Free Murder Takes No Holiday by Brett Halliday Page B

happened, something not on the schedule.
    He turned off his motor. The night was full of small noises; none of them interested Shayne. He took off the emergency and coasted silently down to the garage, leaving his lights on high-beam. He leaned across to the open window on the inner side and called in a low voice, “Alvarez.”
    There was no answer. The night noises continued around him.
    Getting out of the car, Shayne warily approached the garage. In the side-glow from his headlights, he could see that the front door of the other car gaped open. The hood was up. There was a small window in the back wall of the garage. When he saw that that, too, was open, Shayne knew what he would find even before he stumbled over the body.
    Alvarez, in his neat blue business suit, lay face down on the front seat. Shayne flipped away his cigarette and squatted beside him. A monkey wrench, partially wrapped in an oily rag, lay nearby. All the lines on Shayne’s face were deeply etched. When Alvarez drove the car into the garage, someone had been standing in the corner where he would not be seen in the headlights. Alvarez had turned off the lights and started to get out of the car; his assailant had stepped forward and hit him with the monkey wrench from behind.
    That much was clear. Straightening, the redhead dusted his fingers lightly and went to the open window. There was a gravel path outside. Again he listened carefully, but heard nothing.
    The interior of the luggage space was in deep shadow, but he knew without checking that whatever Alvarez had brought was no longer there. The key was still in the lock. He left it and went back to the Camel’s body.
    Stooping, he took Alvarez under the arms and dragged him out from the car so he could close the door. After he had done that, he rolled the unconscious man on his back, supporting him under the shoulders. He was breathing harshly. Shayne felt for a pulse. It was irregular and very fast.
    Suddenly Alvarez sat up with a shout, seizing Shayne’s lapels, his eyes staring. He screamed something in Spanish and struck out wildly. His doubled-up fist caught Shayne on the mouth. It was more of a push than a blow, but the American was sitting back on his heels and it knocked him off balance. He fell backward on his hands. Alvarez, released, rolled on one elbow, and when Shayne looked at him again, he saw that the Venezuelan had snatched out his gun.
    “Cut it out, for God’s sake,” Shayne growled.
    “Where is the—”
    Shayne interrupted roughly. “Use your head. You were slugged getting out of the car. I wasn’t anywhere near you. Somebody was waiting when you drove in.”
    Alvarez looked at him stupidly, and Shayne said, his voice heavy with anger, “Put it away. If I slugged you, would I still be here?”
    Alvarez touched the back of his head, wincing. Then he twisted suddenly and saw the raised hood. “Look in the luggage space. See if—”
    “It’s gone,” Shayne said. “The window’s open back there. If you don’t know what happened by now, that crack on the head must have scrambled your brains. You’ve been robbed, and not by me.”
    Alvarez thought for a moment. “I must telephone.”
    “It also might be a smart move to get the hell out of here,” Shayne said.
    Going to the front of the Hillman, he slammed the hood and took out the keys. As he came back, Alvarez made an effort to rise, but slumped back on his elbows.
    “If you’re going anywhere, walk,” Shayne said coldly. “Don’t expect me to carry you.”
    Alvarez tried again, and succeeded in getting to one knee. Shayne made a disgusted sound, put an arm around his waist and helped him out to the other car. After putting him in, the redhead went around and got behind the wheel.
    “You want to make a phone call. That’s o.k. with me. But I hope you remember that you and I still have a deal on the fire. Don’t let it slip your mind.”
    “I’m not forgetting,” Alvarez said weakly.
    He groaned and his