Free The Body Came Back by Brett Halliday Page A

handcuffs dangling from his fist. “Jest hold out your hands an’ we’ll try these here bracelets on for fit,” he said happily. “My gosh, I jest re’lized we ain’t even shook you down yet.”
    “I’m not carrying anything,” Shayne told him. “You don’t need cuffs, for Christ’s sake. I want to get inside and get this over as much as you do.”
    “Put ’em on, Mister.” Ernie made his nasal voice harsh and uncompromising. He snapped first one steel cuff and then the other over Shayne’s wrists and gave him a little shove toward the door through which his partner had disappeared.
    Shayne walked ahead of him, inwardly seething but holding his head high. He supposed the damned fool was walking along behind covering him with a drawn gun. It was going to be a real triumphant entry for Ernie.
    A short corridor led into a large brightly lighted room with empty chairs lined around the walls and the Booking Desk at one side presided over by an elderly sergeant whom Shayne knew slightly. Barkus was leaning on the desk in front of him talking volubly. Two detectives and a young reporter from the Miami News covering the late police shift were in a group near Barkus and listening to him with interest. The reporter hurried toward Shayne, his eyes bugging with excitement at sight of the manacles, and he whipped a wad of copy paper from his coat pocket.
    “Are you really Michael Shayne? How about a statement, Mr. Shayne?”
    Shayne said, “Get Tim Rourke down here fast. I’ll give him a statement. Call him, damn it!” he added sharply, and the reporter sighed and nodded reluctantly, fully aware of the close friendship that existed between the detective and the News’ top reporter.
    Shayne moved on up to the desk, but Barkus turned and blocked his way, saying, “That feller Seymour ain’t showed up yet. You wait in here for a little minute.” He took Shayne’s arm and hustled him past the desk toward an open door on the right where he shoved the handcuffed redhead into a small room containing four straight chairs and nothing else. He pulled the door shut and Shayne was left alone.
    He was left alone in the small room with his thoughts for fifteen or twenty minutes. They weren’t pleasant thoughts. He kept visualizing the owner of the Ford arriving to pick up his stolen car and unlocking the trunk to check the spare. How the hell was Shayne going to explain that? A dozen or more improbable stories raced through his mind, but none of them made much sense even to him.
    When the door opened again three men walked into the room. In the lead was Detective-Sergeant Loomis whom Shayne knew casually. He was a sternfaced, middle-aged man in plain clothes, completely bald, with shrewd blue eyes and a reputation for stubborn honesty.
    Ernie was behind him, looking a trifle subdued now, and not nearly so pleased or sure of himself. Behind the two policemen was a squat, swarthy man with a bristling black mustache. He looked nervous and uneasy, as though he would have very much preferred to be home in bed instead of here at police headquarters.
    The sergeant nodded to Shayne without speaking, and turned his head to tell Ernie mildly, “You can unlock the cuffs now. I don’t think Shayne is going to make a break for it.”
    “Like I said, I wasn’t takin’ no chances, Sarge.” Ernie avoided Shayne’s eyes while he unlocked the handcuffs. “All these years I bin hearin’ stories how tough this guy is.”
    “All right.” The sergeant dismissed him with a jerk of his head toward the door. “You and Barkus get back on patrol.” When the door closed behind the traffic policeman, Loomis asked the swarthy man, “Have you ever seen this man before, Mr. Duclos?”
    “Never in my life. All I know is them cops say he stole my car. Standing right out in front of my house. By golly, it’s a pretty pass when detectives start stealing cars right on the city streets.”
    “A private detective, Mr. Duclos. All right. We’ve got