When he swam back, coming out through a psychedelic haze punctuated by blazing lights and sudden overpowering noises, he found himself in a doorway. His head was on a girl’s lap. Her face was upside down, and he didn’t recognize her at first. She was wiping blood gently from his forehead.
“Those jerks,” she said. “They could have killed you, but why should they care?”
“What-” Shayne said with difficulty.
That was as far as he could take it. The battle had ended, or had moved elsewhere. A siren sounded. There was a patter of feet and an excited girl ran across from the opposite building and leaped into the doorway.
“They’re shooting!” she cried. “Shooting real bullets! Get inside, H. Who’s the guy?”
“A friend of mine,” Shayne’s girl said. “He gave me his burger.”
Shayne now realized that he was being mothered by the girl who had been living with Henry De Rham.
“They’re going through houses rounding everybody up,” the other girl said. “If you’ve got any acid or anything better get rid of it.”
“I’m all right,” H. said. “I only tried it once and I didn’t like it.”
Shayne tried to raise his head, but fell back with a groan. “Where’s Henry?”
“Who cares? I don’t, I can assure you of that.”
“I’ve got to-”
“You know what you’ve got to do, Mr. Shayne. You’ve got to lie here till an ambulance comes and gets you.”
Shayne didn’t try to shake his head for fear something would go wrong inside, but this time when he endeavored to sit up he made it.
“Can you drive a car?”
“Yes, but you’re not-”
Shayne tried to stand. It was too soon, and he went under again. This time he had a harder fight to come back, and the surfacing was unpleasant.
“The beating they gave you,” she said. “They were just out of control. I completely lost my temper. I said things, I did things-”
“H.-”
“Helen.”
“Helen, I have things to do or people’ll get killed. Help me. My car-”
A battered Ford stopped with a screech of tires and Tim Rourke leaped from it. He had dressed hurriedly, and Shayne noticed with a temporary return of his usual clarity that he was wearing only one sock.
“My God, what a story. Did you start this, Mike? Tell me later. Where’s a phone?”
“In the cafe.”
“The cafe’s a shambles. Well, maybe the phones are still working.”
He dashed off.
“How long’s this been going on?” Shayne said.
“Half an hour. Nobody knows what happened, it just exploded. Everybody started running. The police have been dreadful. Unbelievable. I’m going home to my family. I’ve made up my mind that I’m not going to stay here another night.”
Moving slowly, by careful stages, Shayne sat up again. “What does Henry think about that?”
“I’ve given up on Henry. Do you know he paid those boys to beat you? Ten dollars apiece, seven boys, seventy dollars. And he told me he was so broke! I’ve been scrounging for food. I washed dishes in the cafe one night. He didn’t give me one cent the whole week, and suddenly it turns out he has ten-dollar bills to throw around.”
Shayne was feeling himself to see where he hurt most and he was only half listening. But a little warning flag went up. He repeated what she had said slowly, and it registered on him.
“The whole week, Helen? He’s been here two weeks.”
“Six days, to be exact. I ought to know, and half the time he’s been God knows where. I think he’s been seeing that wife! Right along!”
“What makes you think that?”
“I could smell her perfume. Expensive perfume-Dior’s. The hypocrite. I left home to get away from hypocrisy. He said he liked how peaceful it is here, nobody bugging him, no pressures-he said he was happy for the first time in his life. That’s what he said. But he wasn’t happy. He lay awake most of the night. I couldn’t help him. He wouldn’t talk to me. The whole thing has been such a fiasco.”
Rourke came running up. “Into the car, boy. We’ve got some talking to do.”
“Got the tape recorder?”
“Yeah. On your feet, Mike. I’m a ninety-pound weakling, and I’m not going to carry you. So you got knocked out. Worse things happen to you all the time.”
“You didn’t see what they did to him!” the girl cried.
“Honey,” Rourke said, “you don’t want to sympathize with Shayne. It’s bad for him. I’m this character’s best friend, and I’m always sorry to see him bleeding. But right now we’re both working. You can help him if you want to. You’re a female. He won’t mind leaning on you.”
Rourke stood by, his eyebrows cocked skeptically, while the girl tugged at Shayne and got him to his feet. She steered him across the sidewalk to Rourke’s Ford. The reporter’s only contribution was to open the door.
Shayne put his head against the back of the seat and rested. Helen reached in and kissed the corner of his mouth. She started to say something, but Rourke, meanwhile, had leaped behind the wheel and was impatient to drive off. She let go of the door and gave a tentative half wave.
“Good-bye. I hope-”
Rourke came down hard on the gas, and put a strain on the transmission going up into second.
“One of these days we’re going to have to start double-teaming you, Mike. One-man coverage is hardly enough. What’s the program?”
Shayne moved his hand. “Flagler Terrace. Left my car there. Need a drink.”
Rourke was still in second when he came up behind Shayne’s Buick. Shayne heard him swear. He opened his eyes and pulled himself forward, then slowly opened the door and got out.
The red Volkswagen lay on its side as Shayne had left it. In retaliation, De Rham and the Angels had wrecked the Buick, as well as they could wreck it in a limited time without heavy equipment. All four tires were flat. The headlights and taillights had been smashed. All the glass was gone except the windshield. The body was battered, the doors were sprung and off their hinges.
“As I think I told you, some of these guys aren’t too sold on nonviolence yet,” Rourke said. “Old habits.”
Shayne checked his liquor supply in the back seat bar. They had cleaned him out.
“I grabbed a couple of pints on the way out of the house,” Rourke said. “You never know when it’s going to come in handy. Stop panting-I’ll give you a drink.”
They returned to the Ford. Rourke took a flat bottle of cognac out of his glove compartment and opened it for him. A pint of cheap blended whiskey-Rourke claimed he couldn’t tell the difference between that and more expensive brands-was already open. They clinked bottles.
“Cheers,” Rourke said.
Shayne drank and breathed out luxuriously.
“Mike, I know you’re a fast recuperator. But this time I think I’d better check you in at St. Clare’s and let them take a few stitches. Whatever it is, it can wait till breakfast. You look pretty feeble.”
The cognac had begun to circulate, burning away the fog in Shayne’s brain.
“That’s what everybody tells me,” he said. “First Mrs. Brady, then Brady, now De Rham. Wait till breakfast. I’ve been tied up and fed a Mickey and faked into a wrong part of town and slugged and knifed. It begins to dawn on me that something’s about to happen and nobody wants me around.”
“Just the same-”
“Do something for me,” Shayne said brusquely. “Two cars in front of the VW you’ll see a catch basin. I skipped a tape into it earlier. A flat package wrapped in cloth. I know you’ll be glad to climb in and get it for me. You’re in better shape than I am.”
Rourke didn’t move. “I haven’t fooled around in catch basins since I was a small boy, Mike. That’s a job for the Sanitation Department.”
Shayne took another drink, keeping his eyes on his friend. After a moment Rourke sighed.
“You probably figure I owe you. I got some good eyewitness stuff on the riot, and if I’m patient you may tell me what else has been happening. I’d better keep you happy.” He got out. “Don’t you want to watch?”
“I’m comfortable here.”
“Yeah. Why am I the one who always has to do the dirty work? And in this case dirty is the right word.”
Shayne heard the grating clang. Rourke mumbled to himself.
“Goddamn Shayne. Gets me out of bed at all hours. I have to climb down into the goddamn sewer-”
There was a faint splash. His voice continued, echoing hollowly. The monologue quickly became more obscene.
“Got it!” he cried. “Didn’t think I would, did you, you lazy bastard? Sitting up there on your butt, swilling cognac-”
He scrambled out and reappeared between the cars, walking squishily. “I suppose you want me to unwrap it for you.”
“Please,” Shayne said, grinning. “No reason why both of us should get muddy.”
Rourke tore off the wrappings and handed his friend a reel of tape. Then he took off his shoes, smelled one, and tossed them over his shoulder.
“I needed a new pair anyway.”
“Get the recorder. I’ve got an outlet on my dashboard, if it works.”
Rourke watched critically as he opened the door and got out. “Hell, you’re in great shape. You could have done your own diving.”
The Buick’s front seat had been slashed repeatedly. Shayne found his key and turned the ignition switch, and was rewarded by a quick glow of the generator light. Rourke plugged in the recorder and set it on the shelf over the dashboard. When he pressed a button the reels began to revolve.
“What do you know?”
He clapped the tape into place. There was a soft whirr, and a man’s voice began to speak. It was thin and faltering, and at times fell off to a whisper.
“My name is Dennis O’Toole. I live at 2909 Waverly Street in this city. Employed at Winslow Mills, twenty-one years on the looms, last five years watchman in main plant.”
Another voice-Shayne recognized De Rham-said quietly, “Can you tell me how the fire started?”
“All my fault. I take the entire blame.”
“Your fault in what way, Dennis? Did you set it?”
“Mother of God! Why would I do such a terrible thing? No, I was intoxicated. Too drunk to pull the alarm.”
“You were drunk and didn’t turn in an alarm.”
“A pint of whiskey in my locker.”
A long pause followed, and De Rham prompted, “You’re saying that a pint of whiskey appeared in your locker? Are you sure you didn’t bring it in yourself?”
“Never. Because I know my weakness. I never leave a drop of whiskey in a bottle. But there it was, and I swear by the Blessed Virgin I don’t know how it got there. I drank it and went to sleep.”
“Where, Dennis?”
“Sleep overtook me in the office.”
“I see. Now what we’re trying to establish is the origin of the fire. You understand that. What woke you?”
“Dreams. I smelled-”
“You smelled smoke?”
“Smoke, chemical stink. All around. There was smoke on the stairs. I couldn’t get my breath. Broke window. Saw-”
“What did you see? Tell me what you saw. You say you broke the window and you looked out-”
“Man running.”
“A man?” The voice sounded disappointed. “Think, Dennis. Are you sure it was a man?”
A long pause.
“In a funny hat. In the car, a woman.”
“You saw a woman?” De Rham’s voice said quickly. “Can you describe her for me?”
“A red dress. Dark glasses.”
“She was wearing a red dress. Dark glasses. What kind of car?”
“White convertible. I think an Olds.”
“Where was the man running from?”
“The side gate.”
“You said he was wearing a funny hat. What do you mean by that?”
“Well-a striped band.”
“Can we come back to the woman again, Dennis? What color hair did she have?”
Silence.
“Dennis, I have a photograph here. Can you tell me if this is the woman you saw in the car? — Dennis, if you’ll just look at this picture for a minute I’ll call the Sister. Dennis.”
From that point on the tape whirred softly until Rourke turned it off.
“And that’s what I pawed through the mud to get? A pint of whiskey in a locker, a funny hat, a woman in a red dress-” The expression on Shayne’s face stopped him. “What’s the matter?”
“Everything’s the goddamn matter,” Shayne said through set teeth. “And I’m supposed to be a hard man to fool!” He bit off a savage obscenity. “It’s so obvious I ought to have my license revoked.”
“Mike, you’re grinding your teeth. That can’t be good for you. Remember you’ve just been unconscious.”
“I’ve been unconscious most of the day,” Shayne snapped. “There still may be time if we hurry.”
“Don’t bother to explain, I’m only the chauffeur. Just give me directions.”
Shayne got out of the car too fast, and realized abruptly that he was still a long way from normal. The street tilted and shifted and almost threw him. His ears rang. He steadied himself against the Buick, and a moment passed before he understood that the ringing sound he heard came from somewhere in the wrecked interior of his car.
He hesitated, but there was no time to waste.
“Want me to answer it?” Rourke asked.
“No. I’m lying in a hallway with my skull cracked. Let’s leave it at that.”
Rourke grabbed the tape recorder and beat Shayne to the Ford. He had the motor running by the time the detective climbed in.
“Which way?”
“The Beach,” Shayne growled. “When are you going to get a decent car?”
“There’s nothing wrong with this car.” The transmission howled. He shot across a stop street without slowing down. “Fasten your seat belt. I’ll give you a ride you’ll remember.”
There was no seat belt to fasten. Shayne was scraping his chin, watching the speedometer. When the needle hit fifty Rourke came down into high.
“You know me, Mike. I hardly ever complain. We’re the only news outfit in town that had live coverage of the hippy riot, so thanks, pal. I wish I knew how it started.” He glanced across at Shayne. “People said some big ugly redhead thought the music was too loud and started throwing guitarists off the platform. Don’t tell me where we’re going. One story every twenty-four hours is all I deserve.”
Shayne’s face was bleak and hard. The muscles knotted and unknotted at the hinge of his jaws.
“You know talking’s supposed to relieve the mind,” Rourke said.
Shayne shook his head shortly. He still had too many connections to work out. He rapped his fist against his injured knee. The pain helped.
A cab appeared in front of them and Rourke touched his brake. The brakes grabbed, throwing the Ford into a hard swerve. He yanked at the wheel and managed to avoid both the cab and the parked cars.
“I’ve been meaning to get a brake job.”
“Pick it up, pick it up. You can go faster than this.”
Even at slower speeds, Rourke always drove as though he thought he was competing for the Grand Prix. He sawed at the wheel, his ungainly body jackknifed forward in a tense crouch, eyes flickering from the road ahead to the dials.
“Only one trouble,” he said. “Above sixty she gets this shimmy. At sixty-two we’re O.K. At sixty-three you get the feeling the front wheels are about to fly off. I’d hate to have that happen.”
The Ford rocked violently as he whirled onto Eighth Street. If there had been any traffic coming the opposite way he would have contributed several fatalities to the highway statistics for that day.
“Of course I could get sulky and drop you at a cab stand,” he said. “Everybody thinks I like staying up all night. When I was younger I thought it was romantic, but not any more. I’m human. That’s what people tend to forget.”
“Will you cork it for a minute, Tim? I’ll tell you about it as soon as I can check a few things. I could be wrong.”
“I’m not complaining. Anything you want me to do, Mike, go down in a catch basin, break my neck in an automobile-”
He shot across the bridge over the Miami River and made the quick jog east to Biscayne Boulevard. He slowed enough for a quick glance in both directions, and ran through a red light.
“That’s better,” Shayne grunted.
“Except if I get stopped and we have to spend fifteen minutes arguing it may not look too smart. Where on the Beach?”
“The St. Albans.”
Shayne uncapped the cognac bottle, waited till Rourke had the Ford on the smooth concrete of the causeway, and drank deeply. He had been faked out of position, but he was almost beginning to persuade himself that he had recovered in time.
“If you’re going in a hotel, Mike-well, I don’t want to put you down. Take a look in the mirror.”
Shayne switched on the overhead light and turned the mirror. He ripped a piece off his shirttail. Using the cognac, he cleaned the worst of the blood off his face. The pattern of the bicycle chain remained clearly imprinted along his jaw.
“It’s O.K. They know me there.”
“Yeah, but you have to consider the tone of the place, too. You’re going to lower it, pal.”
“Too damn bad.”
He had another quick drink and put the cognac away. Rourke crossed the Beach on Arthur Godfrey Road and turned north on Collins. There was more traffic here, but he had decided to show Shayne he could drive recklessly when he wanted to, and he didn’t slow down until he used his brakes again for the curving approach to the great wedding-cake hotel.
Shayne jumped out and thrust a bill at the doorman. “Be back in a minute. Don’t move it.”
“Right, Mike,” the doorman said.
The clerk at the front desk, who didn’t know Shayne, looked at him oddly when he asked for Tom Moseley’s room number. Then, leaning forward, he made a point of noticing Rourke’s muddy pants and bare feet.
“That’s 1421,” he said, making a discreet sign to summon the night security man. “Will you use the house phone, please?”
“Tim,” Shayne snapped. “Call him and tell him I’m on the way. I’ll explain while he’s getting dressed.”
“Why don’t I come too,” Rourke suggested, “and then you won’t have to explain twice?”
Shayne waved him away. The security man, Reuben Kaufman, looked out of his little office.
“Anything you want me to do, Shayne?”
“Just picking up somebody.”
He shut himself in an automatic elevator, which took him rapidly to the fourteenth floor. He found 1421 and buzzed. He could hear the phone ringing inside.
When the phone continued to ring he whipped out his picks, already knowing what he would find. Using only a hard celluloid strip, he forced the latch and entered the room.
The lights were on. “Yeah,” Shayne said softly.
There was a dead man on the floor.
He looked down at the body for only an instant. He had been clubbed from behind with a gin bottle. The bottle, three-quarters full, lay a foot or so from the dead man’s head, which amid the blood and clotted hair clearly showed the triangular indentation. The man had been wearing his glasses when he was struck, horn-rims with straight earpieces. He was fully dressed, in a business suit.
The phone went on ringing. Shayne pulled a Kleenex from a box on the bureau and picked it up carefully.
“Tim?”
“Yeah. What’s wrong?”
“What do you think is wrong? He’s been murdered.”