The Private Practice of Michael Shayne Read Online Free PDF Page B

slumped down over the wheel as though he had passed out.
    Shayne said, “Hello,” and put his hand on the man’s shoulder to shake him.
    He didn’t shake him. He knew there wasn’t any use.
    Harry Grange was dead.
    By the faint light on the instrument board Shayne saw that blood oozed slowly from a small bullet hole in the side of Grange’s head.
    Shayne removed his hand from the dead man’s shoulder and lit a cigarette.
    He heard a faint whine above the rustle of palmetto fronds and the crash of ocean waves. It died away, then came more clearly. The shrill moan of a siren on a speeding car. Momently the siren grew louder—sped nearer.
    Hastily, Shayne peered into the front seat of the coupe. One of Harry Grange’s limp tanned hands lay on the seat close to his thigh. A blur of white showed under the lax fingers.
    Shayne pulled a lacy, feminine handkerchief from under the dead man’s hand as the noise of the siren died from a crescendo to a low moan.
    He slid the handkerchief into his coat pocket and stepped back to make a quick search around the car. His eye caught the gleam of moonlight on blued steel lying on the ground just under the running board.
    He picked up a .32 automatic. The retracting carriage stood partially back, showing that it had been jammed after being fired.
    The wail of the approaching police siren came nearer as he held the muzzle of the gun to his nose and caught the acrid odor of burned powder.
    Hurriedly he examined the weapon, looking for—and finding—a small nick in the wooden butt.
    The pistol which was missing from his drawer had an identical nick in the butt.
    He didn’t have time to think. The police car was fast approaching the rutted turnoff from the pavement.
    He whirled to face directly south, drew back his arm and threw the pistol overhand with all his strength into the thick palmettos.
    He turned at the screech of brakes and watched a red-spotlighted police car lurch into the ruts directly toward him.
    Shayne stepped into the headlights as uniformed officers swarmed out of the riot car before it reached a full stop.

 
Chapter Four: THE CHIEF OF DETECTIVES
     
    PETER PAINTER, dynamic chief of the Miami Beach detective bureau, led the squad of uniformed men.
    Painter was a head shorter than Shayne. His wiry, compact body was garbed in a double-breasted Palm Beach suit, and, with a turned-down creamy Panama covering his sleek black hair, he looked, as always, as though he had just been turned out by a competent valet.
    His black eyes flashed in the headlights when he recognized Shayne. He peered past the redheaded detective at the other car and asked brusquely, “What’s going on here?”
    “Murder.”
    Shayne shrugged and jerked his thumb back over his shoulder, then took a deep drag on his cigarette.
    Two motorcycle cops and a Miami Herald press car roared up, swayed into the dead-end street.
    Painter contrived to give the appearance of strutting even while his gray sports shoes bogged through the deep sand on his way to the car. He peered in at the body of Harry Grange.
    Shayne stood full in the headlights while Painter issued crisp orders behind him, and an ambulance sped up with the Miami Beach medical examiner.
    Painter bogged back to stand in front of Shayne. Painter’s breathing was audible. He twitched a tan-bordered handkerchief from his breast pocket and touched it to his lips. He had small hands and feet, thin, mobile lips with a black, threadlike mustache running straight across the upper one.
    He replaced his handkerchief so that the edges peeked out of his pocket before saying, “All right, Shayne. Why did you kill Grange?” His voice was metallic, biting.
    “Sorry to disappoint you. I didn’t.”
    Painter nodded to uniformed men on each side of Shayne.
    “Shake him down.”
    Shayne obligingly lifted his elbows out while they went over him thoroughly for a weapon.
    After a time they stepped back and announced, “He’s clean, Chief.”
    “Let’s have