Free Murder Takes No Holiday by Brett Halliday Page A

a small British car with Alvarez at the wheel turned the corner. The motor and transmission seemed very loud to Shayne in the narrow alley. As the car braked, the door swung open. Shayne backed in.
    Alvarez snapped, “Get down. They may have another man in back.”
    “What do you mean, get down?” Shayne growled. “I’m down as far as I can go.”
    But by putting his head between his shoulders and twisting sideward, he managed to slide a little farther. Alvarez accelerated rapidly. The tires squealed as he turned the corner.
    “Not yet!” he said, as Shayne started to raise his head.
    After a few more blocks he gave Shayne permission to get up on the seat. They were leaving the narrow, twisting streets of the Old Town, Shayne saw, heading inland. The Camel’s eyes darted busily back and forth between the road ahead and the rearview mirror. Presently he swung to the right and pulled up beside another of the little cars which, with the exception of bicycles and carriages, were the only means of transport on the island.
    He gave Shayne a key. “For the ignition. Do not follow me too closely. When I pull into a garage, stop fifty feet behind, but keep the motor running. I will leave the car and start walking. Come up to me and I will get in.”
    “What if a cop sees me? I’d better carry the gun.”
    Alvarez mopped his forehead with his silk handkerchief. “The shooting of a policeman—that is all we need. No, if you are seen and they give chase, our arrangements are off. Go where you please from then on. But I do not think that will happen. We have few policemen, and they are busy elsewhere.”
    “O.K.,” Shayne said, his voice resigned. “Where’s the starter on these bugs?”
    Alvarez showed him. The redhead transferred to the other car. Alvarez waited till he found the necessary pulls and switches, and had the lights on and the motor turning over. When Alvarez pulled away, Shayne put the Hillman in gear and followed, watching for sign-posts and trying to memorize the route in case he had to follow it again. He had to resist an impulse to drift over to the righthand side of the road, where he felt he belonged. They left the settled part of the town. Well out in the country, the tail-lights ahead turned abruptly onto a dirt road. Shayne followed. Coming to a hard-surface road again after a little more than four kilometers, they soon were in a suburb of little detached villas, each with its own brick wall and garden. Since leaving the nightclub, they had met only two cars. Shayne shielded his face, as though dazzled by the headlights.
    The red brake lights flashed on the Camel’s car. The directional arrow was blinking for a right turn. This seemed to be the place. When Alvarez came to a full stop, Shayne swung over against the curb. He was on a slight downward slope; he set the emergency and shifted into neutral. There was only an occasional streetlight in this part of town, but Alvarez had left his headlights on full, and Shayne saw him get out of the Hillman and hurry to unlock the door of a one-car garage, set back from the street just far enough so the doors would be flush with the sidewalk when they were open. Alvarez opened first one, then the other, ran back to his car and drove into the garage. He cut the motor and the lights.
    Shayne glanced at his watch; it was 11:20.
    In the stillness, the panting of the Hillman’s motor seemed very loud. Shayne saw only one or two lighted windows in nearby villas—this was clearly a neighborhood where people went to bed early. He started a cigarette and hunched over the wheel, one hand on the gearshift lever, watching the open doors of the garage.
    For a man in a hurry, Alvarez was taking his time. The garage doors remained open. No light or sound of movement came from within. It occurred to Shayne that he hadn’t heard the car door slam. He drew deeply on his cigarette. He let another minute pass. The conviction was growing inside him that something had