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Authors: Brett Halliday
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somebody else. I’ve got a couple of other names.”
Before the Camel could answer the phone rang. He looked at Shayne and picked it up.
“Yes… What? Coming here? Yes, yes. Of course I want to hear it…” His eye rested on Shayne as the voice rasped on at the other end of the line, no doubt reading Shayne’s description from the Wanted flier. When the voice stopped, Alvarez said crisply, “I do not know him, so there is no problem. Call me later.”
He put the phone back as there was a quick double-knock at the door. A waiter put his head in, called something in Spanish and ducked back out. Alvarez gave Shayne an unfriendly look, consulted his watch again and swore under his breath.
“Your name is Shayne, and may you fry in hell. The police are here looking for you. Say twenty-five hundred dollars.”
Shayne hesitated. “O.K. You seem to have me over a barrel.”
“Get up on the desk,” Alvarez told him. “Quickly.”
Shayne looked at the ceiling, a checkerboard of squares of masonite wallboard. Alvarez made an impatient motion, and the redhead did as he’d been told.
“Now reach up,” Alvarez said. “Press. A little more toward me.”
Shayne pushed upward with both hands, his fingers spread. A section made up of four of the masonite squares gave way under the pressure.
“Now through,” Alvarez said, wiping his face with a silk handkerchief. “Hurry.”
Michael Shayne pushed the loose section out of the way, then stooped for the bottle of rum and passed it through. He tested the sides of the opening, and swung himself up, feeling a stab of pain in his chest as he put his weight on his arms. Pulling his legs up, he rolled off to one side. He was in a low air-space, some three feet high at its highest point. He worked the trap-door back into place.
Alvarez said beneath him, “If they come in here, please be careful and do not move. Even the smallest movement can be heard.”
The office door opened and closed. A thin line of light came through the cracks around the trap door, and Shayne saw a shallow wooden box, pushed back against the front wall. He listened carefully. Hearing nothing, he changed position and struck a match. The box was fitted with a hasp and a padlock, and the lock hung open. He hitched himself forward till he could reach it. The match burned his fingers. He shook it out and struck another.
When he satisfied himself that the box was empty, he took a long pull at the rum, screwed the cap back on and settled down to wait.
Five minutes later he heard the door open in the office beneath him. The Camel’s voice said, “But search, by all means. Look in the wastebasket, under the rug. Here is a bottle of ink. Perhaps I am hiding a genii in it.”
There were sounds of movement. A chair scraped. Shayne, above, was being careful to lie very still.
A British voice said, “Very well, he is not here. You were warned. This is becoming monotonous. I have suspected that one of our people is secretly on your payroll. Would such a thing be possible, do you think?”
“A policeman? In the pay of the notorious Luis Alvarez, who owns a nightclub? A shocking suggestion, Sergeant.”
“I agree with you, and one worth investigating.”
“I do not understand any of this,” Alvarez said. “Tell me who you are looking for, and perhaps I can help you.”
“I’m sure you could help me,” the sergeant said sarcastically, “but somehow I don’t think you will. We’re looking for an American named Michael Shayne. I wouldn’t say he’s the type of person you’d forget seeing, however briefly. His red hair, for example, should make an identification easy. Tall. The look of a heavyweight fighter. Amazingly enough, your bartender and your waiters can’t recall if they served such a man or not. Fortunately some of your customers have better memories. They distinctly remember seeing him dancing with one of your entertainers.”
“Yes,” Alvarez said thoughtfully. “I think I do
Before the Camel could answer the phone rang. He looked at Shayne and picked it up.
“Yes… What? Coming here? Yes, yes. Of course I want to hear it…” His eye rested on Shayne as the voice rasped on at the other end of the line, no doubt reading Shayne’s description from the Wanted flier. When the voice stopped, Alvarez said crisply, “I do not know him, so there is no problem. Call me later.”
He put the phone back as there was a quick double-knock at the door. A waiter put his head in, called something in Spanish and ducked back out. Alvarez gave Shayne an unfriendly look, consulted his watch again and swore under his breath.
“Your name is Shayne, and may you fry in hell. The police are here looking for you. Say twenty-five hundred dollars.”
Shayne hesitated. “O.K. You seem to have me over a barrel.”
“Get up on the desk,” Alvarez told him. “Quickly.”
Shayne looked at the ceiling, a checkerboard of squares of masonite wallboard. Alvarez made an impatient motion, and the redhead did as he’d been told.
“Now reach up,” Alvarez said. “Press. A little more toward me.”
Shayne pushed upward with both hands, his fingers spread. A section made up of four of the masonite squares gave way under the pressure.
“Now through,” Alvarez said, wiping his face with a silk handkerchief. “Hurry.”
Michael Shayne pushed the loose section out of the way, then stooped for the bottle of rum and passed it through. He tested the sides of the opening, and swung himself up, feeling a stab of pain in his chest as he put his weight on his arms. Pulling his legs up, he rolled off to one side. He was in a low air-space, some three feet high at its highest point. He worked the trap-door back into place.
Alvarez said beneath him, “If they come in here, please be careful and do not move. Even the smallest movement can be heard.”
The office door opened and closed. A thin line of light came through the cracks around the trap door, and Shayne saw a shallow wooden box, pushed back against the front wall. He listened carefully. Hearing nothing, he changed position and struck a match. The box was fitted with a hasp and a padlock, and the lock hung open. He hitched himself forward till he could reach it. The match burned his fingers. He shook it out and struck another.
When he satisfied himself that the box was empty, he took a long pull at the rum, screwed the cap back on and settled down to wait.
Five minutes later he heard the door open in the office beneath him. The Camel’s voice said, “But search, by all means. Look in the wastebasket, under the rug. Here is a bottle of ink. Perhaps I am hiding a genii in it.”
There were sounds of movement. A chair scraped. Shayne, above, was being careful to lie very still.
A British voice said, “Very well, he is not here. You were warned. This is becoming monotonous. I have suspected that one of our people is secretly on your payroll. Would such a thing be possible, do you think?”
“A policeman? In the pay of the notorious Luis Alvarez, who owns a nightclub? A shocking suggestion, Sergeant.”
“I agree with you, and one worth investigating.”
“I do not understand any of this,” Alvarez said. “Tell me who you are looking for, and perhaps I can help you.”
“I’m sure you could help me,” the sergeant said sarcastically, “but somehow I don’t think you will. We’re looking for an American named Michael Shayne. I wouldn’t say he’s the type of person you’d forget seeing, however briefly. His red hair, for example, should make an identification easy. Tall. The look of a heavyweight fighter. Amazingly enough, your bartender and your waiters can’t recall if they served such a man or not. Fortunately some of your customers have better memories. They distinctly remember seeing him dancing with one of your entertainers.”
“Yes,” Alvarez said thoughtfully. “I think I do
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