinted that she wasn’t in so good any more that he wouldn’t mind so much if she got canned. That’s all I needed. I canned her as of the end of the show.”

“Did Bey tell you why she wasn’t in so good any more?”

“No, only... well, I figure she’d not been playing ball.”

“You’re sure it wasn’t that maybe she knew too much?”

DiDonna wiped at his face. “I don’t know nothing about that.”

“How did she take it? When you told her?”

DiDonna shrugged. “She was mad as a wet hen.”

“Mad?” Shayne snapped. “Not sad, not distraught?”

“Mad as hell. She said I’d be sorry. She was gonna take it up with the big man himself. She said—”

DiDonna stopped and turned pale. Shayne leaned close to the sweating nightclub man. The grey eyes of the redhead bored into DiDonna.

“What did she say, DiDonna?”

“Nothing. I mean, it didn’t mean nothing!” DiDonna cried.

“I can turn this over to Gentry, DiDonna! Something stinks in all this, and I’m going to find out what! You hear?”

DiDonna was pale. “Okay, Shayne. She said she was gonna talk to the big man, and I’d get the word. She said if the big man thought he could dump her he was crazy.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. She didn’t say any more. Just that the big man couldn’t dump her like that. She was gonna talk to him.”

“What happened?”

DiDonna looked at the ceiling. “Nothing.”

“You didn’t get any word? She didn’t talk to Mercori?”

“Who said anything about Mercori?”

“Mercori has to be the big man, and you know it! Now what happened?”

DiDonna shrugged. “She jumped that night. I don’t know if she talked to him or not.”

Shayne watched the nightclub owner. DiDonna would not meet his eyes. Sharon Delany had been going to talk to Mercori, had been going to put on some kind of pressure, and that night she had “jumped.” Shayne stood up.

“Don’t go on any trips, DiDonna,” Shayne said. “Gentry’ll want to talk to you, I think.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” DiDonna said sullenly. “Why should I? I don’t know nothing.”

“Maybe you know more than you think,” Shayne said.

Shayne left the owner biting his lip. The stink was getting dirtier. It looked as if Mrs. Delany had more than a prejudice against suicide to go on.

VII

Mike Shayne strode into his office, still thinking about Sharon Delany and the pressure she had threatened to put on Josep Mercori. His mind came alert when he saw Lucy Hamilton’s eyes. His brown-eyed secretary nodded toward his inner office.

“A man to see you, Michael,” Lucy said softly. “He’s inside. He wouldn’t give his name, and I think he’s carrying a gun.”

Shayne nodded, drew his automatic, and slipped it into his pocket. Then he walked softly to the door of his private office. His hand in his pocket, he stepped quickly into the office.

A small, compact man looked up from where he sat near Shayne’s desk. “Mr. Michael Shayne?”

“I’m Shayne,” he said.

“I’d like a few minutes of your time, Mr. Shayne,” the stocky man said.

Shayne walked to his desk and sat down. His grey eyes never left the man’s face, and his hand remained in his pocket on his automatic. Shayne could see the faint bulge of the pistol at the compact man’s belt under his coat.

“Go ahead,” Shayne said.

The man’s face showed no expression at all. “My name is Jones, Walter Jones. May I ask if this office is secure?”

“It’s secure,” Shayne said, and eyed the man. “Government?”

“Yes,” Jones said. “Off the record I work for the Central Intelligence Agency.”

“What do you want, Mr. Jones?”

“I understand you’re working on the Sharon Delany suicide,” Jones said slowly. “Hired by the mother, right?”

“My client’s name is confidential,” Shayne said. “What about the Delany matter?”

“The police, and my department, are satisfied that it was suicide. There is no need for investigation, and a great need for closing the matter without publicity or further attention. Am I clear?”

“You’re clear,” Shayne said. “Now let’s get it on the record, Jones. If you work for CIA, show me your credentials. Prove who you are or get out of here.”

Jones watched Shayne for a moment. Then, still without any expression, reached into his coat pocket and produced his wallet. He handed his credentials to Shayne. The redhead studied them, and returned them.

“Good,” Shayne said. “Now I’ve been officially asked to drop an investigation, so I can officially tell you to go to hell.”

Jones colored. “You listen to me, Shayne! We—”

“No,” Shayne snapped, “you listen to me! This case is starting to look dirtier and dirtier. I don’t know what happened to Sharon Delany, not yet, but the more I look, the muddier the water gets. Maybe she killed herself, or maybe she killed herself because of some special terror, or maybe someone helped her out of that window. I don’t know, Jones, but I’m going to know!”

The CIA man did not even blink. “You have some evidence to suggest Miss Delany did not kill herself?”

“I have evidence,” Shayne said. “Not the kind that you can use in court, not yet. But enough to know that something smells bad. You don’t want any laundry washed for Mercori. I understand that, but I’ve got a job, and I’m going to do it no matter who gets hurt. You can’t sweep murder under the rug, and you can’t hide the kind of pressure that could make a girl kill herself.”

Jones stood up. “Very well, Shayne. I’ll take your answer back, and we’ll see what can be hidden. The Delany girl wasn’t important enough to make us let her rock the international boat.”

“Everyone is important enough, Jones.”

“You have a lot to learn,” Jones said.

The CIA man turned on his heel and left. Shayne stared in anger after the CIA man. Then his grey eyes became thoughtful. A lot of pressure was being exerted. Mercori had all kinds of protection. The man was harder to get close to than Fort Knox.

But Sharon Delany had been close to Mercori. Maybe quite a bit too close.

A lot of people seemed to have a lot on their minds. No one was talking straight to Shayne. Everywhere he went he found more doubts and more questions.

Maybe the boy-friend, Larry Ames, would have some answers.

VIII

The flamingo ARMS was a beach apartment house of the type that had a complex of three-story buildings set around a lush green and flowered court. Larry Ames’s apartment was on the second floor of a rear building.

“Yeah?” Ames said as he opened the door.

The boy friend was a big, burly man about twenty-six, looking the worse for lack of sleep. Ames was as big as Mike Shayne, but he looked soft. He also looked bleak and hungover, his face pale with dissipation.

“My name’s Mike Shayne, Ames,” Shayne said. “I want to talk to you.”

“Who says I want to talk to you?”

Shayne grinned with his lips only. A wolfish grin. “Who asked if you wanted to talk to me? I’m coming in.”

Ames’s fists clenched, and he looked hard at Shayne. The detective grinned and stood loosely. Slowly Ames’s fists unclenched. The big man shrugged.

“Okay, so come in.”

Shayne followed Ames into a sunny living room. Ames lived well. A door was open, and Shayne saw the bed through the open door. The bed had not been slept in, but it had been rested on. Ames sat down and picked up a drink.

“Hair of the dog,” Ames said sourly. “What do you want to talk to me about?”

“Sharon Delany,” Shayne said bluntly.

Ames leaned. “Get the hell out of here! You hear me? I’ve talked all I’m going to about Sharon! How did I know the broad was nutty?”

“Was she?”

“As a fruitcake! She’s out of a show and I call it quits, so she kills herself? That’s about as nutty as you can get.”

“Why did you call it quits?”

Ames blinked. “Why? Because I was tired of her. Hell, she wasn’t anything special. She was playing footsie with Mercori, anyway.”

“You got her into Mercori’s circle.”

Ames nodded. “Sure. She wanted me to. She had big ambition, and she figured Mercori could help her out. He did, too.”

“Why did he stop helping her?” the readhead asked.

Ames shrugged, drank. “How do I know?”

Shayne watched the big man and saw his eyes flicker away. There it was again, that evasiveness Shayne had encountered ever since he started on the case. Ames, too, was hiding something.

“I think you know, Ames,” Shayne said. “She was your girl, no matter how special, and I think she told you about Mercori.”

“Keep on thinking, Shamus,” Ames sneered.

“How much is Mercori paying you, Ames?” Shayne snapped.

“Nothing!”

Shayne leaned toward the man. “I think Sharon was murdered, Ames. I think Mercori killed her, or had her killed, and I think you know why!”

“No!”

“I found marks near that window, Ames. Sharon was dragged to that window!” Shayne said, his voice cold. “She wasn’t alone. Lucille Lawson knows something and so do you! Mercori put pressure on DiDonna to get her out of the club and the show. She said she was going to talk to Mercori. I think she did, and he killed her, and you’re covering up!”

“No, you—” Ames choked on his own anger, and with a sudden motion hurled the drink at Shayne’s head.

Shayne ducked, and sensed Ames lunging at him. He saw the big fist of the boy friend coming straight for his jaw. He had only time to slip, and the blow did not hit solid.

Larry Ames was big, and the blow was solid enough to send Shayne over backwards.

Shayne hit on his left side and bounced against a couch. Ames kicked at him. Shayne caught the big man’s foot and twisted. Ames went over sprawling. Shayne jumped up. Ames was up. The big man came in swinging. Shayne stepped inside a looping right and planted a solid left on Ames’s jaw.

The big man staggered back but did not go down. Shayne went in with a right and left. Ames caught the left on his shoulder, blocked the right, and swung his own right into Shayne’s belly. Shayne grunted and his knees wobbled. Ames came in. Shayne ducked an accurate left, and sank his right into Ames’s belly.

The big man doubled over. Ames’s belly was soft. Shayne straightened Ames up with a left hook, and finished the fight with a right cross. Ames lay on the floor, breathing heavily. Shayne bent down over the big man.

“What are you covering up, Ames?”

The big man shook his head, gasping for breath. Shayne shook Ames. He doubled his fist and put the fist in front of Ames’s eyes.

“Did Sharon talk to Mercori?”

“How do I—” Ames began.

Shayne hit him. Ames cringed, all the fight gone out of him now.

“Okay, okay!” Ames cried. “Yeah, she talked to him. She told me. She said it was all fixed. She was giving me the air, and she was going to—”

Ames stopped and Shayne’s grey eyes glowed as he, looked at the big man.

“So Sharon gave you the gate,” Shayne said. “And she said it was all fixed with Mercori. That scratches just about all the reasons for suicide, doesn’t it?”

Ames said nothing.

“I never heard of a woman killing herself over a man she had dumped,” Shayne said. “Who told you to tell the police that you had broken with Sharon?”

“No one. It—”

Shayne hit Ames again. “Come on, Ames! Someone told you, and probably paid you, to make it look like Sharon had a reason to kill herself. Tell me—”

The shot spat from the sunny window to the rear. A sharp, spitting sound, and then two more like explosions of breath. Glass shattered. Something slammed into an upholstered chair a foot from Shayne’s head. The redhead went over in a dive behind the couch. His automatic was out. There was blood all over him, but he was not hit.

Larry Ames lay unmoving, blood spreading around him.

Shayne crouched behind furniture and made his way quickly to the window. He peered out. There was a small balcony on the outside. Shayne looked below, and another shot smashed through the window to his left. He went down again.

When he raised his head carefully and scanned the back courtyard below there was nothing but sun and silence. Close, but hidden by trees, a car motor started and quickly roared away. Shayne went back to Larry Ames.

The big man was dead: shot twice; once in the head and once in the chest. Accurate shooting, with a silenced pistol from the balcony.

Bold shooting, done in broad daylight, and by a man who could both handle a gun and know how not to be seen.

Shayne crouched over Ames for another minute. He found nothing in the dead man’s pockets to help him. His grey eyes stared at the inert body with a savage gleam in them.

He jumped up and strode to the telephone. He called the Miami Beach police anonymously. He had no time to waste talking to Peter Painter.

Shayne left the apartment on the dead run for his car.

IX

Lucille Lawson answered the door after Mike Shayne’s third ring. The redhead strode past the startled woman and went to the windows. He checked every window. There were no balconies or fire escapes. There was one other entrance, locked from the inside. Lucille Lawson watched Shayne the whole time.

“Could you possibly tell me what is going on, Mr. Shayne?” the girl said.

Shayne sat down and stared at the girl. Lucille Lawson remained standing.

“Well?” Lucille Lawson said.

“Tell me about Sharon’s talk with Mercori. Where did she see him that night? What did she have on him? What did she know?”

Lucille Lawson swore. “Damn it, Shayne, I’ve told you I don’t know anything about this except that Sharon jumped out of a window.”

“Maybe she did,” Shayne said, “but not without a little help. Maybe it was physical help, and maybe only psychological, but she had help and you know it! Maybe she was pushed, or thrown, or maybe she was just so scared she jumped. But there was something.”

Lucille Lawson sneered. “So many maybes? You’re not much of a detective, are you? Anyway, all your maybes are dead wrong, as far as I know.”

“Forget it, Lucille,” Shayne snapped. “Ames is dead.”

“I won’t forget what—”

She stopped, blinked, and her hand went up to cover her gaping mouth.

“Dead?” she cried. “Larry?”

“Shot not a half an hour ago. To shut him up, I figure. I figure you’ll be next!”

“Me? Someone will—” She could not finish the sentence.

“Someone will try. I’m sure of it. Whoever it is took a shot at me, too, but I’m not important. It was Ames they wanted, and Ames got it. Where were you a half an hour ago?”

She blinked. “Me? Out shopping. I... I just got back.”

“Can you prove it?”

“Why... well, no,” Lucille Lawson said. “You don’t think that I shot him!”

“I don’t think anything special right now,” Shayne said, “but maybe I will if you don’t start telling the truth. For instance, there are marks on your floor near that window. High heel marks. The rug had been moved to cover them. Who moved that rug? You?”

“No! I—”

Lucille Lawson stared at Shayne. “Larry was shot? Killed?”

“That’s right, Lucille, Someone is playing rough.”

She sat down as if her legs had gone to jelly. Her hands twisted, and her face was like death — her own death. She sat where her legs had deposited her, on the edge of a chair, awkwardly.

“Yes,” she said slowly, her voice shaking, “I moved the rug. I straightened up, after—”

“After you got home and saw the window open and Sharon’s body down there in the street,” Shayne said grimly.

She nodded. “Yes. I... I knew that something had happened. I saw him.”

“Who?”

“Mercori,” Lucille Lawson said.

“Go on,” Shayne said. “Take it from the beginning.”

The girl shuddered. “Sharon came home that evening as mad as a hatter. She said she’d been fired from her show, and DiDonna was going to throw her out of the club, too. She said Mercori was behind it because she had been giving him a hard time lately. She said she was going to show Mercori that he couldn’t push her around, no matter how big a shot he was.

“She called him and told him to come over here. She told me to stay away that night. So I did. I stayed out real late. But when I came home I saw Mercori leaving the building.”

“Alone?”

“Yes,” Lucille said. “I mean, he left the building alone, but Bey and that Ben-Anni were in the car when it picked him up. They drove off, so I went on up to see how Sharon had made out. I came in and there were some chairs and a table knocked over, and the window was open. I ran to the window and saw her lying down there. It’s a side street; I came from the other way. No one had seen her yet. I started to call the police when Mr. Bey came back. He threatened me. Then he offered me a lot of money.”

“How much?”

“Ten thousand dollars,” Lucille Lawson said. “He... he said that it had been an accident. That Sharon had had a fight with Mr. Mercori, that she’d gone to the window and stood up on the ledge to make Mr. Mercori give her jobs back. Only she slipped and fell. I—”

“You believed that? Or did you believe the ten thousand dollars,” Shayne said drily.

Lucille stared at the floor. “Both, I suppose. I knew Sharon could have acted like that, and I knew they had been drinking because there were glasses and a whole empty quart of whisky.” She looked at Shayne. “But I wanted that money, too. So I agreed to say nothing. I straightened up. Then I called the police. Mr. Bey sent me the money the next day.”

“Do you still have it?”

She nodded. “Yes. And the envelope it came in.”

“Let me have it.”

She went into a closet and poked behind the baseboard. She drew out a plain white envelope fat with money. Shayne held the envelope at the corners. He wrapped it carefully in a silk scarf the girl gave him, and put it in his pocket. Lucille Lawson watched him with a mixture of fear and greed in her eyes.

“All right,” Shayne said. “Now what did Sharon know that was going to force Mercori to give her back her jobs?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Shayne, really. She never did tell me that. She just laughed about it.”

“Did anyone else see Mercori that night?”

She shook her head. “No, not that I know. Our night doorman wasn’t around. He usually hides in the basement. The door is locked; he isn’t really needed. When the cab drove up, there was no one on the street except Mercori coming out and his car with Bey and Ben-Anni in it.”

“Cab?” Shayne snapped. “You came home by taxi?”

“Yes, I usually do. My car is—” Lucille stopped. “Of course, I see. The driver! I’m sure he saw Mr. Mercori and can tell you.”

“Did you get his name?”

“No, of course not. But it was a Dolphin Taxi. Yellow.”

“Where did you pick it up?”

“At The Juggler Club, out on the highway. I go there a lot. It was about four o’clock in the morning when I got it. I’m sure he’d remember!”

“He probably would,” Shayne said. “You never talked to Mercori himself about it?”

“No, just Mr. Bey. He said the ten thousand dollars was all I would get, and he threatened me. He said it was just to keep Mr. Mercori out of any involvement in a messy situation, and that if I tried to get any more I would be — handled another way.”

Shayne nodded. “All right, Lucille. Now I figure you’re in a lot of danger. It’s pretty clear that Mercori wanted the whole thing hushed up, and tried to buy everyone off. But I got into the act, and now he’s running scared. Or someone is. Ames had to have been killed to shut him up.”

She was shaking now. “You’ve got to protect me, Mr. Shayne! I’ve told you the truth!”

“I hope so,” Shayne said. “Lock your doors. Don’t open for anyone, not anyone, until I call on the telephone, and you know it’s me outside, and you know the police are with me.”

“No! Take me with you! I’m afraid—”

“That would be crazy. They’re already after me. We’d just be a bigger target, and the killer would get one of us almost for sure. As long as you do what I say you’ll be safe here. I’ll send the doorman up to watch the apartment as well. I won’t be gone long.”

She hesitated, then slowly nodded, fear clear on her face, but her lips set. Shayne checked the door and windows again and left.

In the corridor he studied all doors and corners carefully. He saw nothing. He walked to the elevator, and fingered his automatic as the doors sighed open. The elevator was empty. Shayne pressed the lobby button and stood back as the car glided downward.

The doors slid open in the lobby. There was no one in sight. Shayne found the doorman, and, for the price of a ten dollar bill, sent him up to watch Lucille Lawson’s apartment.

Then Shayne went out to his car. He had one more stop before he paid a visit on Will Gentry at Miami Police Headquarters.

X

The garage of The Dolphin Cab Company was a busy place in the early afternoon. The dispatcher finally located the taxi that had picked up a fare at The Juggler Club at four o’clock on the morning Sharon Delany had died.

“Here we are. Al Downey,” the dispatcher said. “Al’s out on the street. He ought to pull in soon.”

“Can you call him in?” Shayne asked.

“Not a chance. The boss would have our hides. You’ll have to wait.”

Shayne waited. Al Downey came in for a break an hour later. Shayne described Lucille Lawson.

“I remember,” Downey said. “It was late, and that was around my last call. I picked her up at The Juggler, took her to a big apartment house.”

“Do you remember seeing anyone on the streets?”

“No,” Downey said, “except a guy came out of the apartment. A big car picked him up. I remember because the car almost hit me going in.”

“Describe the man who came out,” Shayne said.

Downey looked doubtful. “Well—”

Shayne dangled a ten dollar bill. Downey licked his lips. Then the driver described Josip Mercori down to the last detail. Mike Shayne handed Downey the ten spot.

“How come you remember him so well?” Shayne asked.

“Well, he was acting kind of funny. I mean, he came out in a hell of a hurry, like he’d seen a ghost. He really ran into that big car,” Downey said. “Anyway, the dame in my cab got all excited when she saw him. She told me to wait while he got into that car, and not to pull up in front until the car was gone.”

“Did you see anyone else?”

“No, the dame went in and I got out of there.”

Shayne thanked Downey, and went back to his car. It was not a sure thing, but it was enough to go to Gentry with — and fast. There was a killer running around looking for witnesses to silence.

Twenty minutes later, Chief Will Gentry sat in silence and listened to all that Mike Shayne had to tell him. When the redhead was finished, Gentry chewed on his cigar a moment, and then flicked his intercom.

“Send Bellows to pick up Lucille Lawson immediately,” Gentry snapped to his assistant. “He knows where. Tell him to go fast but careful, and watch out for strangers.”

Gentry flicked off the intercom and looked at Shayne. “Okay, Mike, Mercori was there. At least we know that. The rest is only Lucille Lawson’s word.”

“DiDonna confirms that Sharon was mad, and was going to talk to Mercori. And it was Makros Bey who hinted that the girl could be eased out,” Shayne said. “On top of that Ames admitted that it was Sharon who ditched him, so scratch one more motive for suicide. Then there’s those heel marks I found.”

Gentry scowled. “I’m damned if I know how Bellows missed those marks. He’s got some explaining to do.” Gentry chewed hard on his cigar. “Why was Mercori there so damned late, Mike? That’s a hell of a funny hour for a conference.”

“Maybe she was doing more than talk,” Shayne said. “Or maybe Mercori was there earlier and came back. This wasn’t just a lover’s spat, Will. She had some weapon against him. Maybe he made a lot of promises and then thought it over later and decided to be sure by going back and killing her.”

“Maybe,” Gentry said.

“Then he shot Ames because Ames knew what Sharon had known,” Shayne said.

Gentry scowled. “The only thing that puzzles me is why Mercori was there himself. He’s harder to get alone than the Queen of England. Why didn’t he send his goons?”

“I don’t know, Will, but maybe we better find out.”

Gentry nodded. “Yeah. We’ve got enough to pick him up and see what is going on.”

“Especially with Ames dead,” Shayne said.

“No,” Gentry said, “we’ve got nothing there, Mike. You don’t know who killed Ames or why, and Painter doesn’t either. The last I heard he hasn’t a clue. If he knew you had been there, you’d be under his hot lights now. He needs some help.”

“Maybe we can find the gun that killed Ames,” Shayne said.

Before Gentry could answer his intercom buzzed. The voice of his assistant said, “Lieutenant Bellows on four, Chief.”

Gentry picked up his telephone. His heavy brows seemed to swell as he listened. Then Gentry hung up and looked at Shayne.

“The Lawson woman isn’t in the apartment. The door was open. Your bird had flown! The doorman was knocked out.”

Shayne was on his feet. “Let’s get out to Mercori’s place, Will. A thousand-to-one he’s got her. And if he’s got her, she may be dead already!”

Gentry flicked his intercom again and began to snap low, harsh orders.

After a fast ride, the police cars slid silently up the road to the massive gate in the high stone wall. Behind the wall the mansion was quiet in the late afternoon sun. The guard stepped out of the gatehouse. Will Gentry led his men to the gate.

“Police. Open it,” Gentry said.

The guard hesitated. “I don’t know, officer. I—”

“I’ve got a warrant,” Gentry snapped. “Mercori will see us. Tell him.”

The guard went to the gatehouse and moments later returned and opened the gate. The police cars drove up the driveway to the big house. Mercori’s men stood watchful all around. Gentry ignored them, but the Chief’s men casually took up covering positions.

Gentry and Shayne walked through the front door. The fat Makros Bey stood in the hall with a puzzled expression on his smooth face. Behind him, to his left, the skinny Ben-Anni leaned against the wall as if asleep. The small gunman was not asleep, though, and Shayne watched him.

“Chief Gentry,” Makros Bey said. “May I ask the purpose of this visit?”

“You can ask,” Gentry growled, “but I talk to Mercori. Where is he?”

Makros Bey hesitated, then bowed slightly. “If you will come with me.”

Shayne, Gentry and three of his men followed Makros. Bey along the dim hallway to the study at the rear of the house. At his desk, Josip Mercori nodded to them, and looked curiously at both Shayne and Gentry.

“Good afternoon, Chief Gentry,” Mercori said, “and Mr. Shayne. I did not expect to see you again, Mr. Shayne. I gather that this is an official visit?”

Gentry nodded. “It is, Mr. Mercori. I’m afraid I have a warrant for your arrest.”

Makros Bey jumped a foot. “What? How dare—”

Ben-Anni slipped his hand into his suit-coat pocket, came alert. Mercori waved his men to silence. The exiled leader let his cool eyes roam across Gentry and Shayne’s faces.

“Perhaps you’ll explain, Chief?” Mercori said quietly. “I am ready to cooperate with all American authorities, but my position is rather special. Are your Federal authorities aware of this matter?”

“They will be soon enough,” Gentry said. “This is my city, Mercori, and in this country we have laws. This matter is not Federal.”

“Tell me what it is, Chief,” Mercori said.

“I’m afraid it may be murder, Mr. Mercori,” Gentry said bluntly.

Makros Bey burst out. “Don’t be ridiculous, Chief Gentry! I warn you that we will use all our power with your superiors to break you if you pursue this farce!”

Gentry looked at Bey. “Shut Up. You’re in this, too. We don’t like conspiracy in this city.”

Mercori silenced his aide with a gesture. “Who has been murdered, Chief Gentry?”

Gentry stared at the small exiled leader. “I have to warn you that anything you say may be used against you in a court of law, Mr. Mercori, and advise you that you do not have to answer my questions, and have the right to legal counsel. Do you understand that?”

“I understand,” Mercori said.

“Were you in the apartment of Sharon Delany between four and four-thirty on the morning she died, Mr. Mercori?”

Mercori seemed to think for a minute. Then he nodded. “Yes, Chief, I was there.”

XI

Josip Mercori waved Mike Shayne and Chief Gentry to a seat. Both men remained standing. Mercori watched them and shrugged.

“I should have come forward,” Mercori said, “but in my position it is very bad for me to become involved in notoriety. I was there, but not quite at the times you mention. I arrived at about ten minutes after four, and left about half past four. She had jumped before I arrived.”

Shayne watched the small leader. The study was very silent. Gentry chewed on his cigar uneasily. There was going to, be hell to pay if Mercori was tied to the murder of a young girl who had probably been his mistress.

“Tell us the whole story from the start, Mr. Mercori?” Gentry said.

“The story?” Mercori said. “But what story, Chief Gentry? I don’t understand. I was foolish not to report that I had found Miss Delany dead, but it seemed inconsequential at the time. Later, the CIA advised me to be silent, since the poor girl had obviously killed herself. However, if it is murder, I am glad to cooperate. But I know nothing of value.”

“Just tell us the story,” Gentry said.

Makros Bey snarled. “Don’t you see, Josip, they are trying to involve you! They will—”

Gentry snapped, “I told you to shut up, Bey! I’ll get to you.”

Mercori glanced quickly at Makros Bey, and then back at Gentry. “I still do not understand what you mean by the ‘story’. A Mr. Larry Ames brought the girl to me some time ago. I found her eager and pleasing. We became, shall we say, friendly. I secured her employment at Mr. DiDonna’s club, and in a musical show in which I have an interest. That was all.”

“Go on,” Gentry said.

Shayne was listening with a frown on his face, and his eyes watching Ben-Anni and Makros Bey. The two henchmen seemed uneasy, alert. Mercori shrugged his shoulders.

“But that is all. The young lady was busy; she had her lover, Mr. Ames, and she and I ceased to be close. That night she called me to ask if I would intercede for her with DiDonna and the producer of her show. I told her I had no idea she was in trouble, and of course I would help her. I arranged to meet her in the morning. But about three o’clock that night she called me and insisted I come right to her. I did and found her dead below the open window. That is all.”

“You didn’t get her fired?” Gentry snapped.

“Of course not.”

“Lew DiDonna says you did,” Shayne said.

“Then he lies.”

“Ames implied you did,” Gentry said.

“Another liar,” Mercori said, his voice growing edgy now.

“Lucille Lawson says that Sharon implied that she had some hold on you, that she could force you to get her jobs back for her.”

“She did not!” Mercori said. “She was a harmless little girl with few brains, too much ambition, and a rather animal cunning as to how to use her charms to get what she wanted. That was all she was. I had no idea that she was in any trouble, and I would have helped her instantly if I had known. Someone is telling you many lies, Chief Gentry.”

“Who?” Shayne said. “And why.”

“I have no idea, Mr. Shayne. Possibly to cover his own guilt,” Mercori said, and suddenly his eyes were thoughtful. “As a matter of fact, I recall that when she called me that night she indicated that she was not alone. I had the impression that Mr. Ames was with, her, yes. She whispered that she would have to, as she said, ‘clear the field of other candidates.’ I think it was Mr. Ames who was with her.”

“Did you see him when you arrived?” Shayne said.

“No, I saw no one. Simply the open window, and the bottle of liquor, and a single glass.”

“One glass?” Gentry said.

“One,” Mercori said.

“And you think Ames may have been the one trying to frame you because he killed Sharon himself?” Shayne said.

“He would seem to be the logical one,” Mercori said.

“Especially since he’s dead,” Gentry said.

Mercori narrowed his eyes. “Dead?”

“Murdered,” Shayne said. “Shot from ambush. By someone who could shoot like your men, Mercori.”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to come with us, Mr. Mercori,” Gentry said.

Makros Bey cried, “Don’t you see what is happening, Josip? It is the work of our enemies!”

Gentry whirled on Bey. “I’ve told you, Bey! You’ll come downtown, too. I want—”

Mercori said, “All right, Makros.”

Shayne realized an instant too late that it was a signal. A gun appeared in Makros Bey’s fat hand. Ben-Anni had a gun. Shayne tried for his automatic, and Gentry had his pistol half out. They were facing Makros Bey and Ben-Anni. Mercori spoke behind them.

“Do not use your weapons, please.”

Mercori stood with a pistol. Gentry swore.

“You’re crazy, Mercori. You can’t get away like this,” the Chief said.

“No, Chief Gentry, there is a plot here, and I cannot take the risk of allowing myself to be placed in prison,” Mercori said. “Do not try to stop me, Or many of your men will be harmed. Ben-Anni has given a signal for them to shoot if necessary. I have too much work to do to be, how do you say, framed for such a stupid thing.”

“My men have the place surrounded, you fool,” Gentry snapped.

“It does not matter,” Mercori said. “Do you think we have not planned for such an eventuality? Unless you attempt to shoot, my men will do nothing. But if you try to stop me, then there will be trouble, no matter who you are, Chief. We have fought the police many times in our lives.”

“You won’t get out of the city,” Gentry said.

“Yes I will, Chief,” Mercori said. “You will all please lie on the floor.”

Shayne and Gentry and Gentry’s three men all lay down. They lay face down on a quick order from Ben-Anni. The skinny gunman stood behind where they lay.

“Tie them, Ben-Anni,” Mercori said.

“Josip,” Makros Bey said, “is there time? These are the police. Other of his men may come in at any moment. I do not think we should risk it. He is the Chief of Police. His staff will be contacting him. Men will come looking soon.”

There was a silence. Then Ben-Anni spoke. The small gunman’s voice was like the voice of a boy. “I will tie them, Excellency. You must not be only with one man to protect you.”

“Do you suggest I cannot protect His Excellency?” Makros Bey demanded.

“No, sir, only that two are better than one, and I am better trained than you, Makros Bey,” Ben-Anni said. “It is our rule to never allow His Excellency to be with only one man. And it does not matter who that man is.”

“Rules are made to be broken when the need arises,” Makros Bey said, “and we waste precious seconds.”

Mercori decided. “Makros is right, Ben-Anni. You will remain here with these men. We will meet as arranged. Understood?”

“I understand,” Ben-Anni said.

On his face on the floor, Shayne listened. He heard Mercori and Makros Bey walk across the room. Then there was a creaking, sliding sound. Then silence.

Shayne sensed Ben-Anni somewhere behind where Shayne lay on his face. He looked at his watch in front of his face. They had been inside the house some ten minutes only. The men outside would not begin to wonder for at least another half an hour, not with five of them in the house.

Another ten minutes past, and Shayne could think of no way to make a move to take Ben-Anni. Lying on their faces, the five of them could not make a concerted move, and did not know exactly where Ben-Anni was. Mercori’s men knew their jobs.

Then Shayne became aware of something wrong. He blinked and breathed softly. He moved his head slowly, and looked up and behind him.

The room was empty. Ben-Anni was gone.

“Will!” Shayne snapped, and jumped up.

Gentry was beside him.

“One of you go and alert the men,” the Chief snapped to his men. “Arrest everyone. Do it without shooting if you can. Alert all the patrols around the house. Mike, come on.”

Gentry and Shayne jumped to the wall. They found the hidden door. It led down a steep flight of steps into a passage that stretched ahead under the ground. Shayne, Gentry and the other two of Gentry’s men hurried along the passage.

The passage ended in a door less than two hundred yards from the house. In a matter of moments they broke down the door and came out in a building.

“Some kind of garage!” Gentry said.

Shayne went to the door. “Outside the walls. It’s a dirt side road.”

One of Gentry’s men said, “They had a car here. It’s gone.”

The four men all looked down the dirt road that still glowed in the late evening sun.

“They’ve given us the slip,” Shayne said.

“But not for long, Mike,” Gentry said grimly. “They won’t get out of Miami.”

Shayne tugged on his earlobe. “I wonder. They’re not just criminals, Will. Mercori is a big man, and once he’s out of the city, I’m not sure you have enough to get him back.”

“With the Lawson girl, I—. Damn, the Lawson girl!” Gentry cried.

The four men hurried back through the passage. They met Lieutenant Bellows on the way.

“We got them all, Chief,” Bellows said, “only I don’t know what we can hold them on.”

“Nothing,” Gentry growled, “but let them cool their heels a day in jail as material witnesses, I want them out of circulation. Did you find any bodies? The Lawson woman?”

“We just got a call from Headquarters,” Bellows said. “She walked in twenty minutes ago. Said she was abducted, but they let her go. She’s giving her statement.”

Gentry rubbed his hands. “Then we’ll get Mercori!”

Shayne frowned and began to rub his chin. Something was bothering the redhead.

XII

Mike Shayne was in his favorite restaurant, on his third coffee and first cognac, when he knew what was bothering him.

Everything.

All at once Shayne believed Josip Mercori. The exiled leader had killed no one. Mercori had ordered no one killed.

It was all wrong, all a fake, and it began with the marks of high heels under Sharon Delany’s window, the marks of shoe polish on the air-conditioner. George Bellows was too good a policeman to have missed those marks.

Shayne pushed away his coffee, drained his cognac, and lighted a cigarette. George Bellows, or any cop on the detective squad ten minutes wouldn’t have missed a moved rug and heel marks under a window from which a woman had supposedly jumped. Never! He, Michael Shayne, was an idiot not to have guessed at once!

Bellows had not found those marks, because they had not been there when Bellows looked!

Shayne counted out his money for the bill, clapped on his panama, and strode to the telephone. He dialed Gentry’s special number.

“Any word, Will?”

“Not yet, Mike,” Gentry said. “They’ve literally vanished. We’ve got an APB out, every way out of the city is covered.”

“Do you have a man tailing the Lawson girl?”

“Of course. One tailing and two guarding. We figure they might try to hit her. She’s the key witness.”

“She sure is,” Shayne said drily. “Where is she now?”

“At her apartment, last report. I’ve got a man watching DiDonna, too, just in case.”

“Good,” Shayne said. “Any word from Painter on Larry Ames’s killer?”

“Only that it was a foreign-made gun, foreign bullets. It was the type of gun carried by some of Mercori’s men, but the slugs don’t match any of the guns we got from the men we’re holding. Painter’s waiting, and looking for Mercori, too. He’s also looking into everyone Ames knew, or any enemies Ames might have had.”

“Okay, Will. I’ll be in touch,” Shayne said.

“Mike? What’s up? You sound like a man with something on his mind.”

“Nothing, Will. Nothing at all,” Shayne said, because he was not yet sure what was on his mind. Only that there was something wrong with the whole affair. Something very wrong.

He hung up and strode out to his car. He drove fast through the city to a small frame house in a quiet middle-class section. The name on the mail box was Delany. Shayne pressed the doorbell. Mrs. Mary Delany opened the door and looked up at the redhead.

“Why, Mr. Shayne!” Mrs. Delany said.

“Can I talk to you, Mrs. Delany?”

“Why, of course,” the motherly woman said, fluttering her hands to invite Shayne into the small but scrupulously neat living room of the small house. She perched on a flowered chair. “You... you have news for me? You know who killed my Sharon?”

“No, Mrs. Delany, not yet,” Shayne said. “But I have some questions.”

“Questions? I really don’t see what I could tell you.”

“You can tell me where you got the money, Mrs. Delany,” Shayne said quietly.

Mrs. Delany flinched where she sat. “The money? What money, Mr. Shayne?”

“When you came to me you said you could pay me. I only asked for a token payment, but you couldn’t have known I would do that. You must have known I charge pretty high, and the job might have taken a long time. Where did you get the money? You acted as if you were sure you could pay me.”

“I have savings, Mr. Shayne,” Mary Delany said.

Shayne looked around the clean but shabby room. “No, Mrs. Delany, I don’t believe you. A woman like you doesn’t think of paying perhaps five or six hundred dollars, maybe more, to a private detective. No, you wouldn’t have thought of coming to me on your own. You’d have gone to the police.”

“I did go to the police!” Mrs. Delany insisted.

“You’d have kept on going, badgered them, written letters,” Shayne said, “but not hired a private detective. I can check, Mrs. Delany. I can find out how much money you had and have. I can see if you drew out a large sum, or if maybe you deposited a large sum recently.”

There was a silence in the neat little room. Mrs. Mary Delany looked around as if not quite sure where she was. Then she sighed, and her face grew harder.

“My daughter was dead,” she said, her voice suddenly harsher. “Killed herself, they said. I didn’t believe that, but even if she had jumped from that window it was them who made her do it. I hated them: that Menander, that terrible fat Makros Bey, all of them. I wanted to hurt them, but I didn’t have any way.”

Her motherly face was set in hate, then it suddenly twisted into a smile, a grotesque smile. “Then he came to me. He said he thought Menander, or whatever his real name is, had at least driven Sharon to suicide. He offered to give me money if I would hire you to investigate the case. He told me to say. I was sure Sharon had been murdered. He gave me the money to pay you, and a little for myself. I took it. Why not?”

“Why not, Mrs. Delany?” Shayne said. “He hired you to convince me I was looking for a murder. You understand? He didn’t give a damn about Sharon. It was Mercori he was after! And it’s worked. Mercori has the police after him.”

“I didn’t know a Mercori, Mr. Shayne.”

“Mercori is Menander’s real name.”

Her eyes burned. “Then I’m glad I got the police after him!”

“You were used, Mrs. Delany, and paid blood money. Your whole purpose, what they paid you for, was to get me to go after Mercori, to look for a murder.”

“Was Sharon murdered?” Mary Delany said.

“I don’t know. I can’t tell the truth from all the faked evidence and yams I was handed,” Shayne said. “But I’m going to find out. Who paid you to hire me?”

The motherly woman looked at her hands. The hands rested in her lap and twisted like small animals looking for food. She looked up at Shayne.

“Larry Ames paid me. He said he wanted to know what happened.”

Shayne stared at her. “Ames? Can you prove that?”

“Ask him. I can’t prove it, but it’s the truth. I never liked him, and I wondered what he was up to, but I didn’t care. Those people killed my child no matter how she died!”

“I can’t ask him, Mrs. Delany. He’s dead.”

She blinked. “Dead?”

“Murdered, Mrs. Delany,” Shayne said harshly.

“Then... then Sharon was murdered, too! By the same people. They killed Larry because he was having them investigated. He said he wanted me to hire you because he didn’t want to be involved!”

Shayne stood up suddenly and began to pace the neat little room. “Damn it, it doesn’t make sense. If Ames wanted to cause trouble, or even find out if someone murdered Sharon, he was acting very strangely. He gives you money to hire me, and then he makes me beat a few facts from him!”

Shayne looked down at the woman. “If he wanted to find who killed Sharon, why didn’t he just tell me what I wanted to know? But he didn’t. He acted like a man who didn’t want to talk. He lied to the police and you about jilting Sharon, and made me beat the truth out of him. Are you lying, Mrs. Delany?”

“No!” she cried. “I swear it, Mr. Shayne. Larry Ames paid me two thousand dollars to hire you. What I didn’t have to pay you was mine. He said he wanted to find out who killed Sharon!”

Shayne paced. He was remembering what Josip Mercori had said, that Larry Ames might have been with Sharon that night at about the time she died. Ames himself could have been the killer, yet he had hired Shayne to find the killer! Not himself, but through the mother.

“All right, Mrs. Delany. The police will want to talk to you sooner or later. For now stay here, and keep your doors locked.”

Shayne walked out of the house and returned to his car. He sat in the car for some time smoking a cigarette and staring at the small house of Mrs. Mary Delany. Was she telling the truth? If she was, then Shayne was beginning to have a faint glimmering of what was being done.

He started his engine and drove back toward the tall, elegant apartment house where Sharon Delany had died. The apartment where Lucille Lawson now lived alone, the major witness against Josip Mercori.

XIII

Mike Shayne eased his car into the shadows at the corner. He parked and darkened his lights. In the dark night he lit a cigarette, cupped it carefully, and leaned back against the seat.

From where he had parked he could see the front entrance to the apartment house, and the service entrance that was down a flight of stairs below street level.

Up the block in the other direction a car was parked. There were no markings, but Shayne knew a police car when he saw one.

A man sat in it. Shayne could see the glow of the other man’s cigarette.

Gentry’s man was not being too discreet, and was not parked where he could see the side entrance. There was nothing wrong with that. Two guards were with Lucille Lawson inside, the service door was locked from inside, and Gentry’s man in the car was there only to watch who came and went, and if anyone should follow Lucille when she came out.

Mike Shayne had other reasons.

The redhead settled down to watch and wait. There were no other ways out of the building.

An hour passed.

Then two hours.

If Shayne’s glimmer of an idea were right, something should happen soon. The redhead shifted in his seat and began to wonder if he could have been fooled. Was there any other way out of the tall apartment house? It was modern fireproof construction with no fire escape and an inside fire stairs instead.

It was almost impossible for a woman to lower herself to the street by a rope. There were no roofs close enough to afford escape. No, Lucille Lawson had to come out the front or the side.

Just before the third hour, Shayne saw it. A man came out the front entrance on the run. The man ran across the street to the parked police car. Shayne watched the two men talk quickly. The one who had run from the apartment building gestured toward the corner and, probably, the side exit.

At that moment a long black car appeared and turned the corner into the side street toward the side door. The man who had run from the building jumped into the watching car and the car moved off and around the corner behind the big black car.

Mike Shayne watched.

The black car had slowed near the side entrance. Now, as the police car came around the corner, it speeded up and pulled away, and its right rear door opened and slammed shut. The police car went off along the side street after the big black car.

Both disappeared.

Shayne sat and smoked and watched both entrances.

A moment or two later he saw a shadow appear at the top of the stairs from, the side entrance. Shayne smiled.

The shadow became a tall woman who walked quickly away in the same direction taken by the black car and the police car. Shayne waited until the woman was half way up the block, then quickly pulled away from the curb, drove to the next side street, turned, and sped to the next main street. He turned left and eased slowly toward the side street where the woman had been walking.

He reached the corner just before the woman emerged into the light. It was Lucille Lawson. She stepped into a small car parked at the corner, and drove off toward the north. Shayne fell in behind her. They drove for over two miles, and then the small car pulled over to the curb again. Shayne drove slowly past. Lucille Lawson got out of the car and went into a tavern.

Shayne parked up the block. Then he had a feeling, call it a hunch. Lucille Lawson was obviously trying to shake any possible shadowers. Shayne pulled from the curb and turned into the first side street. There was an alley behind the row of buildings in which the tavern was located.

Shayne parked, got out of his car, and stood in the shadows where he could watch the alley. A door opened two minutes later. A woman came out and turned toward Shayne. The redhead ducked back. Lucille Lawson came out of the alley and walked away from where she had parked the small car.

When she was far enough ahead, Shayne went to his car and followed her slowly. As she neared the corner he speeded up like any normal car and reached the corner. Lucille Lawson turned left. Shayne made the turn and drove past her to the next corner. In his rearview mirror he saw the big black car pull quickly to the curb. Lucille Lawson jumped in.

The big black car roared past Shayne and drove off south. The police car was nowhere in sight. Shayne could guess what had happened. The driver of the black car had managed to let the two policemen see that his car was empty! Maybe the police had stopped the car to be sure. Then the police, realizing they had made an, error, had hotfooted it back to the apartment. A neat bit of work.

But not neat enough. Shayne settled down to drive carefully behind the big car. He used all his skill, allowing other cars to come between when he knew there were no logical turnoffs, and twice he pulled ahead and passed the black car when he knew he could make a turnoff and pick the car up again with no danger of losing it.

It was after less than an hour that Shayne knew the black car was leading him close to the mansion of Josip Mercori! And minutes after that the big car pulled up at a deserted intersection that was less than half a mile from Mercori’s former headquarters. Shayne, caught as the only other car near, had to drive on past. In his rearview mirror he watched the big car drive away and come up behind him, and Lucille Lawson stood alone on the deserted corner.

There was a gas station. Shayne turned into the station, the big car roared away and vanished in the night. Shayne U-turned and nosed out. Lucille Lawson still stood where the big car had dropped her. Shayne realized she was still checking on any pursuit, and also waiting for the big car to be gone. As Shayne watched, Lucille Lawson crossed the road and vanished up a narrow driveway.

Shayne pulled out and drove slowly back to the corner. He parked some hundred yards away from the driveway, and walked carefully back in the shadows of trees. He did not take the driveway, but moved silently under the trees toward a small house at the end of the driveway.

Shayne inched closer to the house in the dark night. There was light in the house, and the shades were not drawn. Through the window Shayne saw the fat figure of Makros Bey, and the smaller shape of Josip Mercori. Shayne grinned to himself, took a step closer — and froze.

A figure crouched in the night at the dark corner of the house. It was Lucille Lawson, and she had a pistol in her hand.

Even as Shayne watched, the woman raised up to peer in at a side window, her pistol aimed inside the room.

Shayne prepared to leap.

XIV

Mike Shayne did not move.

Lucille Lawson, after staring for a moment into the room of the small house, crouched down again in the shadows and made no further move.

Shayne swore under his breath. What the devil was the woman up to? And what were Mercori and Makros Bey doing? They had run less than half a mile from the mansion, and while all the police in Miami were looking for them they stood talking in the living room of an isolated shabby house.

Where was the little gunman, Ben-Anni?

Shayne crouched down in the night, barely breathing. He could attempt to take them, but he actually had nothing against any of them. If he had it was not going to be easy to take them alone. He could not take the Lawson woman without alerting the men in the house, and he could not try for the men in the house and the woman at the same time.

The gas station where he had made the turn was not far off through the trees and from it Shayne could watch the only way out from the house in a car. A big car was parked beside the house. Shayne would have to chance it.

Carefully, slowly, the redhead worked his way backwards until he had reached the road not far from the gas station. He stood and crossed the street quickly. The telephone booth was at the corner of the station building. Shayne could see the faint light in the windows of the small house through the trees. His eyes on the light, he dialed Gentry’s number.

Gentry was not in his office. Shayne swore to himself and asked for Bellows.

“He’s out on the street, too, Mr. Shayne,” Gentry’s assistant said.

“They’re both out?” Shayne snapped. “Where?”

“They went on a call. A man named Ben-Anni was found dead on a deserted beach near the bay.”

“Ben-Anni? Dead? How?” Shayne demanded.

“Shot, I think,” the sergeant said, and there was a silence. “Yes, the call-in said he was shot twice, not where he was found.”

Shayne’s grey eyes suddenly blazed. “All right. Now listen. Get in touch with Gentry or Bellows wherever they are. Tell them that Josip Mercori and Makros Bey are in a house on a driveway from the intersection of Ladera Road and Bay Drive. Got that? Tell them to get out here fast. I’ll be watching for them. And get that to them at once!”

“They’ll have it in ten seconds, Shayne.”

Shayne hung up. The light was still on in the small house, and no car had left. Shayne slipped quickly back across the road and into the trees. Ben-Anni shot! Shayne’s glimmer of an idea for what the whole affair was about was becoming more than a glimmer. Ames was dead. Ben-Anni dead. Lucille Lawson with a gun and watching Mercori and Makros Bey. He wondered if Lew DiDonna was still alive, and if he was where was he?

Near the house again, Shayne saw that Lucille Lawson had not moved. The shadow of the woman still crouched as a darker shape in the shadows at the corner of the house. Shayne considered if he could capture the woman without alarming the two men. He had only thought about it for a few moments when the lights went out in the house.

The outer door opened and Mercori and Makros Bey stepped out into the night and walked quickly to the big car waiting near the house. Lucille Lawson made no move. Makros Bey carried a pistol. At the car Josip Mercori stopped.

“I am not sure, Makros,” Mercori said in a low voice. “I am not sure I should not give myself up.”

“Do not be a fool, Josip!” Bey snapped. “Your enemies will stop at nothing, and you know it. In jail who knows what could happen?”

“The police will protect me.”

“You do not know how clever this plot actually is, Josip!” Bey said. “You were there with that girl. I know these Americans. They will lean over backwards to show the world how fair they are by punishing the important man with the insignificant man. How can you prove you did not kill that girl? The American government really does not like you, Josip, and you know that. If this Gentry can fabricate a good case against you, the Federal people will not help you.”

Mercori sighed. “I suppose you are right. Still I do not like this running and leaving all my men. And where is Ben-Anni? He should have met us here by now?”

“Either the police have taken him, Josip, or he is under their eyes and is staying away. Ben-Anni is a clever boy despite his youth.”

“He should have communicated, Makros,” Mercori said.

“We can’t wait, Josip. You know the value of time. We’ve been through this all so many times before. They will not catch us. The Nazi’s couldn’t take us, nor our good native fascists, nor the degenerate king himself. We’re on our wits again, Josip. In a way there is a thrill to it.”

“We have been through much, Makros,” Mercori said softly. “Still, I am uneasy this time. There is something strange about it all. Why would that Lawson woman wish to harm me? Who would kill that fool Ames?”

“Your enemies are everywhere, Josip, and we have no time. Come,” Makros Bey said. “Once in Brazil we will be safe.”

The two men opened the car doors. Shayne, low in the dark, watched them and Lucille Lawson. The woman made no move. Shayne was trapped. He could not move against the two men because that would put the Lawson woman behind him. If he tried to attack the woman, the men would be behind him.

Where was Gentry?

Shayne watched the car start, and still Lucille Lawson just crouched in the dark and watched with her pistol ready but silent. The big car pulled down the driveway. Shayne, helpless, took the license number. Moments later the big car had driven away.

Lucille Lawson stood up. She pocketed her pistol and entered the small house. She came out again almost at once. She held a piece of paper and walked quickly down the driveway. Shayne followed at a careful distance.

Where was Gentry?

Shayne followed Lucille Lawson along the road to another driveway. A car was parked in the driveway not far from where Shayne’s car was hidden in the trees. Lucille Lawson got into the car. Shayne, hidden in the trees, watched her get in and start the motor. He slipped back to his own car.

She pulled out of the driveway and turned north. She drove easily, without hurrying, and Shayne drove behind her. Gentry had not appeared, and Shayne could not wait. If he lost the Lawson woman he would not find Mercori and Bey again.

The redhead had no doubt that, whatever Lucille Lawson was up to, she was on her way to the same destination as Mercori and Bey. Someone had left her directions to follow from the small house.

If Shayne had a chance he would call in to Gentry. But if he did not, then he would have to go it alone. He could not lose Lucille Lawson.

His grey eyes grimly watched the car ahead as it drove easily north and then began to turn west in the night.

XV

It was dawn when the two cars passed through Mobile. Lucille Lawson continued west. Mike Shayne had little doubt now where she was going. Makros Bey had spoken of Brazil. The Lawson girl was going to New Orleans, where jets left for Brazil.

He maintained his distance, but never lost sight of the car ahead, and wondered how the two fugitives had gotten out of Miami. Whatever their plan, it was apparently a good one, and Shayne had had no chance to call Gentry yet.

The sun was up, and the day was clear and hot, when Shayne followed Lucille Lawson into the outskirts of New Orleans. The airport seemed to shimmer in the sun when Shayne parked in the lot some fifty feet away from Lucille Lawson’s car.

The Lawson girl took a small suitcase and walked from the parking lot into the terminal building. Shayne strolled behind her. He had to be careful now. In daylight, and on foot, she could easily recognize him.

She stopped at the Pan-Am reservation desk. She obviously had a reservation, Shayne followed her to a waiting area. The jet leaving from that area was going non-stop to Rio de Janiero.

Shayne went back to the reservation desk and asked for any cancellations. There was a waiting list ahead of him. He asked for the manager and flashed his credentials. The manager was not pleased, but there was a cancellation not yet assigned, and the expectancy of the usual number of “no-shows.” Shayne took his ticket, charged on his credit card, and returned to the waiting area.

Lucille Lawson had not moved. The woman was reading a magazine, and obviously did not want to be seen. Shayne tugged slowly on his left earlobe as he watched her and scanned the faces of the other waiting passengers.

He did not see Mercori or Makros Bey. A heavy-set man with a beard pushed an old man in a wheelchair up to the waiting area. The old man was small and thin. Shayne studied them.

A thin, elderly woman wearing a veil walked into the waiting area with her fat and bearded husband.

Two dark-skinned men who looked like laborers strode into the waiting area. Both wore heavy mustaches; and one was thin and small, the other big and heavy.

A small figure lay alone on a stretcher, two white-suited attendants talking to pretty girls and ignoring their patient. Neither of the attendants was fat.

There were many small, slender men. None of them looked like Mercori, but any of them could be heavily and expertly made up.

Shayne knew that he was going to have to wait for Mercori or Markros Bey, or the Lawson woman, to make a move, if he was to have any proof of his hunch.

At that moment the doors to the entry tunnel opened, and the passengers began to file into the jet. Lucille Lawson did not move. The waiting area was not full. There was still some time before the announced departure time.

Shayne stood up and moved with a large group of passengers into the entry tunnel. Lucille Lawson had not seen him. On the jet he took his seat and watched the forward doorway. He could not watch the rear entry.

One minute before departure time Shayne had still not seen Mercori or Makros Bey, but Lucille Lawson came aboard as the last passenger to board through the forward entry.

The doors closed. The jet began to taxi away across the sunny airport, its jets thundering.

The giant craft moved slowly and ponderously like some awkward bird not at home on the ground. It reached the head of the runway and stopped. Three minutes passed. Then the four big engines began to roar and throb as the power built up to a crescendo. The jet shook, and began to move. It thundered down the runway and then lifted, and suddenly leaped upward in its steep climb.

Mike Shayne was on his way to Rio.

Lucille Lawson sat quietly not far ahead of Shayne, the small suitcase in her lap.

Shayne, hidden behind a newspaper, let his grey eyes look slowly and carefully around. He did not see Mercori or Makros Bey ahead of him. Both men would recognize him. A handkerchief covering his lower face, he quickly glanced around behind him.

He did not spot his quarry.

Shayne had a problem. If he walked through the jet he stood a better chance of being spotted than he had of spotting them. Yet if he remained in his seat he would not find his men. Unless he watched only Lucille Lawson and waited for some contact.

The jet was now well out over the sea on its way to Brazil. If Shayne had made a mistake, if Lucille Lawson were a decoy, then there was no chance of catching Mercori and Bey. But Shayne was sure he had made no mistake. Someone had killed Ben-Anni, and that would not have been Josip Mercori. Whatever plan was going on, it was not Josip Mercori’s plan.

Then it happened.

Shayne was about to take the risk of walking back through the giant jet, when a man walked past him, going toward the front of the jet. It was the fat and bearded husband of the thin woman who had worn a veil in the waiting area.

Shayne watched the fat man and knew that he had found Makros Bey. Lucille Lawson looked up casually as the fat man passed her. The man turned his head a fraction. Lucille Lawson gave a tiny nod.

Makros Bey walked on toward the front.

XVI

Mike Shayne opened his suit jacket and rested his hand on his automatic. Somewhere behind him Josip Mercori sat disguised as a woman with a veil.

Makros Bey had reached the front of the big jet now. As the fat man approached the door into the pilot’s cabin, a stewardess stepped out in his way. The stewardess smiled at Bey and said something, her head shaking negatively. She was telling the fat man that he could not go into the pilot’s compartment.

As Shayne watched the smile froze on the face of the stewardess. The smile became a rigid grimace. Shayne could not see Makros Bey’s hands, but from the set of the fat man’s arm it was clear what was happening.

Makros Bey had a pistol pointed at the stewardess, and hidden from anyone else.

The stewardess blinked and hesitated. But Shayne knew what she would do. In flight the stewardess could not risk gunfire, or panic, or any kind of fight.

Shayne watched the tableaux at the door of the pilot’s cabin, and he saw Lucille Lawson suddenly stand and walk to the rest room. She carried the small suitcase.

It had all taken only seconds. Makros Bey still stood at the door of the pilot’s cabin. Lucille Lawson was in the wash room. The stewardess had now turned to open the door into the pilot’s cabin.

Mike Shayne moved.

He walked quickly to the door of the rest room. It was located beside a small, curtained stewardess’s area. Shayne slipped behind the curtain.

The big jet suddenly shuddered in the air. There was a gasp from the crowd of passengers. Then they all gripped their seats as the jet leaned over in a long, sweeping turn. When it came out of the turn, Shayne knew that the plane was now headed for some other destination than Brazil.

Lucille Lawson stepped out of the ladies’ room just as a stewardess and an officer who had been at the rear came rushing forward, alarm on their faces.

“Stop! Right there!” Lucille Lawson said.

She held an assembled submachine gun. The two crew members stopped in their tracks and stared at Lucille Lawson. Some women began to scream as they saw the ugly submachine gun in the Lawson woman’s hands. Two men jumped up.

“Down!” Lucille Lawson snapped. “Everyone remain calm and seated. There is no danger if you behave yourselves. This plane is changing destination. No one will he harmed.”

The two men sat down. The women covered their mouths in fear. Then, slowly, far to the rear a small old woman stood up. Lucille Lawson watched this woman, her machine gun pointed at him.

Mike Shayne jumped.

Momentarily distracted by watching the woman far to the rear, Lucille Lawson never saw Shayne lunge out of the curtained area at her shoulder. He closed one big hand on the submachine gun. His other fist hit Lucille Lawson on the point of the chin. Her head snapped back and Shayne caught her in one arm as she fell. His other hand held the submachine gun. Lucille Lawson collapsed unconscious in his arm.

Shayne lowered her to the floor and looked at the officer.

“Get her in that curtained area and tie her,” Shayne snapped. “There’s a man up with the captain. We may have to let him make us land wherever he’s going.”

A small figure stood over the redhead. Shayne straightened up with the submachine gun in his hand. Josip Mercori had taken off his dress and disguise and stood now in the same suit Shayne had seen last night.

“You will not believe me, Mr. Shayne,” Mercori said, “but I know nothing about this. I did not know this woman was aboard.”

Shayne nodded. “I believe you, Mercori. This whole affair was aimed at you. You’re the target. How much money do they get if they return you home?”

“I believe it would total some one hundred thousand dollars in all,” Mercori said, and said, “yes, I see. One hundred thousand dollars, if I am returned alive to be shot. My longtime friend, Makros Bey.”

“He’s no friend now.”

Mercori stared at nothing. “Twenty-eight years we have shared our lives. Now— Where do you think he is taking us, Mr. Shayne?”

“You tell me, Mercori? He can’t reach home, so where can he deliver you to a government who would be sure to return you?”

Mercori nodded. “Portugal, I expect. They would probably send me back on extradition. I am a convicted traitor, and Salazar is sympathetic to the present regime.”

“We can’t make Portugal,” the plane’s officer said.

The stewardess said, “The Azores we can.”

“The Azores Islands,” Mercori said. “Yes, that would be the same thing. They are part of Portugal.”

Shayne looked at Josip Mercori, then at all the passengers who were watching the whole scene in fascinated fear.

The redhead said: “Okay. Let’s try.”

Shayne walked forward with Mercori behind him. The stewardess and ship’s officer talked softly to the passengers. Shayne had his automatic out. Mercori had drawn a pistol.

Shayne listened at the door of the pilot’s cabin. Somehow he had to open it. It did not open from outside.

The redhead motioned to the officer, whispered:

“Get in there somehow. Go in slowly.”

The officer nodded. Shayne motioned to Mercori.

“Stand behind the officer. Let Makros Bey see you. He needs you alive. He thinks the Lawson woman has the cabin under control. He’ll hesitate to shoot.”

Mercori nodded. Shayne lay flat on the floor in the aisle, his head just behind Mercori’s feet. He would have one shot, and if he missed he could crash the jet.

The officer knocked. “Sir! Trouble here. A woman has a gun on us. I have to come in. I know there is a man in with you, my hands will be up.”

There was a breathless silence. Then the door clicked and swung open. The officer stepped in with his hands up. On the floor Shayne located Makros Bey against the other wall with his eyes on both the door and the pilot at the same time. Bey held a gun.

The officer stepped in and moved quickly left.

Makros Bey saw Mercori.

The fat man stared at Mercori for a split second, his eyes blinking with an instant’s confusion.

Shayne held his automatic in both hands and fired from the floor.

Makros Bey was hurled back against the wall, and his eyes widened. He raised his pistol, tried to fire, but crashed forward on his face.

The captain and first officer just looked at Mike Shayne, and then the big jet made a slow, sweeping turn and started back toward New Orleans.

Shayne stood up. “Miami is closer now, Captain.”

“Miami then,” the captain said.

Shayne went back to pick up Lucille Lawson. Josip Mercori stood looking down at Makros Bey, who lay dead in a pool of blood from Shayne’s single shot in his heart.

XVII

Chief Will Gentry stared after Lucille Lawson as the woman was taken from his office. Shayne sat and did not look toward where the woman had vanished through Gentry’s door.

“I don’t know what we can get her for,” Gentry said slowly. “Attempted piracy on that jet, I suppose. It’ll put her away a long time. There’s no real proof against her for complicity in the murders, even if she told us just about all of it.”

Shayne watched space. “All because Makros Bey wanted the blood money for his chief’s head.”

“A hundred thousand is a lot of money,” Gentry said, “but it wasn’t just the money. Twenty-eight years of playing second fiddle, and not getting what he thought he deserved; He’d lost faith in Mercori, and decided to turn him in before someone else did.”

“And he couldn’t really do it unless he got Mercori alone with just himself,” Shayne said. “All the other men Mercori had were faithful. No one could get close to Mercori to snatch him. I tried and I didn’t make it. But the police could break him loose if they had a reason. It was a hell of a good plan.”

“Bey in it all alone until he got his sweetie, the Lawson girl, to help,” Gentry said. “A real set-up. How did you first tumble, Mike?”

“All at once,” Shayne said. “They had me going good until we tried to arrest Mercori. When he got away with Bey, it all suddenly seemed wrong. Your men wouldn’t have missed those heel marks, so they had to have been made after you had gone over the apartment, and that meant they had been made for my benefit.

“After I realized that all the rest was as phony as a three-dollar bill. They all said they knew nothing, yet everyone blurted out some lead to the idea that Mercori had killed Sharon. It was a set-up, pure and simple.”

“They’d all been paid to give you clues and leads,” Gentry said.

Shayne nodded. “Sharon had really been fired from that musical show, and she really called Mercori about it. But that was the day before her death. Bey got the big idea from that. He arranged for DiDonna to fire her, and brought Ames into the deal. Ames was greedy, so it was okay with him.”

“Ames actually killed Sharon,” Gentry mused, “and then Bey killed him.”

“It was all part of a double plan,” Shayne said. “Killing Ames got rid of him, and it also made me sure the whole case was something. Mercori wanted to hush up. That was all Bey wanted — just that the police go to arrest Mercori and bust him loose from his loyal men.”

“What happened to Ben-Anni?”

Shayne shrugged. “We’ll never know, but it’s a million-to-one that Bey shot him. Ben-Anni was loyal to Mercori.”

Gentry chewed on his cigar. “So Bey and Lawson had two people killed, probably killed a third, all to get Mercori alone on a jet they could divert to the Azores.”

“It was the only way Bey could ever have gotten Mercori alone like that. The whole act of keeping me away was just designed to make me suspicious, and it worked.”

“Until they went too far,” Gentry said. “They really didn’t have to leave that physical evidence of the high heels.”

“Killers always go too far,” Shayne said.

Gentry nodded moodily. In the silence of the Chiefs big office, neither man spoke for some time.

“You know,” Shayne said at last, “I should have known when Ames was killed, but the killer missed me. That shooting was very good. I should have been hit. But my mind was on a great big cover-up by Mercori. It damned near worked, Will.”

“But it didn’t,” Will Gentry said, and smiled at Mike Shayne.