Target_Mike Shayne Read online

  “But he doesn’t know that,” Shayne said, “and that’s why he was following you. He must have seen you talking to the cops. If he was hanging around to see if his booby-trap would work, he could have seen you go into the restaurant with them, and he might even have talked with that woman of yours. What would he think? Maybe he even remembered seeing you on the sidewalk when he went past carrying the bomb.”

  Baumholtz swallowed some coffee and burst out, “Then I’m going to call the newspapers and tell them I don’t remember what he looked like! He has nothing to fear from me, and I’ll gladly put that in the papers.”

  “Think about it for a minute,” Shayne persisted. “You can’t remember his face, and so you can’t describe him. That doesn’t mean you couldn’t identify him if you were shown his picture, or if he was arrested and put on trial. You’re a danger to him, even if he had an exact transcript of everything you told Painter.”

  Baumholtz groaned. “I knew I shouldn’t—But Lord, Mr. Shayne, what am I going to do about it?”

  “How long do you plan to stay in Miami?”

  “The convention gets over tomorrow, but the hell with that,” Baumholtz declared. “I’m getting out of here tonight.”

  “If that was a real solution I’d tell you to go ahead,” Shayne said. “But how hard would it be to find out your home address from the hotel? All he’d have to do is make a phone call. And then he’d come after you. Maybe he’d take a chance and leave you alone, but you couldn’t ever be sure. He might not strike at you directly, but through some member of your family, your wife or your son. You’re in trouble, Mr. Baumholtz.”

  Lucy was looking at her redheaded employer, puzzled. “Do you have an idea, Michael?”

  Shayne waited a moment, letting Baumholtz reflect on his predicament.

  “First I’d better make sure we’re sound-proof,” Shayne said. “I don’t want Painter in on this. That pipsqueak can foul things up faster than any man I’ve ever seen. Where do you keep your coffee cups, angel?”

  Lucy sped to the kitchen and brought back a cup and saucer. Shayne filled the cup with coffee and took it to the door.

  “See if you hear what I say when I’m outside,” he said. Lucy opened the door for him, and Shayne took the coffee into the hall. The door closed behind him. O’Brien was sitting on the stairs to the third floor, smoking. Several burned-out butts already lay on the carpet near his feet.

  “Painter doesn’t like his boys to drink on duty,” Shayne said, “but he wouldn’t mind if you had a cup of coffee. I don’t want you to fall asleep.”

  “Mike, will you put away your meat-ax? I’m not here because it’s my idea of fun. I’m under orders. Sure, I’ll take a cup of coffee. Thank Miss Hamilton for me.”

  “Sugar and cream?”

  “A little sugar if you’ve got it, Mike.”

  Shayne gave him the cup and went back inside for the sugar. After he handed it out to O’Brien he closed the door and looked questioningly at Lucy.

  “We could hear voices, Michael, but we couldn’t make out any actual words.”

  The detective came back to the table, warmed up his cup with fresh coffee and sat back in the easy chair.

  “Okay. Painter thinks this business tonight is connected with something I’m working on at the moment. Lucy and I both know that isn’t true. That gives us an advantage, but it’s not a very big one.”

  “I thought you’d have some idea who did it,” Baumholtz said. “When somebody hates you enough to want to kill you—”

  All the lines in Shayne’s face were deeply etched. “I’ll give you a picture of what we’re up against. How many criminals do you suppose I’ve brought to justice? Lucy, give me an estimate.”

  “Goodness, Michael, I wouldn’t have any idea, but it must be in the hundreds.”

  “I’m not boasting about it, God knows,” Shayne said. “I’ve been at it a good many years. Most of these people don’t blame themselves or society, or even bad luck. They blame the one person who happened to catch them or who provided the evidence to convict them. In more cases than I like to think about, that person is Mike Shayne.”

  “I never thought of it that way,” Baumholtz said. “I wouldn’t be in your shoes for any amount of money.”

  “And that’s only the beginning,” Shayne went on. “Then you come to the wives and mistresses, the families and friends, who think their loved ones would still be alive or out of jail if it hadn’t been for Shayne. This would go all the way back to my start in business. People can hold a grievance a long time.”

  He was carefully avoiding looking at Lucy. But surely she knew, didn’t she, that that was why he hadn’t ever been able to put their relationship on a more stable basis?

  Baumholtz said, “You make it sound as though it could be practically anyone in Miami.”

  Shayne laughed. “Well, I do have a few friends. I’m just trying to show you why ordinary detective methods wouldn’t work here. Painter’s idea is to use me as bait, the way they stake a goat out in the jungle to attract a tiger. He figures that all I have to do is go through my regular routine, and we can tempt the killer to strike again. It’s a good idea, but there are two things wrong with it. The killer has all the time in the world, so far as we know. He may not take another chance for months, even for years. He almost certainly won’t move so long as he thinks the cops may be covering me. The second thing is that an attempt like the one tonight, using explosives, hits at other people besides me.”

  “That makes sense,” Baumholtz said judiciously.

  Shayne looked at him directly. “You were wondering how brave you are, Mr. Baumholtz. Are you willing to find out?”

  “I can get along without knowing, thank you,” Baumholtz said, with a deprecatory laugh.

  Then he looked at Shayne in horror. “What is this? You mean you want to make me the goat, and stake me out in the jungle? No, sir! Not Walter Baumholtz. Absolutely not.”

  8

  “We’ll work it out so there isn’t much risk,” Shayne assured him.

  “No risk! All you’re asking me to do is deliberately expose myself to a homicidal maniac, and you say there’s no risk!”

  “You’re in danger right now,” the detective said sharply, “and you’ll go on being in danger unless you do something about it. I’m not trying to baby you. I’m telling you the truth. The difference is, if we can control the conditions, maybe we can minimize the risk. If you leave it up to the killer, he’ll pick his own time and place, and you won’t have a chance.”

  “I’m not the type,” Baumholtz said plaintively. “I’m an ordinary guy. What do I know from guns and killers and hunting tigers? I don’t hunt tigers for a hobby, I look at TV. I’d just goof off and ruin everything. And I warn you. If anything went wrong and I was killed, you’d have Mrs. Baumholtz on your trail, and you’d really have trouble.” He added, “How could you control the conditions, or whatever it was you said? I’m not going to do it, mind you. I’m just curious.”

  “Like this,” Shayne said incisively. “You thought of calling the papers and telling them you hadn’t seen the murderer’s face. Instead of that, call them and say the opposite. I have a friend on the News, Tim Rourke. We can trust him to print it exactly as we want it. Tell him you got a very good look at the murderer as he went past, and though it’s a hard face to describe, you’re sure you’d recognize it if you saw it again.”

  “My God,” Baumholtz said, horrified. “I’d be signing my own death warrant.”

  Shayne continued inflexibly, “Then you ramble on about Miami, and you mention that you’ve been eating at the Seafarer every chance you get. Say it’s the best food in town—the manager will like that. You’re leaving for home day after tomorrow, and you’re looking forward to having one last fish dinner before you go. That comes out in tomorrow’s paper. Tomorrow night you show up at the Seafarer at dinner time. I’ll be there, where I can’t be seen, and there won’t be any cops around.”

  “At tha
t point it might cheer me up to see a few cops,” Baumholtz said.

  “But they’d scare the killer off,” Shayne said. “The manager’s a friend of mine. His waiters will cooperate with us. Some of them look like pretty tough boys, a lot better than cops if it comes to a brawl. I can post a bounty for the first man who reports that someone is asking for Walter Baumholtz. There’s always a chance that the killer won’t show up, but if he does we’ll grab him. Does that sound all right to you?”

  “All right!” Baumholtz exclaimed, appalled “I have a better idea—rig up a couple of spotlights so he won’t be able to miss me. I’ll wear this white coat and you can paint a big black target on my back. Give the man a cigar if he hits the bull’s eye.”

  Shayne grinned. “There’ll be a big crowd tomorrow night, after all the publicity. There won’t be any shooting inside, I can promise you. He won’t want an audience. He’ll figure it’s his best chance to spot you, and we’ll get his gun before he has time to use it. Make yourself scarce tomorrow, Mr. Baumholtz. Skip the convention functions. Keep away from Painter, because our man might be waiting to pick you up outside police headquarters. I want you to live through the day.”

  “So do I, strangely enough. What do I do tomorrow, besides suffer?”

  “It’s easy to get lost in Miami Beach,” Shayne said. “Go to Collins Park and put on bathing trunks. I’ll meet you at the Seafarer at six.”

  Baumholtz sighed, and smoothed his hair-piece with both hands.

  “Mr. Shayne, I’ll tell you. If anybody but you proposed a wild scheme like that, I’d spit in his eye. But I guess you’ll probably arrange it so nothing much can go wrong. And I see your point, I really do. I’d rather have one bad day, with a couple of horrible hours at the end of it, and get the damn thing over with instead of having it hanging over me and my family for months. The bastard put a bomb in your car—excuse the profanity, Miss Hamilton. He’s perfectly capable of putting a bomb in mine. Mrs. Baumholtz and I may have our little differences, but she and I both drive that car, and I wouldn’t want anything to happen to her.”

  He straightened his shoulders. “So if you honestly think that’s the best thing to do, I’ll go along. But I hope you realize that I’m no hero, and I won’t be enjoying it a bit.”

  “I think you are a hero, Mr. Baumholtz,” Lucy said quietly.

  “Me?” Baumholtz said, startled. “Let me assure you that I’m anything but. If the killer actually shows up tomorrow night, don’t be surprised if I fall over in a dead faint.”

  “See if you can get Tim for me,” Shayne told his secretary. “He ought to be back at the paper.”

  Lucy went to the telephone and dialled. Shayne said, “There are two things to remember. First, you’ve been eating at the Seafarer every night, and you intend to eat there again tomorrow. Second, you saw the killer and you’d recognize him if you saw him again.”

  “I think I’d better have another drink before I start lying.”

  Shayne took Baumholtz’s empty highball glass to the kitchen and made him a strong drink, with a great deal of Scotch and little soda. He filled his own brandy glass.

  “Michael,” Lucy called. “Tim on the line.”

  Shayne gave Baumholtz the highball and took his own drink to the phone. He rested one hip on Lucy’s drop-leaf desk.

  “Michael!” she cried. “How many times have I told you that desk wasn’t built to hold a two-hundred-pound man?”

  “Sorry,” he said, and shifted to a chair. “Tim?”

  “Yeah,” Rourke’s voice answered. “This one’s a bitch, Mike. Not much to go on.”

  “Is the lab report in?”

  “Just this minute. The explosive was something called C-2. The army uses it for demolitions, but it’s not secret. It’s available, if you know the right phone number. There was a big shipment seized a while ago, headed for the rebels in Cuba. And the boys at the lab tell me there’ve been a couple of cases where it was used to blow bank vaults. No leads, in other words. I know you played dumb with Petey, Mike, but isn’t there anything you can give me? You probably don’t want a public announcement of who did it at this stage, but how about an angle? Everybody knows you’re a pal of mine, and I’ll look like a dumkopf if I don’t have anything more than the opposition.”

  “I don’t know who did it,” Shayne said. “But I’ve got something for you, and it’s exclusive. Walter Baumholtz is with me. He’s the witness who saw the murderer walk into the parking lot with a tool-box. I’ve persuaded him to talk to you.”

  He held out the phone to Baumholtz, who gave him an agonized look. He downed a large swallow of his drink, struggled to his feet and took the phone.

  “Hello?” he said faintly.

  He gulped and looked from Shayne to Lucy Hamilton. “Well, yes, I did, as a matter of fact.”

  He stammered out the story he had told Peter Painter, with the small alterations Shayne had suggested. His confidence grew by degrees, and soon he was throwing himself into the part.

  “Damn right I got a good look at him!” he said belligerently. “I thought it was funny a mechanic should drive up in a regular sedan, and I looked him square in the face. There wasn’t anything out of the ordinary a person would remember. He wasn’t cross-eyed or anything. But by Christ, if I ever do see him again, let me tell you I’ll know him. After what he did to that poor kid, I wouldn’t have the slightest hesitation about calling the nearest cop. I don’t have any merciful feelings toward that man at all.”

  He realized abruptly what he was saying. He closed his eyes and looked sick. But when Rourke asked him a question, he took a deep breath, and went on. At last he held out the phone to Shayne.

  “He wants to talk to you.”

  “Mike?” Rourke said. “Sure you want me to print that?”

  “Why not?”

  “You know why not. I saw him at the Seafarer, and he looked like a solid citizen to me. Apparently you’ve got him drunk enough to—”

  “I know what I’m doing,” Shayne said roughly. “I thought you wanted a story.”

  “Sure I want a story. But honest to God, Mike, this is pretty raw, even coming from you. To save your own neck, you’ve set the poor guy up like a duck in a shooting gallery.”

  “We’ve been talking about goats in the jungle. There might be angles to this that you don’t know about, Tim, so get off my back, will you? Are you going to handle it or not? If you aren’t I want to know so I can contact the Tribune.”

  “What’s the matter with you, Mike? If I didn’t know you so well I’d think you’d gone chicken, and that’s quite a surprise after all these years. Okay, I’ll print it, but if anything goes wrong I’ll have it on my conscience. If you really want to get the guy murdered, we’d better use a picture.”

  “No, a picture’s out. We want him to be asked for by name. Do a good job. You know the points to cover.”

  “Sure,” Rourke said gloomily. “This is the first time I’ve used the paper to finger somebody for a killing, but I guess there has to be a first time for everything.”

  Shayne thought for a moment after putting down the phone. “I don’t think there’s any danger tonight, Mr. Baumholtz, but the boy’s killing will make the eleven o’clock news, so let’s not take any chances. Where did you say that convention’s being held, at the Fontainebleau? I’d better know where you are, in case I need to get in touch with you. Do it this way. We’ll pick up a taxi at the corner. Tell him to take you to your hotel, and after he leaves you there, wait till he drives off and take another cab to the Sans Souci. Pick up a toothbrush at a drugstore.”

  “Whatever you think, Mr. Shayne,” Baumholtz said with resignation. “I certainly don’t want to get shot ahead of schedule, do I?” He downed his drink and came to his feet. “I was hoping we could talk about some of your cases. I’ve always taken a great interest in murder trials, the gorier the better. That’s one taste I share with Mrs. B. But I know you must have lots to do, and I’d only be in the way. So I’ll
say goodnight, Miss Hamilton, and thanks for the hospitality.” He forced a laugh. “I hope the next time you see me won’t be in the morgue.”

  “Don’t say things like that!” Lucy said.

  “Only fooling,” Baumholtz said. “Actually I feel every confidence in Mr. Shayne.” He gave a nervous giggle. “But before I go home, you’re going to have to give me a notarized statement about everything that’s happened, because otherwise Mrs. Baumholtz wouldn’t believe me for a minute.”

  He said goodnight to Lucy again. Shayne, accompanied by O’Brien, took him to the cab stand. After the cab drove off, the redhead waited a moment, making sure it wasn’t followed, and then returned to Lucy Hamilton’s apartment.

  In his absence she had straightened the living room, carrying the coffee things and ashtrays to the kitchen. Even before the door closed, she ran into his arms, heedless of the Miami Beach detective outside in the hall. “Michael,” she said.

  After a moment she raised her head and kissed him fiercely. She was shivering. Shayne stroked her shoulders, holding her tight till the shivering stopped.

  “Why didn’t I have the sense to fall in love with somebody else?” she demanded, almost angrily. “I thought I knew what I was getting into, but when I think that if it hadn’t been for a poor boy who wanted to show off for his girl, you’d be—”

  “Stop it,” he told her roughly. “Sure, I might have been killed. I might have been run down by a truck crossing Collins Avenue. I might have had a heart attack watching that outsider win the last race. The kid was unlucky. So was the guy who planted the bomb. He had that one chance to knock me over, and he missed. He has to come to me now.”

  “But what if this time he’s lucky and you’re not?”

  “I’ll fix things so there won’t be any room for luck.” He touched his fist to her chin. “All right now, angel?”

  She nodded without speaking, her eyes bright. She turned with a flare of her full skirt and went to the sofa. She sat down and smoothed the skirt over her knees.