He was aware of a flurry of movement just in front of him. The flashlight swung in a vicious upward arc and cracked Martha across the head. Then the man holding the flashlight reached around her and wrested the little automatic out of her hand. He was small and dark, Shayne saw, with a twisted mouth. Shayne raised his arm and looked down at the heavy gun pressed against the break in his ribs. Turning slowly, he looked over his shoulder at Al, the heavy-set bartender from the Camel’s nightclub. He still wore the drooping, villainous mustache, but he no longer had the bandanna over his head or the ring in his ear. He was almost bald.
“That’s right,” Al said. “You’re being careful. Don’t move for a minute and we’ll get the boss. Whistle, Jose.”
He felt Shayne’s body for weapons. The smaller man was saying something rapidly in Spanish. He feinted at Martha with the heavy flashlight, and she retreated against the wall. He was smiling, showing pointed yellow teeth. He stabbed the flashlight at Shayne’s eyes, and kicked the redhead very hard beneath the right kneecap. Shayne gritted his teeth. Jose gave a light, wild laugh.
“Tell him to keep away from me,” Shayne said coldly, “or you’ll have to shoot me. The Camel may not like that.”
“The bastard can’t speak English,” Al said. “Jose, get back there, goddamn it, or I’ll break you in two.”
Jose responded with another swift outburst in Spanish. Al whistled, without succeeding in making much noise. Jose showed his disgust. Putting two fingers to his lips, he produced a piercing blast. Then he danced up to Shayne again. Looking up at the bigger man slyly, he drew back his foot, as though for another kick, aiming higher up. Shayne regarded him steadily, his fingers beginning to curl. Jose gave another brainless laugh and bending down, spat on the ground between them.
Al drew back from Shayne, motioning with his heavy gun. “Back up against the house. Next to the doll. Keep your hands out where I can see them, and don’t try to jump anybody. The boss tells me you’re on a Wanted sheet, and any guy who plugs you gets a thank-you letter from the governor. And at the same time, it turns out you’re a private eye. We’re all impressed. We don’t get many of those down here.”
“I’m on vacation,” Shayne said wearily.
“Some vacation,” Al said with a laugh. “Most people come here for their health. But not you, boy. You’ve been butting your nose in other people’s business, and that ain’t healthy.”
“I see you took off your earring,” Shayne commented, watching him. “I can’t tell in this light-how about the mascara?”
Al’s jaws snapped together, and his head came forward. “Don’t try to needle me. I take worse than that six nights a week from the local winos. Goddamn it, Jose, will you cool off?” He stepped forward to block the smaller man as he made another swift dart at Shayne. He explained, “He’s probably never had a chance to kick a private eye in his life. He’s excited.”
Alvarez and two others ran around the corner of the building. Shayne wasted no time on Alvarez, having studied him earlier in the evening, but gave the others a close scrutiny as they came within range of the flashlight. Both were Latins. One vaguely resembled Jose, but was larger, with a hairline mustache; he was probably Jose’s brother. The other, a plump, moon-faced youth, looked a little simple-minded.
“Well, Shayne,” Alvarez said, out of breath from the short run. He clapped his horn-rimmed glasses on his nose and peered at the American. “I thought you seemed a little smart to be a hoodlum. You fooled me with that police circular. Your timing on that was very good. But I think I fooled you a little in return, eh? Perhaps I was not quite so unconscious from this knock on the head as you thought. I sent you out for ice-cubes so I could look in your suitcase. And what did I find? A Florida private detective’s license, complete with fingerprints. Who you are working for, that I still do not know.”
“Mrs. Slater,” Shayne said evenly.
“I assumed as much. I was laughing in my sleeve when I brought you here to get her. I knew you would bring her out with no fuss or noise-out the back door, into our arms.”
“I’m sorry, Michael,” Martha said miserably.
“That’s all right,” Shayne said, his eyes moving from face to face around the little semi-circle. “You can’t win them all.”
“So now we make haste,” Alvarez said. “We will have to conduct Mrs. Slater to the rendezvous with her husband, where we will find out who is going around hitting people on the head with heavy wrenches. We will tighten the screws on this Paul Slater. He is not so much, in my opinion. I will ask him politely, and then Jose will ask him impolitely. This is a specialty of Jose, who can make a fish talk, as the popular saying goes. If Slater is stubborn, we will ask the same questions of his wife in his presence. From this Jose will get even greater pleasure, I think.”
Jose bobbed his head, grinning.
“Michael,” Martha said warningly as Shayne stirred.
“Oh, he will be careful,” Alvarez assured her. “North American private detectives, whatever else one may say about them, are well known to be perfectly sane. If they lose one case, they wish to remain alive to take another. So Michael Shayne will stand still and allow us to tie him up. Of this I am sure. Pedro, you have the line?”
It was true that the redhead had very little choice. The. 45, held unwaveringly in Al’s rocklike fist, was aimed point-blank at his stomach. Jose had Martha’s. 25, if nothing else. The moon-faced youth had his hand in the side pocket of his jacket.
Jose’s brother took out a small reel of fishing line and released the long blade of a spring-knife with a tiny ugly click. He cut off a length of the line and advanced on Shayne.
Jose let go another burst of Spanish. Alvarez tolerantly shook his head.
“He asks my permission to shoot you once in each knee,” Alvarez said. “A charming imagination. This would certainly interfere with your freedom of action, but I have another plan, a better one.”
Shayne ignored him and went on concentrating on Al. “If he told you to pull that trigger, what would you do?”
“Pull the trigger,” Al said calmly. “I told you to stop needling me.”
“Loyalty today is all too rare,” Alvarez said smugly.
Pedro pulled Shayne’s hands together behind him and tied them at the wrists. Suddenly the. 25 in Jose’s hand went off with a sharp crack. A comical look of surprise and consternation appeared in his mean little eyes. The gun had been pointing downward, and Shayne saw where a chip had been bitten out of the concrete.
Al said, “But you better do something about this nut or I’m going to have to lay his face open. He’s beginning to get on my nerves.”
Alvarez shot an order at Jose, who put the gun away sheepishly. Again Shayne heard the vicious snick of a knife behind him. After cutting another length of fishing line, Pedro began tying Shayne’s ankles, moving swiftly and surely. He threw a loop of line around one ankle, cinched it tight, then with another loop pulled Shayne’s feet together and made fast.
“I’d like to ask one question,” Shayne said, looking at Alvarez. “How many people can testify what you were doing a week ago Wednesday, between six and midnight?”
Squinting, Alvarez swung a roundhouse right at the redhead’s jaw. Shayne watched it coming. At the last instant he bent his knees, taking the blow on his forehead. It probably hurt Alvarez more than it did him, but because Shayne’s ankles were lashed together it knocked him down. He twisted as he fell, taking the jolt on his hip and shoulder.
“You need some work on the heavy bag,” Shayne said caustically. “I’ll be asking you that question again.”
Stooping, Pedro forced a folded handkerchief between Shayne’s teeth and bound it in place with another length of the waxed fishing line.
“I may not be here to answer you,” Alvarez said. “If all goes well with my friends the Slaters, I think I will use that plane Paul has chartered. Not to go to the States, however! As for you, it would distress me if someone came along and untied you. I am hardly ever in a position to do the police a favor, so I think I will tell them where to find you. I have your detective’s license, so you may find it difficult to convince them who you are. Goodnight, Shayne. I won’t say it’s been a pleasure.”
“I’ll make it up to you, Michael,” Martha called. “I’m-”
It ended in a moan. She was hurried away. The flashlight disappeared around the building, and Shayne was left alone in the dark. Car doors slammed. One motor roared, then the other, and the little cavalcade moved away very fast. He tried to determine which way they turned at the corner, but from where he lay it was impossible to tell.
In a moment Shayne’s eyes had adjusted to the absence of artificial light. The night was clear, without a moon. He seemed to be lying at the foot of a gently sloping concrete ramp. He could probably succeed in wriggling to the top, but even if he could roll in among the low palms before the cops arrived, they would have no trouble finding him. His one chance was to make enough noise so he could wake up somebody in the hotel and get them to untie him.
He jack-knifed about, struggling into a sitting position. Hitching sideward, first moving his legs, then leaning backward so he could support his weight on his clenched fists, he reached the doorway. He backed through into the blackness.
He tried to remember the arrangement of the laundry facilities, as he had seen them briefly in the feeble glow of the paper match. There were stationary tubs along one wall, a bench off to the left, an indoors clothesline, shaped like the ribs of a huge umbrella. Somewhere on the floor near the bench he thought he had glimpsed a squat, two-handled utensil, a wash basin of some kind. He hitched painfully across the rough concrete in what he hoped was the right direction.
The line was cutting his wrists cruelly. Each time he moved he had to use more effort than the time before. Lying full length, he tried rolling. He rolled twice, splashing through a puddle of brackish water. Twisting around, he lashed out with both legs. His shins struck something sharp, and the bench went over with a crash and a ring of metal. Shayne kicked the bench out of his way and tried to find the basin. He reached it after a moment’s floundering. One heel struck against it with a resounding clang.
He rested for a moment, breathing hard. But time was passing. He maneuvered into a position where he could raise his legs and swing them against the basin. The noise seemed very loud, echoing back and forth between the cinder-block walls. With each kick the basin moved a few inches and he had to shift position. From time to time he stopped to listen, but except for the sound of his own panting breath he could hear nothing. If he had succeeded in awakening the desk clerk, the old man was afraid to come down to the basement to see what was going on.
Shayne kicked at the basin twice more. The second kick sent it spinning out of reach. He hitched himself after it, and knocked over the pole holding the inside clothesline. The whole awkward contraption came down on top of him. The heavy pole missed him narrowly, but the web of ropes was all around him. He tried again to reach the basin, and the ropes tightened. As he backed away, trying to work free, he cut the back of one hand against the bottom of the pole. He felt the stab of pain and swore deep in his throat. Then, realizing in a flash what had happened, he maneuvered cautiously backward to bring his wrists against the sharp edge. The metal binding around the base of the pole had been knocked loose, exposing a jagged corner of metal a quarter of an inch across. The little spur of metal raked the back of his hand again. He worked it very carefully between his wrists and began rocking backward and forward.
Then he heard the car.
It came around the corner, tires screaming. The driver shifted into high only an instant before he had to slam down hard on his brakes. He came to a noisy stop in front of the hotel. Biting down hard on the gag in his mouth, Shayne continued to saw away at the jagged piece of metal. But Alvarez had told them exactly where they could find him. He heard running footsteps on the concrete ramp. The line broke as two cops with flashlights burst in through the back door.
There was nothing Shayne could do now but lie still. The circles of light played rapidly around the room until they found him. A voice warned him not to move, or he would be shot. One of the flashlights held steady on him while the other stabbed here and there until it picked out the light switch. A third man came past the other two. All three, Shayne saw, had pistols showing. A naked 150-watt bulb flooded the room with light.
The two cops with the flashlights were natives, wearing their full dress-up uniform, blue and red, with white Sam Browne belt and white helmet. The only thing they had dispensed with was the gloves. The third was an Englishman in a simpler uniform. Shayne noticed upside-down chevrons on his arm. He was short and red-faced, with a full mustache. His collar seemed too tight.
He strode across to Shayne and looked down. “That’s the man,” he said with satisfaction.
Shayne made a small sound. He brought his hands out in front of him and tried to untie the gag. The only way he could get out of this was to talk his way out, which was impossible so long as he had a handkerchief in his mouth.
The native cops put away their flashlights, but their guns were still out. The sergeant kicked the basin out of his way.
“Well, you bastard,” he said in an unexpectedly deep voice, “you’ve kept us all up after our regular bedtime, and don’t expect us to be friendly. You’re under arrest. I’ll omit the warning because you won’t be charged in my jurisdiction. You really got yourself tangled up, didn’t you?” He motioned to one of his men and said, “Cut him loose.”
The cop produced a pen-knife. Wielding it delicately, he cut the fishing line that bound Shayne’s ankles. After that he cut the line around his mouth. The redhead spat out the handkerchief, but picked it up again to wrap around his cut wrist. The cop helped him free himself from the clothesline, and quickly went over him to see if he was carrying a gun.
“Get up,” the sergeant said, “and don’t give us any trouble.”
Shayne did as he was told. He stamped one foot to get the circulation going. When he tried to speak, he only succeeded in bringing forth an unintelligible croak. He cleared his throat and tried again. This time the muscles worked.
“Do you want to know who murdered Albert Watts?”
For a moment the sergeant looked at him in silence. Then he said, “Don’t tell me you did.”
“He turned in a customs tip on an American named Paul Slater before he was killed. Slater was caught and fined, and came back to St. Albans. So maybe Watts wasn’t killed by a native, after all. Does any of this interest you?”
“Right now,” the sergeant said, “whether I’m interested or not is neither here nor there. If you want to buy your way out of this with information, you’re talking to the wrong man. You can take it up with the inspector in the morning.”
“It won’t be worth anything in the morning,” Shayne said. “There’s a large-scale smuggling operation underway on this island, as I think you know. If you move fast you can break it up while the inspector’s still asleep. And while you’re doing that you can find out who murdered Watts.”
“You are feeling talkative, aren’t you?” the sergeant said. “But let’s wait and have a stenographer take it all down.”
“I just said it can’t wait,” Shayne told him impatiently. “By the time everything’s signed and witnessed and all the documents have been filled out in triplicate, Alvarez will be in some other country.”
“Who did you say?” the sergeant said, pushing his head forward.
“You heard me. Luis Alvarez. Use a little imagination and you can put him out of business for good. Law enforcement around here will be easier when that son of a bitch is behind bars.”
“Where does Alvarez come into this?”
“Slater was working for him as a courier,” Shayne said. “That tip from Watts was as bad for him as it was for Slater. There’s been some fancy double-crossing going on tonight. Slater was about to take off for the States in a chartered plane. Alvarez kidnapped his wife and threatened to kill her unless Slater got off the plane and came in to explain himself. Do you follow that, or do you want me to go over it again?”
“Where are they, at Alvarez’ nightclub?”
“No. I don’t know where they are, but maybe we can figure it out.”
The sergeant hesitated. “Kidnapping, double-crossing, blackmail,” he said suspiciously. “What are you saying, exactly? That Alvarez killed Watts?”
“I don’t know who killed Watts. I do know that he was killed because of the tip he turned in on Slater.”
“Do you have some evidence of this that you’d like to tell us about?”
Shayne skipped quickly back over the few hard facts he had picked up in the last few hours. “No. Nothing definite. Alvarez has an illegal shipment he was supposed to pass on to Slater tonight. You arrested Alvarez’ driver, and he took me along instead. Something went wrong. He was knocked cold and the shipment was highjacked. Not by me.”
The sergeant smoothed his mustache with his fingertip, in a gesture that for some reason reminded Shayne of somebody he knew well.
“A shipment of what?” he said.
“How should I know?” Shayne said, becoming increasingly impatient. “It had to be contraband of some kind, because of the way it was delivered.”
The sergeant persisted, “Did you see it?”
“No! We don’t have time for all this detail, but if you can’t live without it-he drove into a private garage. I think I can take you to it, but later, for God’s sake! The stuff was in the trunk of his Hillman. Somebody was waiting in the dark and as soon as the headlights went off, stepped up and conked him. When I went in to see why he didn’t come out, he was taking the full count, with a lump on the back of his head. The back window in the garage was open, the trunk hatch was up. Goddamn it, how much more do you want?”
“A great deal more. He believed his assailant to be this American, Paul Slater?”
“Yeah, and it looks that way to me too. The meet was set for eleven. Slater’s plane was set to take off at twelve. It looks like a time-table the same person worked out.”
“I see,” the sergeant said slowly. “The procedure in assault cases is for the aggrieved party to come in and make a complaint. It is then our duty to investigate, even if the victim is an unsavory character like Alvarez, who deserves to be knocked on the head repeatedly, in my humble opinion. But-” and here his head shot forward again-“this entire story is rather flimsy, my friend, and I don’t believe it for an instant. What I seem to see here is a falling-out among scoundrels. No doubt it was the estimable Senor Alvarez who trussed you up like this and told us where we could lay our hands on you. You bear him ill-will, and would like to use the police for your private revenge. I have been in this business long enough to know that such little fallings-out often have most fruitful results for honest men. In the morning we will have it out with the inspector, and you can give us all the corroborating details which you have apparently been skipping over.”
“The morning-” Shayne began hotly.
“Will be too late,” the sergeant said. “I believe you told us that already. But we have nobody’s word for it but yours, do we? And your bonafides are hardly of the best.”
He nodded to the two policemen, who had been standing alertly, one on either side of Shayne. “Take him in.”
Shayne whirled, a dangerous look on his scored face, his hands well out from his sides.
The sergeant said, “I wouldn’t recommend any resistance. My men are picked for both strength and dexterity.”
“Yeah,” Shayne growled. “But I can give them some trouble. You can make it easier on all of us if you listen to me for a minute. Alvarez and a bunch of goons-including one really vicious type whose first name is Jose, another named Pedro, the bartender from that pirate joint of Alvarez’, and one more whose name I didn’t find out-picked up Martha Slater ten minutes ago. They’re giving her and her husband a going over somewhere in the country, half an hour’s drive from the airport. You’ve got some of the Camel’s boys in jail. Lean on them a little and find out where this place is.”
“We don’t lean on people down here.”
“Then say please!” Shayne exclaimed in sudden exasperation. “There’s a big chunk of dough tied up in this deal. Play it too cool and you’ll end up in the morning with a couple more killings. Alvarez was talking about taking Mrs. Slater out for a one-way sail. Doesn’t that sound a little like the Luis Alvarez you know?”
The sergeant seemed half-convinced. “I would need a warrant.”
“You’ve had a murder. How many more do you need before you can get a judge to issue a search-warrant? Bring in the whole bunch and ask some questions. One of them is the killer, or I’m crazy.”
“Now, that,” the Englishman said coldly, “is an interesting possibility. And what is your motive in all this? Are you really naive enough to think that you can persuade us not to turn you over to the American authorities?”
“Raid this place before anything happens, and I don’t care what you do to me. If you need a motive, I don’t want to see anybody twist Martha Slater’s arm. She’s a good-looking blonde and an old friend of mine.”
The sergeant shook his head decisively. “And what am I to tell the inspector in the morning? That I kept my men up all night, blundering about the island in the dark on some wild-goose chase-and on the unsupported word of an American crook? No, thank you. I am not quite that wet behind the ears.”
He brushed at his mustache again in that oddly familiar gesture.
“You don’t need to tell him where the information came from,” Shayne said. “Take a chance. What can you lose?”
“Perhaps nothing, perhaps quite a lot. I know too little about this to act intelligently. I’m not convinced there is such an overwhelming need for haste. We’ll go into it in the morning, never fear. I’ll have Alvarez picked up, as well as this Slater chap, and we’ll see what exactly is what.”
Shayne’s time had run out. He had only one other card to play, and like the Wanted circular, it could easily turn into a firecracker and go off in his face. He said, speaking evenly and fast, “That flier on me was a fake. I’m not wanted by the cops in Florida, or anywhere else. I’m a private detective from Miami. Mrs. Slater knows her husband will be suspected of killing Watts, and she’s retained me to find out who did it. I also checked with the American customs before I came down. Alvarez and Slater have worked out some fancy way of beating the import duty. I dreamed up this gimmick with the picture and the police description, so I could get close to Alvarez in a hurry. It was taking a big chance, but it worked.”
The two native cops stood still. One of them had both hands on Shayne’s upper arm. The British sergeant looked at the redhead blankly, his mouth open.
“Are you trying to maintain that this was all a trick?”
“It didn’t do any harm,” Shayne said. “All it did was cost you some sleep. I still don’t know much about this set-up, but I know a lot more than I did. For one thing, I know that Alvarez keeps his contraband in a locked wooden box in an airspace over the desk in his office. I was up there over your head when you were looking for me. I know how he makes contact with his couriers. I went along on a delivery. I couldn’t have done any of this by barging into his office and showing him a private detective’s license.”
The sergeant closed his mouth with a snap. “I don’t believe you.”
“Is your name Brannon?”
“What of it?”
“How did you find out I was at the Pirate’s Rendezvous? Somebody called you, right?” He quoted: “‘I’ve got some information for you, and you can have it free because I want to pay off this guy.’ Words to that effect.”
Sergeant Brannon’s face turned perceptibly redder. “That was you?”
“That was me,” Shayne told him, watching the slowly reddening face. “I can’t show you my credentials, because I don’t have them. But would somebody who was really wanted by the cops call them and tell them where they could find him? And if you still don’t believe me, put in a call to Miami. The head of the customs there is a man named Jack Malloy. Maybe you’ve heard of him. This is a big thing for Malloy, and he won’t mind if you get him out of bed.”
“And what is your real interest in this, Mr. Shayne?” Brannon said through stiff lips, apparently having difficulty pronouncing Shayne’s name.
“Money,” Shayne said promptly, because by this time any other answer would have been too complicated. “I’m shooting for the fifty thousand bucks.”
“And you think-” Brannon said thickly-“you think you can walk into the British Commonwealth and defy established authority, flout and trick and trample on individual liberty, break laws right and left, the way you undoubtedly do at home? You think you can hoodwink Her Majesty’s police, bring them out after midnight on a fool’s errand, and come out of it unscathed? You are mistaken! You-are-very-much-mistaken!”
“Make up your mind,” Shayne said. “Which would you rather do, yell at me, or catch a murderer?”
“I’ll do a great deal more than yell at you!” Brannon yelled. “I’ll put you in my most primitive cell and forget about you until somebody brings you officially to my attention! I think you have finally decided to tell me the truth. I think you are actually what you represent yourself to be-a cheap, money-grabbing, conscienceless private detective. I know all about your kind. But you may come to regret that it ever entered your mind to play ducks and drakes with our backward little provincial constabulary. What you need is time for reflection, and I’m the man who can give it to you!”
Shayne, too, was beginning to get angry. “Did you ever hear of a writ for habeas corpus?”
“Often. You Americans stole it from us, you know. But I don’t think it will apply in your case. We have arrested a notorious American fugitive, who is wanted for unlawful flight to evade prosecution, in the language of an apparently official circular we received through the usual channels. We will notify our American friends that we have captured you, and let them begin extradition proceedings. We will send off this notification the first thing tomorrow, as soon as the proper forms can be made out, by the slowest available boat. We will address it to the FBI, who won’t have heard of your harmless little deception, will they? Oh, I foresee many interesting delays. You will have a marvelous opportunity to study the cracks in the ceiling of that cell.”
“And while you’re making your point,” Shayne said, “what happens to the murderer of Albert Watts? It doesn’t seem to me you were making much headway before I got here.”
Brannon’s flush deepened, if such a thing was possible. “We were making headway, in our slow, unspectacular, bumbling fashion. We will continue this process, without any help from American private detectives, eliminating one possibility at a time until only one is left and we are in a position to arrest and convict the killer.”
“Sure,” Shayne said sarcastically. “You’ll go on working from nine to five, with an hour off for lunch and another in the afternoon for tea. Meanwhile the killer will be working overtime. If one of the Slaters gets hurt, you’ll begin to feel a little more heat.”
“Ah, the appeal to the American eagle,” Brannon said. “I was waiting for that.”
“Goddamn it,” Shayne shouted, “can’t you break out of the tired old routine for once? If Alvarez can’t get Slater to talk, he’ll go to work on Slater’s wife. I had a small taste of the kid who’s going to be putting on the pressure. He’s a mental case. Nothing surprising about that-it’s another form of routine. Doesn’t it mean anything to you?”
“And after the various lies I’ve heard from you, why should I believe anything you tell me at this point, Shayne?”
“Why, you pompous little tinpot Napoleon! Just because something never happened to you before, you think it can’t happen. Open your eyes to what’s going on in the world! If you put me in jail I’m warning you-”
“That will be enough of that,” Brannon snapped.
He signed to his men, who closed in on the redhead. Shayne’s muscles were rigid. He stood rooted, staring into the British sergeant’s eyes. Brannon returned the look contemptuously, and flicked again at his mustache.
Suddenly Shayne laughed.
“Is anything funny?” Brannon snarled. “Share it with me.”
“I just remembered who you remind me of,” Shayne said. “You wouldn’t know him.”
For some obscure reason he felt much better. Physically there was no resemblance between the two men, but in every other respect, he had realized suddenly, this British sergeant was much like Peter Painter, chief of detectives in Miami Beach, and a longtime adversary of Shayne’s. After years of trial and error, Shayne had learned how to handle Painter. He had been in many tight squeezes, but Painter had never succeeded in besting him. And neither would Brannon, Shayne promised himself, in spite of the British accent, his immense assurance, his cops with their vehicles and their guns, not to speak of the fact that he was operating on his home ground among friends, while Shayne was a stranger, as solitary as he had ever been in his life.
Meanwhile, there was no point in tangling with Brannon’s men. He let them take him to the door. They walked him up the ramp and around the hotel, holding his arms in a professional grip, one hand above and one hand below the elbow, keeping the elbow locked. Brannon was a step or two behind, shining an electric torch on the path, his other hand resting on the butt of his revolver.
They had come in a four-door English Ford. Brannon passed the others to unlatch the rear door. This street, like most of those on St. Albans, had a high crown, but even so, Shayne thought, the car seemed to lean unnaturally far toward the sidewalk.
“Flat tire!” one of the native cops exclaimed.
Brannon muttered in annoyance. At that moment Shayne heard a man’s voice singing tipsily. Looking around, he saw a lanky figure wearing Bermuda shorts, a pipe clenched in the corner of his mouth, wobbling toward them on a bicycle which he seemed hardly able to control. As he passed under a street lamp, Shayne recognized him. It was the British anthropologist, Cecil Powys. He had some kind of long, clumsy object in the bicycle basket.
Shayne and the three policemen were a compact group, looking down at the flat tire. Powys’ bicycle came faster and faster, the front wheel swinging violently from one side of the sidewalk to the other.
“Watch out!” the Englishman cried, appalled at what was about to happen.
Leaning far backward, his balance more and more uncertain, he closed his eyes and squeezed the hand brakes on the handlebars. The front wheel turned at right angles to the street, but as the brakes took hold it whipped back around. The bike came abreast of Shayne and the three cops. Powys gave a drunken yell as the handlebars were wrenched out of his grip and the front wheel slammed headlong into Sergeant Brannon. The sergeant went down. His arms flailing, Powys pitched forward against one of the cops holding Shayne. The bike’s pedal caught the other cop in the knees and dropped him. As he fell he carried Shayne down with him. Powys himself landed on top of the heap.
The bike ended upside down, its front wheel still spinning.