Pay-Off in Blood ms-41 Read online

  Dr. Ambrose sighed and moved uncomfortably. “I would advise her,” he said stiffly, “that there are other doctors in a city the size of Miami who have less scruples than I, and suggest that she seek one of them out.”

  “You’d wash your hands of the whole affair,” said Shayne angrily. “You’d send the frightened, distraught woman off to some damned abortionist and continue feeling very ethical about the whole thing even if she died getting rid of the baby?”

  “That wouldn’t necessarily happen. There are many competent men in the medical profession who…”

  “Who care more about human values than their damned code of ethics,” Shayne broke in. He lifted his glass and took a long drink of straight liquor, his bleak gaze pinning the squirming doctor into his chair.

  “Yet you have the guts to come here and proposition me. I’m licensed by the State of Florida also, Doctor. Private detectives have their own code of ethics. It’s not only illegal, but in my book it’s also immoral and unethical to pay money to a blackmailer.”

  “What am I going to do?” asked the doctor miserably, turning his eyes away from Shayne’s belligerent glare.

  Shayne said: “There are other private detectives in a city the size of Miami who have less scruples than I. I suggest you seek one of them out.”

  “But they haven’t your reputation for integrity. How do I know they are to be trusted?”

  “Ah,” said Shayne remorselessly. “That’s just the point, isn’t it? How do you think I got my reputation? The same way you got that reputation of yours you’re so jealous of, Doctor. By washing my hands of cases like yours.”

  The telephone rang beside him. He picked it up without thinking, and growled, “Shayne.”

  “Have you seen Doctor Ambrose, Mike? Is he there?”

  “He’s here,” grunted Shayne. “Look, Tim. Why the hell did you send him to me? You know how I feel about blackmail pay-offs.”

  “I know, Mike. That’s why I called. Look. I’m not asking you to do it for him. It’s a favor to me.” Timothy Rourke’s voice was honestly pleading. “You don’t have to make the pay-off. You don’t have to do a damned thing except bodyguard him until he delivers the money and gets the stuff in return. You know how ticklish these things are. For God’s sake, and for mine, Mike, get off your high-horse. A good little guy gets in a spot. How’ll you feel if you send him off alone and they grab his twenty grand without making an even exchange… and maybe gun him down at the same time? He’s not equipped to handle a thing like that. You can see that for yourself.”

  Shayne said through set teeth: “I’d feel just about the same way as he’d feel about our hypothetical pregnant lady.”

  “What in hell are you talking about?”

  Shayne grated, “Nuts,” and slammed the phone down. Dr. Ambrose had gotten up from his chair and stood hesitantly beside it. “I’m sorry I wasted your time, Mr. Shayne.” He spoke hopelessly, but again with an odd sort of dignity. “I… may as well be going.”

  Shayne said gruffly, “Sit down, Doc.”

  The doctor looked at him searchingly while Shayne settled back and ran big-knuckled fingers through his rumpled, red hair. Then he sat down again.

  Shayne said: “Drink some more of your sherry and tell me what you’ve got set up. That was Tim Rourke on the phone,” he added abruptly, “reminding me that I’m not God.”

  The doctor studied his gaunt face for a moment, and realized that Shayne’s eyes were no longer bleak. He asked quietly, “Then you’ve decided to help me?”

  Shayne said: “Let’s see exactly what the situation is. You wrote to this guy at his post office box last month telling him you had to get off the hook, and offering twenty grand to settle the thing. What happened?”

  “I received a telephone call about a week later. A man’s voice. Cultivated and… well, educated. He acceded to my offer. I told him I would need two or three weeks in which to raise the money. He agreed without protest, and said he would call me again today.”

  Dr. Ambrose paused and wet his lips with the tip of his tongue. He was staring across the room, speaking in a low, impersonal sort of tone. “This afternoon, the same man called me at my office. I told him the money was ready and that I would like to complete the transaction tonight. He agreed, and suggested that I meet him on a deserted stretch of the Beach to make the, ah… payoff. I demurred, Mr. Shayne.” The doctor turned to shoot him a troubled look.

  “I am not au fait with such matters, but I realized I would be terribly vulnerable with twenty thousand dollars in cash in my possession. What was there to prevent him from passing me an envelope with folded newspapers inside, or… worse still, simply shooting me and taking the money?

  “So, I made a counter proposition: that we should meet in Miami at some public place with other people present. I felt I would be better protected that way. And, having already thought of you, and hoping that I might be able to get your help through Mr. Rourke, I warned him that I would be guarded during the meeting by a gunman.

  “He acquiesced, seeming very sure of himself. I suggested the Seacliff Restaurant. That’s on Northeast Third Street. A rather large, brightly lighted place.”

  Shayne said, “I know it. I’ve eaten there.” He nodded. “A good choice, Doctor.”

  Dr. Ambrose appeared gratified by this small bit of approbation. “We left it that way. I have a telephone number which I am to call at precisely nine o’clock, settling the final details.” He looked down at his watch. “In exactly four minutes. I would like to tell him that you are going to be with me, Mr. Shayne. So that he will know exactly where he stands. If he protests your presence, I will feel that he isn’t really… as you would say it, I think, on the level.”

  Shayne nodded, grim-faced. “How difficult will it be for you to determine that the documents he gives to you are worth your twenty grand?”

  “Not difficult at all, Mr. Shayne. I envision us exchanging envelopes under your supervision. I will expect him to open mine and verify the amount contained inside it. At the same time, it will require only a minute for me to satisfy myself that all is in order. As soon as we are both satisfied, we will so signify, and go our separate ways. That is all I ask of you, Mr. Shayne.” The doctor’s manner was earnest and appealing.

  Shayne nodded, rubbing his blunt, whiskered chin. “You’re to phone him at nine?”

  “In exactly two minutes,” said Dr. Ambrose with another glance at his watch.

  Shayne nodded and yawned widely. “Set it up for as soon as you can. Nine-thirty, if possible. I’m sleepy as hell. Tell me one thing, Doc,” he added casually, opening the center drawer of the table beside him. “You’re not packing a rod, are you?”

  “I?” The doctor’s eyes widened. “Of course not. Why would you suspect that I would be… ‘packing a rod’?” The intonation he gave the three words put quotation marks around them.

  Shayne grinned wryly and said, “Some amateurs get strange ideas. I’ll have a gun, but I don’t want you messing things up by pulling one on your own.” He reached inside the open drawer and withdrew a short-barrelled.38 which he laid on the table. “Better make your phone call, hadn’t you?”

  Dr. Ambrose hesitated, pursing his lips and looking down at the rug. “That goes through the switchboard, doesn’t it?” He nodded toward the telephone at Shayne’s elbow. “To make a call from here I have to give the number?”

  “Sure,” said Shayne. “But what the hell? Pete, downstairs, isn’t going to keep track of a number you call.”

  “I wasn’t thinking about that, Mr. Shayne. I would be happier if you did not know the number either.”

  “What the hell?” grated Shayne. “Don’t you trust me?”

  “Not entirely,” said Dr. Ambrose. “You made it very clear to me that you disapprove of this… as you call it… pay-off. I trust you to go with me and see it through, as you have offered to do. But, also, Mr. Shayne, I have read enough detective novels to know that you have ways of tracing a telephone
number… and, after this matter has been concluded satisfactorily, I would not want you to do any further investigating. I trust you understand me?”

  Shayne stared at the plump, little doctor for a long moment with lifted eyebrows and with a sardonic look on his rugged face.

  Then he chuckled unexpectedly. “I get you. It’s nine o’clock,” he went on. “The telephone in the bedroom is a direct outside line. Go in there and dial your number. But I want to hear what you say over the phone. I don’t trust you a damn bit more than you trust me.”

  “Very well,” said Dr. Ambrose. He got up from his chair and went into Michael Shayne’s bedroom. The detective leaned back and sipped from his cognac glass while the doctor dialled, making no attempt to identify the numbers dialled because he had learned long ago, while practicing his profession, that it was humanly impossible to do so.

  He did, however, get up from his chair and stroll forward to the open bedroom door to hear Dr. Ambrose say:

  “Hello. It is nine o’clock. I have the envelope ready and will be at the Seacliff Restaurant in exactly half an hour to deliver it.”

  There was a brief pause. Dr. Ambrose went on. “I will be accompanied by the well-known private detective, Michael Shayne, whose only interest in the matter is to see that a fair exchange takes place. We will be seated together in a booth along the wall if there is one vacant, or at a table together.”

  Another pause. Then: “Well, you know Michael Shayne, don’t you? His picture has been displayed often enough in the Miami newspapers.”

  Another pause. Then: “That is correct. Nine-thirty at the Seacliff. Mr. Michael Shayne and I will be together.”

  Dr. Ambrose broke the connection and came out of the bedroom. Shayne said, “Okay, Doc. I’ll grab a fast shave and we’ll take off.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  The Seacliff Restaurant in downtown Miami was big and brightly lighted, and did a heavy business in early dinners with a special, low-priced children’s menu which attracted family groups.

  At this hour of the evening, the rush was over and not more than a quarter of the tables were occupied. There was a long row of booths along the right-hand wall as you entered, opposite the bar on the left, and Shayne and his companion found the third booth empty.

  Shayne slid into the seat facing the entrance, and Dr. Ambrose sat opposite him. A waiter spread two huge menus in front of them, but Shayne pushed his aside and said, “We’re just having some drinks. A sidecar for me. With Martell, and go easy on the cointreau. Harvey’s Bristol Cream for you, Doctor?”

  Dr. Ambrose looked uncertain. “A small sherry perhaps?”

  Shayne nodded to the waiter and reassured the doctor. “That’s what you were drinking at my place. Relax.” He grinned across the table at the fidgety, plump little man who had removed his spectacles and was cleaning them nervously with his napkin. “It shouldn’t be long now.” He looked at his watch. It was nine twenty-five.

  “I hope not,” murmured Dr. Ambrose fervently. “I confess I’m nervous. I’ve never done this sort of thing before. If you weren’t here to give me moral support, I don’t think I could possibly have gone through with it.”

  “Still time to change your mind,” Shayne suggested. “If you duck out fast. I’ll stay here and let your man brace me. Could be I might get your stuff back without you paying the bastard a dime.”

  “Oh, no,” shuddered Dr. Ambrose. “I… I’d never feel safe again.”

  “Have it your own way.” Shayne settled back with his shoulder-blades against the back of the booth while the waiter placed a brimming cocktail glass in front of him and a smaller glass of darker fluid in front of the doctor.

  Shayne tasted his drink and found it good. Despite his apparent nonchalance, he was keyed-up to the limit and his hooded gaze suspiciously studied each new customer who entered the restaurant. It was so easy for something to go wrong with a deal like this. From long experience, Shayne realized this fact much better than the doctor. Twenty grand was a pretty fair hunk of cash even in these days of inflation, and a man who would stoop to blackmail was not exactly a trustworthy type in Shayne’s book.

  However, the doctor had chosen well in setting the time and place for the pay-off, and Shayne had to admit to himself that he had been smart to insist that the redhead accompany him. It should go off all right… if both of them were playing it straight and were prepared to make a fair exchange. Knowing that Michael Shayne was sitting in on the deal should keep the blackmailer in line. And he didn’t think the doctor would be fool enough to try and pull a fast one without the full amount of money in the envelope.

  A lone man came through the doorway from the street and paused near the upper end of the bar. He was bareheaded, with a crew-cut, and a smooth, unlined face. He wore a light tan sport jacket over a white sport shirt that was open at the throat, and there was really nothing about his appearance to distinguish him from any one of a dozen or more tourists who had entered since Shayne and Dr. Ambrose had sat down.

  Yet, to Michael Shayne there was a difference. An almost indefinable aura of excitement about him. A tightness of the muscles. A feral, searching gleam in the blue eyes that were just a little too cold, just a little too inhuman.

  He moved forward slowly, hands lax at his sides, glancing inside the first two booths with studied indifference as he moved.

  Shayne drained his cocktail glass and put it down and waited. The man stood beside their booth and looked at him. He said, “Shayne?” and the redhead nodded.

  “I’m Michael Shayne.” He slid out of the booth, standing for a moment, towering at least four inches over the bareheaded man.

  He said pleasantly, “I guess maybe you two have got business together,” and moved backward slowly to an empty spot at the bar, keeping his gaze fixed on the pair.

  The man sat in the seat just vacated by Shayne. He paid no further attention to the watchful detective. He said something which Shayne couldn’t hear across the table to the doctor, and Dr. Ambrose nodded and reached inside his coat pocket to withdraw the long, white envelope he had shown Shayne at his apartment.

  At the same time, Crew-cut reached inside his inner coat pocket and withdrew a similar envelope. For a moment the two men regarded each other thoughtfully across the table, and then simultaneously they exchanged envelopes.

  Shayne leaned back with his elbows behind him on the bar supporting his weight, his right hand dropping casually into his coat pocket, which sagged under the weight of his revolver.

  Both men had turned slightly toward the wall, shielding their envelopes from view, and were tearing them open. If anything was going to happen, now was the moment for it.

  A long thirty seconds passed while each of them carefully inspected the contents of the other’s envelope. Then they turned back toward each other and both of them nodded. The churning stopped in Shayne’s stomach and his muscles relaxed, but he didn’t take his hand off the gun in his pocket.

  The two men at the table each turned back the lapel of his coat to pocket his envelope.

  At that precise moment, a flash-gun exploded with brilliant white light a few feet up the bar from Shayne. He jerked his head to catch a glimpse of a wiry, young man with lank, black hair, lowering a press camera with a flash attachment. It was only a glimpse, because he turned and ran for the door as he lowered his camera. Shayne could have shot him, but didn’t. Shayne had seen that face before.

  He stood very still with his big hand bunched around the butt of the.38 in his pocket, and looked at the booth.

  Dr. Ambrose and Crew-cut sat exactly as they had sat a moment before, each with a long, white envelope half inside his coat pocket. Both their faces were turned toward the fleeing photographer, mouths slightly open and a look of blank surprise on both faces.

  The tableau held for a long moment and Shayne waited tensely to see if something would explode between them.

  It didn’t. They turned back toward each other and each pocketed his envelope. Shayne pushed
himself away from the bar and strolled forward, getting two dollar bills from his pocket to drop on the table in payment for their drinks.

  He asked, “Ready to go, Doc?” and Dr. Ambrose nodded and looked at him in agitation and said, “Yes, it’s… all right. But I… did that man take a picture?”

  “It looked that way,” Shayne said cheerfully. “God knows what for. Maybe you and God, huh?” He transferred his gaze to Crew-cut.

  The man shook his head and appeared honestly puzzled. “Not me. I swear I never saw him before.”

  Shayne shrugged and stepped back so Dr. Ambrose could get out. “If you’re all set,” he said indifferently, “I don’t see it matters.” He took hold of the doctor’s arm and walked firmly to the door with him without looking back. They had driven to the restaurant in the doctor’s car, and it was parked half a block away.

  Shayne led him rapidly toward it in the cool night air, and asked, “Get what you wanted?”

  “Oh, yes. Why did you do that, Mr. Shayne? How did you arrange it? In the name of heaven, why? I hoped tonight would be the end of this affair. I certainly don’t want…”

  Shayne stopped beside the doctor’s late-model sedan and pulled the door open. “I’d get going, if I were you. I didn’t arrange anything, goddamit.”

  “But that photographer.” The doctor hesitated, half in and half out of his car. “If you didn’t have him there… who did? Why would anybody want a picture of us?”

  Shayne said, “I don’t know. For a moment, I thought maybe it was your idea. You not knowing who your blackmailer was and all.”

  He waited stolidly, but Dr. Ambrose merely got in behind the steering wheel, shaking his head in a puzzled manner. “I can only hope there are no repercussions. Mr. Shayne… ah… I will expect a bill from you for your services.” He turned the key in the ignition and drove away.