Murder Spins the Wheel (3 page)

5.

USING THE PHONE HE HAD recently had installed in the front seat of the Buick, Shayne called the Accident Investigation Unit of the Miami police. After being shuffled from one extension to another, he was finally connected with Squire, the sergeant he had met at the wreck of the stolen Dodge.

“Glad you called, Mike,” Squire said. “You dropped a couple of remarks I want to follow up on. There were two guns in the car, and one of them had been fired. Chief Gentry thinks you ought to come in and tell us what you know.”

“I’d like to do it on the phone, if that’s OK,” Shayne said. “I’m still working on it. Here’s what happened. I had to pull up sharp to keep from hitting a Cadillac which was on fire. When I got out to see what I could do, I was jumped. A Negro was lying in the street. I didn’t have time to check him for bullet holes. This was on Normandy Isle, in Painter’s jurisdiction, and that makes it tricky. You know how I don’t get along with Painter. When you talk to him you’d better not tell him where the information comes from.”

Squire chuckled. “He’d probably arrest you for setting fire to an automobile.”

“Yeah. Since I saw you I’ve found out a little more. The guys who bushwacked me had just held up Harry Bass, and I’m told it was a very nice score. Maybe you better not mention that to Painter either. Harry won’t report it, and you know how Painter can complicate the simplest things.”

“This doesn’t sound too simple to begin with, Mike,” Squire said. “If it was up to me I wouldn’t tell Painter anything. God knows I’m not impartial on the subject. The Chief said to pass on what we have if you cooperated, and you seem to be cooperating more than you sometimes do. There was no important dough in the wreck. No luggage. Just a couple of hundred bucks personal cash in the guys’ pockets. They were both from St. Louis. Pedro Sanchez and Thomas J. Pond, Jr. Sanchez was carrying a pass book in a St. Louis savings bank, with one entry, a deposit of ten thousand bucks, dated last Thursday. We’re sending their prints to Washington, and that’s all. Mike, I still think you ought to come in.”

Shayne put him off, thanked him for the information, and then settled down to some fast driving.

Florida Christian was twenty-five miles from Miami, on the edge of the Glades. There was little traffic on the Trail, and Shayne made good time. He had been here often to football games, but that was all he knew about the institution. The stadium, of course, was the principal structure on the campus, a huge bowl illuminated by a necklace of lights. Shayne circled around it in widening arcs until he found a brightly-lighted two-block section that functioned as a downtown.

He cruised slowly, made a U-turn and came back, stopping when he saw two husky undergraduates, one wearing a football sweater. He called them over. He was right in assuming that they could tell him where to find Johnny Black. Black was a Lambda Phi. The Lambda Phi house was the third building from the end of fraternity row. Fraternity row was the first street to the right.

This being Saturday night after the last game of the season, the Lambda Phi’s were having a party. The house was big and rambling, with white columns and a screened-in porch. Shayne went all the way in, passing several clumps of young men and girls, before asking for Black.

“He’s here somewhere,” the boy he spoke to told him, “but where? Hold this.” He handed Shayne his beer can, cupped his hands around his mouth and called, “Johnny!” in a piping voice not intended to penetrate the din. He turned back with a mock shrug. “You’ll just have to look.”

Shayne went on. Somebody was playing a guitar in one room. In another there was a beer keg, but the Lambda Phi’s and their guests were using empty cans as mugs, holding the triangular punched opening under the spigot. Shayne asked several more youths for Johnny Black. They all assured him that Black was present, and to keep looking.

In the library, a room with a fireplace, numerous athletic trophies and leather furniture, he saw his first old grad. He was a short, nearly rectangular man, with a broken nose and receding hair. Alarm stirred in his eyes as they met Shayne’s. He had his back to a wall covered with framed photographs of football teams, and he wasn’t socializing with anybody.

Shayne went on asking for Black. Having seen him only from a distance on TV, in a football helmet, he knew he wouldn’t recognize him here. Presently the broken-nosed man made up his mind and came toward him. One of the teeth at the front of his smile had a corner missing.

“I’m Bus Colfax,” he said, putting out his hand, “and I’m trying to decide if I know you. Didn’t you use to line-back for the Packers?”

“Mike Shayne,” the redhead said, shaking hands. “Which Packers?”

Colfax laughed heartily. “Which Packers! That puts me in my place, all right. After all these years I ought to know an ex-pro when I see one. Can I use my influence and get you a beer? That’s what the kiddies are drinking, not that I don’t have a couple of pints of rotgut in the car. Which will it be, Mike?”

“Neither right now, thanks. I’m looking for somebody.”

Colfax laughed again. “Isn’t everybody?”

A dark girl with bangs almost down to her eyelashes came up through the haze.

“Excuse me,” she said to Shayne. “Are you the one who was asking for Mr. Black?”

Shayne told her he was, and that his name was Michael Shayne.

“Would you mind telling me what you wanted to see him about? If you’re a sportswriter he’s not giving any interviews.”

Shayne grinned down at her. “How about autographs? Tell him we have some mutual friends, and I’ll only take fifteen minutes.”

The girl looked doubtful, but brushed her hair back from her eyes and went away.

Bus Colfax had audited this exchange closely. “For three or four weeks at this time of year,” he said with sympathy, “they’re kings. You have to study their moods, play on their weaknesses and back out when you leave the room. But the minute they sign, they’re property like everybody else. That’s the way I console myself.”

He looked around quickly, shed his bantering manner and became all business. He tapped Shayne lightly on the forearm with the rim of his beer can.

“Shayne, I won’t make a guess at what club you represent. That would give away who I consider our chief competition. I’m down from the Warriors. I don’t have to tell you that I wouldn’t be here if we didn’t want the boy. I’m ready to spend money to get him. Frankly, I can’t give him the sky. Play it close to your vest, keep throwing in blue chips and maybe you’ll end up with Johnny Black on your roster, at some astronomical bonus figure which is sure to leak to the press. Then all the other All-Americans get a highly inflated idea about how much he’s worth. Or there’s the other possibility, that I’ll end up with Johnny Black at a similar figure, and you’ll end up sucking hind tit, with nothing to show for your expense account.”

Shayne was beginning to see a way to handle Johnny Black. He looked thoughtful.

“I see what you mean, but I don’t have much leeway.”

“You don’t realize how much leeway you’ve got,” Colfax said joyfully. “All you are is the man on the spot, and what the people in the front office don’t know won’t keep them awake nights. If you got here an hour later, I could already have inked the kid, and vice versa. Maybe we can save ourselves some headaches and save our clubs some dough. We both need a quarterback. That’s why we’re here. I don’t have to read your mind to know you could use a good lineman. From here I go to the University of Miami, and you know who I’m contacting there—Humboldt. I don’t care who you are, could you use Humboldt or couldn’t you? Bidding is what we want to avoid. How about if we talk it over, have a can of beer and a couple of shots, discuss our mutual needs and requirements, and decide which boy to go for. If we both have the same boy at the top of the list, then we bid for him, but only as a last resort.”

“And you want a passer?” Shayne said.

“We want a passer. Back away from Johnny, Mike, and as far as the Warriors are concerned you can have Humboldt at your own figure, and I’ll put that in writing.”

“Shayne?” a voice said behind the redhead.

He turned. Black was shorter than he had looked playing football, but he seemed just as powerful even without artificial padding. His hair was cropped close. He was chewing gum and smiling pleasantly, as though all his worries were far in the future.

“Johnny!” Colfax exclaimed, faking a blow to the muscle of his throwing arm. “I’m Bus Colfax, and I’m going to pull a little rank on my friend here. I’ve still got a long way to travel, and there’s an old saying, first come, first served. Let me outline a few points to you on behalf of the Warriors, then I’ll be on my way. Is that fair, Mike?”

“Bus Colfax,” Black said solemnly. “Mr. Colfax, you don’t know what this means to me. You’ve always been one of my—well, idols. I hope you don’t have to push on tonight. We can fix you up with a bed. Golly, when I tell the fellows who you are—”

Colfax cocked his head. “Johnny, to tell you the truth my schedule is flexible. There’s nothing I’d like better.”

“That’s great! The Warriors—Mr. Colfax, as far back as I remember it’s been my ambition to be a Warrior. I’ve just about made up my mind that it’s either the Warriors or med school. I’ll see what Mr. Shayne has on his mind and be right back. The things I want to talk about!”

Colfax beamed, and somebody handed him a newly filled can of beer. Still smiling pleasantly, Black moved away through the crowd with Shayne. He was greeted continually from all sides.

“Johnny boy.”

“Where you going, Johnny?”

“This is pretty public,” he said to Shayne. “We could go outside.”

“Yeah, we better go outside.”

“You’re in the private-detective business, right?”

Shayne nodded.

“I thought so,” Black said carelessly, replying to a girl’s wave. “It didn’t register on Bus, and that’s fine. I won’t ask you any questions right now, but I’ve got them, believe me.”

He took Shayne back to the porch, where he was caught up briefly in a group of new arrivals, and then down the steps. “Now,” he said in a low, intense voice, “I want to know what the hell this is all about.”

“Don’t choke up,” Shayne told him. “Who knows, everything may still be all right. Let’s ride around. You can show me the campus.”

He started toward his parked car. After only an instant’s hesitation the quarterback followed. Another girl called to him from the porch. He grinned, pointed to Shayne and shrugged helplessly.

He said nothing until they were under way. He tried to keep his tone casual, but Shayne could tell that it wasn’t easy.

“Now. Who’s in trouble, and what can I do for you?”

“A lot of money changed hands on the game this afternoon,” Shayne said. “The betting pattern was peculiar, and I’ve been retained to ask you a few questions.”

They turned off the street of fraternity houses. Black was sitting in an athlete’s relaxed slouch, hands clasped between his legs. Suddenly, without warning, he whirled and chopped hard at Shayne’s jaw. Shayne came forward and the blow landed behind his ear. He had been hit in that exact spot earlier in the evening, with the barrel of a gun.

He went away for a second. When he came back he found that his reflexes had taken over to do what was necessary. Without touching the brake, he had swung the wheel and headed for a telephone pole. At the same time he hurled himself sideward. Black was young and strong, a contact athlete in top condition, but Shayne doubted if he had done much fighting in the front seat of cars. The first surprise punch was the only one Shayne intended to allow him. He kept his own arms and shoulders in motion, tying Black up against the door. It was over in a moment. Black’s powerful neck and shoulders were tightly braced, as he tried to get Shayne to hold still for another shot at his jaw. The Buick rode up over the curb and banged into the pole, and at the same second Shayne yanked Black’s head forward and downward against the top of the dashboard. He felt the resistance melt out of the boy’s body. To make sure, Shayne turned him slightly and clipped him with a crisp, professional left. It didn’t have his weight behind it, but it went in where he wanted it. He could tell by the solidity of the contact that it was a knockout punch.

He pulled the boy back on the seat and let him recover. He backed away from the pole and drove on through the dormitory area until he found a place to park on a secluded, tree-lined block. The boy’s eyes were open, regarding him expressionlessly. He touched his face where Shayne had hit him.

Shayne said, “Is that the way you make people feel like doing you a favor? Or did you really think you could knock me out and sign with Colfax before I spoiled it for you? You wanted to know who was in trouble. You’re in trouble.”

Black’s face folded in on itself. “Damn it, damn it,
damn
it!”

“You can always go to medical school,” Shayne said without sympathy. “There’s a big shortage of doctors.”

“There’s a shortage of pro quarterbacks,” Black said. “That pays better.” He doubled up his fist and hammered his knee. Apparently he had swallowed his gum. “I could make it. I could make it my first year with the Warriors. The guy they’ve got throwing for them now is thirty-six years old. I could be the biggest—”

“Don’t cry about it,” Shayne said. “I meant it when I said it might still happen. It’s up to you. I’ll tell you what the situation is, Johnny. The cops aren’t going to figure in this, and neither is your dean’s office or your athletic department. My client wants to know who did it to him, so it won’t happen again. I wasn’t sure before you threw that punch, but I’m sure now. There was a big rush on Georgia just before game time, most of it with a bookie who happens to be short of cash. He had to call on my client for two hundred thousand bucks to make the payoff. Before the dough could be delivered there was a stickup. The two hundred thousand went down the drain.”

“Two hundred thousand,” Black whispered.

“I’m glad to see you’re listening. It all ties in. My client watched the last half of the game on television. He has a good sense of smell, and he smelled four plays.”