“Hit’s a thief, Miz Bradley. Stop him, Miz Bradley!” Shayne lunged down the stairway and bowled into a matron who stood transfixed at the foot of the stairs. He slammed out onto the porch pursued by two voices screaming for him to stop.
The cabbie had the taxi door open and the motor racing. When Shayne leaped in, he sped away just as the matron and the Negress reached the sidewalk, waving their arms and shouting, “Stop thief!”
Shayne sank back against the cushion and drew in a deep breath of relief. The driver raced around a corner into Bourbon Street, slowed, and turned to look at his passenger with a scowl of uncertainty and doubt.
“I don’t like this, Mister. Sure you’re a detective?”
“Of course I am.”
“Where’s your badge? Look, I don’t want to get in no trouble.”
“You don’t have to,” Shayne promised him. He took out a second five-dollar bill and said gruffly, “You earned this. Stop and let me out anywhere. And if you want to stay in the clear, go ahead and report the whole thing to the police right away.”
“Gee, I dunno.” He pulled up to the curb. “What you got in that box?”
Shayne grinned and said, “What I went after.” He slid out and walked rapidly up the street.
Around the first corner he disposed of the empty hatbox in a trash barrel and kept on walking back to Esplanade Avenue.