“This is political. The Arabs didn’t come here to make money.”
“I grant you, but why would they pass up six or seven million bucks? They have expenses, like everybody.”
“Maybe their minds don’t work like yours, Murray. If they can pull it off, they’ll be famous. Money will pour in.”
“One for Mike Shayne, one for us,” Helen murmured.
Gold closed his eyes briefly, so he wouldn’t be distracted. His forehead tightened.
“Give me another jolt of cognac.”
Shayne passed him the flask. Gold drank. His eyes opened.
“Let’s don’t fuck around collecting ransom,” he said. “Kill them all.”
“They’re terrorists. One of the things terrorists do is kill people.”
“That was their first idea,” Gold went on, speaking slowly. “Wait till the chairman called the committee to order and walk in and turn the tommy guns loose. But then what? They’d be wiped out themselves. I wondered about Rashid sometimes, but the rest of them definitely didn’t want to die. And I made it clear to them that I wouldn’t go along with anything like that.”
“But you would go along with a kidnapping for ransom. So they worked up one plan for your benefit, and a real plan. They’ll keep the hostages alive as long as they have some value, and kill them in the plane.”
“Maybe,” Gold said tightly, drinking again.
“You’ve done a lousy thing here, Murray, and if they get away with it, people are going to say some unfriendly things about you.”
“Why should he care?” Helen said.
“He cares. He’s been careful with his reputation all these years, and all of a sudden he’s smuggling shit and helping a bunch of fanatics to kidnap some of the country’s top Jews. If the bombs work, fine. Good old Murray Gold. Crooked as they come, but what a conniver. The heroin won’t be mentioned—I’m being well paid to forget about that. The story would be that he heard about the plan in prison, and swindled his way in so he could blow them up at the last minute. Who knows, Murray? The government might even withdraw some of those contempt charges so you can come back and die in your home town.”
“I’m not ready to die yet,” Gold said. “Do you know what I’m starting to think? That before they went anywhere, the bastards looked under the hood and found the bombs. You’ve got a phone. Call the airport. Tell them who’s on the way.”
“And how many lives would that save? The minute the shooting starts, the hostages will get it in the head. No, let’s do some more guessing. Do they have anybody who can fly an airplane?”
Gold looked up quickly. “Goddamn it, yes. He was in on the break with us. Pilot in the Syrian air force.”
“So they won’t hijack a plane. They can steal one. At Miami International they’d have a hard time getting off the ground. Did Rashid and Sergeant Tibbett know each other?”
Gold said, “No,” but Helen contradicted him. “Yes, they did, Murray. He didn’t drive off right away that night. He waited till Marian left and they went someplace. Now there. I contributed something. Can we please get this conversation over with?”
“How much would Tibbett charge to let them into Homestead?” Shayne said.
“About three dollars and fifty cents.”
“He wasn’t as trashy as all that,” Helen said. “All he wanted was a chance at some illegal bread, and you’re in no position to criticize, Mr. Murray Gold.”
Shayne, abstractedly, had been stacking the packages of money as they rained down on the seat beside him. Now he picked out one of the hundred dollar bills and rubbed it between thumb and forefinger. With an abrupt change of manner, he looked at it more closely.
“Shayne?” Gold said, watching.
“Maybe I made this deal too fast,” Shayne said. He took a genuine hundred from his wallet and looked at the two bills together, showing more and more concern. Gold leaned forward. The girl caught the sudden tension and looked from one to the other. Shayne grunted.
“You’ve been taken, Murray. These are rags.” Gold snatched the bills out of Shayne’s hands. “Impossible.”
He put on his close-range glasses and compared them, moving his head in quick birdlike pecks. “I don’t see anything wrong. I know a queer bill when I see one.”
“Look at Ben Franklin’s collar.”
Using a pencil, Shayne pointed out the small imperfection Coddington had shown him. Gold picked it up at once. Swearing, he crumpled the counterfeit in his fist.
“Daddy!” Helen cried. “Is it true? After all this?”
“That’s what happens when you do business with crooks,” Shayne said. “They aren’t worrying about keeping your good will. You’ll be in Uruguay.”
“I haven’t left yet,” Gold said in a low voice.
Helen plunged into the open satchel and pulled her hands out filled with money. “It’s no good? It’s counterfeit? Murray, you goddamn old fart, couldn’t you check?”
“So our deal’s off,” Shayne said. “I could probably get five or ten thousand for my share, but that’s too much risk for too little money. Sorry, Murray. I’ll have to take you in.”
“But it’s weird!” Helen said. “Artie’s dead. Marian’s dead, I guess. All those poor Jews. And we get paid off in funny money.”
After a moment, Gold gave one of his small shrugs. “I don’t like to be conned, but at least I’m out of that goddamn prison. I’ve had some excitement and a little sex. I knew the odds.” He changed glasses. “Now what are we going to do about these Black September bastards?”
“From here, there isn’t much we can do.”
“I can’t do anything,” Gold said briskly. “I’m old and slow. You’ll have to beat them to Homestead and knock them off, one at a time.”
“Seven Arabs, armed with GI issue submachine guns.”
“Did I say it would be easy?” Gold said.
There was a sudden flurry of action further along the beach. Gold turned his head sharply. Shayne followed the look, and saw a man and a woman in a silent struggle at the edge of the water. The man was trying to break her grip on a long-barrelled pistol. It was Coddington.
There was a bright dancing haze behind them, and until they staggered further up on the sand Shayne didn’t recognize the woman.
“Esther Landau,” he said.
“Who?” Gold said sharply. “Who?”
14
Shayne had turned away from the struggling pair to look at Gold, and the old man’s tone told him one more thing he wanted to know: that the woman who had been calling herself Esther Landau was actually somebody else.
“That’s the one,” Shayne said. “All the way from Israel, looking for you, Murray.”
He slid out of the Buick and moved toward the water. There were muscles concealed under Coddington’s fat, and he was usually able to disarm a slightly built woman, even when she didn’t fight entirely fair. Her gun came around, and Shayne dodged. The pistol discharged harmlessly into the sand.
She brought her knee up hard. Coddington, though hurt, managed to hang on. An instant later the gun went flying. She lowered her head and butted him under the jaw. He fell away from her into the water.
She scrambled away, to get to the gun before Shayne arrived. She was wearing only one shoe, and the heel sank in the sand. Coddington caught her ankle and pulled her down beside him.
On his knees, he cuffed her twice, to set her up for the punch. She kicked him with her pointed toe, and the punch was never delivered. Grappling, they rolled down the incline. A breaking wave carried them out into less shallow water. Coddington, finally, managed to drive his fist into her face. But she seemed very strong.
Shayne decided that with only one usable arm, he would just get in the way. He watched for a moment, scraping his chin with his thumbnail, and went to retrieve the pistol. Her purse was further up the beach, in loose sand. He picked it up. He looked back, but the two people in the water were fully engaged with each other. He found a spare clip in the purs
e and chucked out the top round, finding, as he suspected, that the clip was loaded with blanks. He cleared the chamber and switched clips.
The man and the woman were still rolling, unable to break each other’s hold. It seemed to be a standoff. Coddington, blowing, got her face down in the wet sand, but his hands slipped and she wriggled free.
Shayne left the purse and the pistol at the water’s edge and waded out after a retreating wave. He seized the woman’s wrist with his one good hand and twisted. She snapped her teeth at him. When she understood who it was, the fight stopped abruptly. Coddington had a hard swing under way. It landed, and sent her down with a splash. He stayed on hands and knees, panting.
Another wave nearly knocked him over. Floundering, he said in disgust, “I’ll have to spend more time in the gym. A hundred and ten pound female. She damn near whipped me.”
“She’s had basic training,” Shayne said. “It’s all right, we’re all on the same side.”
Wincing, Coddington adjusted himself inside his wet clothes. “Why didn’t you tell me three minutes ago? I think she crippled me.”
He had lost his own gun during the fight. Shayne picked it out of the water and stuck it in his sling while Coddington was washing the blood off his face. The woman stood up, lost her footing and went down again. Then she stamped out onto dry sand, soaked to the skin and furious. She shook her wet hair, sending water flying. One of Coddington’s swings had caught her in the eye, and it was already beginning to puff.
“Why did you come jumping out on me like that?” she demanded. “Who are you? Who is he?” she asked Shayne. “Is that Murray Gold in your car?”
Her wet dress was molded to her body. Except for her injured eye, she looked very good.
“Well?” she said. “Is that Murray Gold? What is taking place here behind my back?”
“It’s Gold,” Shayne said. “But he’s been shot. He’s stopped running for the time being. How did you know where to look for me?”
She pulled at her dress to keep it from adhering so closely.
“My gun,” she said, dropping it in her purse. “I couldn’t fall asleep in the motel, after all. I did considerable telephoning. I learned about Homestead Beach from the mother of Helen. The moment I arrived, the guns went off. You drove away with Gold and the girl. That seemed peculiar to me, and it still seems peculiar! There he was, the evil man Gold, helpless, why didn’t you wait for the police? I really know nothing about you, do I? And the things one hears about American private detectives—Has he offered you a bribe to let him escape? Have you accepted? When you stopped here, talking, I became impatient and tried to come close on foot, so I could hear. And then this man—”
“Henry Coddington,” Shayne said. “Miami Police Department, plainclothes. Reasonably honest, as far as I know.”
“Thanks,” Coddington said. “If I spoiled anything here, I’m sorry. She had the gun out, and I thought I’d better grab her. Have you got my .38?”
“Yeah,” Shayne said. “I’ll hold it for now. I don’t want anybody else shot.”
They were returning in a group to Shayne’s car.
“Some crazy things have been happening,” Shayne told the woman. “Murray’s been having second thoughts, and I think he’s going to help us.”
They reached the Buick. Helen, crying hopelessly, was alone in the back seat. Murray Gold was gone.
“I thought things were going to be different,” Helen said, blaming Shayne. “It’s all going to be exactly the same. Just like before.”
“Not quite,” Shayne said. “You’ll be on probation if you’re lucky. If you aren’t lucky you’ll be in jail. Where’s Murray?”
The woman beside Shayne took a quick step, and saw the packages of money scattered about on the front and back seats. She turned on Shayne. “You let him buy you. Where is he?”
As though in answer to her question, an engine coughed and took hold. The sound came from around the bend to the north, and was followed by a shriek of tires as a car peeled out on the highway, being pushed to the extreme limit of the gear. Shayne and Coddington looked at each other.
“That sounds like my Mustang,” Coddington said. “She starts to shimmy at seventy. We can catch him.”
“Hell with it,” Shayne said. “We’ve got better things to do than chase an old man off the expressway. We can pick him up later.”
“He took one of the guns,” Helen said, “so you’d better watch out. He’s meaner than he looks.”
The woman said incredulously, “You’re letting him escape! So you can keep the money.”
“Money,” Helen said bitterly. “That’s a laugh.”
Suddenly furious, Shayne pulled the car door open. “You’re a mess. Climb the hell out and hit the road before I lose my temper and work you over.”
“You big tough men.”
Shayne grabbed her shirt and pulled hard. The others stayed out of it. Helen fell in the sand. He faked a kick and she moved out of range in a flurry of arms and legs. She stood up, wiping at her wet face.
“It’s so damned unfair. What’s the point of trying? All right, if that’s the way you feel.”
“Damn right it’s the way I feel. I don’t like you and I don’t like the rest of your family.”
She turned. Shayne aimed another kick at her, catching her neatly between the over-ripe buttocks, lifting her off the dirt and assisting her some inches in the direction of the highway. She yelped and ran.
“You’re forgetting something,” Shayne called.
He reached into the car for her Raggedy Ann doll and threw it after her. She came back to get it, ready to jump and dodge, and then started off along the road, crying. When a car approached she stuck up her thumb, but no sensible motorist would pick her up until she did something to improve her appearance.
While this was going on, the woman was gathering the packages of bills and stuffing them into the open satchel.
“I’ve been wanting to kick that girl since the minute I saw her,” Shayne said. “It’s the one satisfying thing I’ve done all day. What we’ve got to do now—”
“Mike,” Coddington warned.
The woman backed out of the car, closing the satchel, and pointed her long pistol at Shayne.
“I want to have nothing more to do with you people, my dear Mr. Shayne. I don’t trust you any longer. So you are above being bribed? Not at all, here is the evidence of it, money being counted. I see that I must pursue my quarry single-handed. All Americans are thieves.”
“Do you think she’s serious with the gun?” Coddington said, his hands out from his sides.
“You handled her the last time,” Shayne said. “Let me do this one.”
The woman backed away. “Please. You think I’m not serious.” Groping inside the front seat, she pulled out the ignition key and scaled it into the ocean. “I am serious, serious enough to shoot you both. I will permit nothing further to go wrong, or return home with my mission unaccomplished. Stand still.”
Shayne grinned and started forward. She backed off another step, and when he kept coming, she fired.
He looked at her blankly and fell to his knees. He balanced like that for an instant, then toppled over, careful to fall on his good arm.
She swung the gun toward Coddington. “I have more bullets. Perhaps you will now believe me.”
“I believe you.”
She moved backward. Helen, on the highway, watched open-mouthed. A dozen steps from the car, the woman began running sideward, throwing quick glances back to be sure Coddington stayed in the open.
The detective started to move.
“Jesus, Mike—”
“I’m O.K. Blanks.”
Coddington swore savagely. “I keep forgetting this is a Shayne operation. Blanks—great. I wish you’d told me. My stomach turned over. What a lousy feeling. Turned completely over.”
When the woman passed out of sight, Shayne pushed himself up. A car was heard to start. Coddington was walking toward the wat
er. Shayne called him back.
“I saw where the key went in,” Coddington said. “I think I can find it. Don’t feel sorry for me—I’m already wet.”
“We don’t need it.”
Getting into the Buick, Shayne reached under the dashboard to the concealed by-pass switch and snapped on the ignition.
15
Rashid Abd El-Din permitted himself to feel a glimmer of satisfaction. He knew he had to ration this feeling, because it was not a moment to relax. Trouble could be waiting around the next turn. But so far these Americans had been as spreadable as butter. Some he had had to buy. They had sold themselves without hesitation. Those he had had to frighten had turned pale on command, sweat had stood out on their foreheads, their legs had changed from flesh to cotton. This had all been highly satisfactory to him. He had always disliked the idea of Americans, and now he found that he disliked them as intensely in person.
He was tooling along the Expressway in the comfortable front seat of the big stolen hearse. The limousine, carrying three of his comrades, with their guns on the back seat amid bunches of gladioli, was twenty meters ahead. They drove with their headlights on, which Rashid had been told was the custom in American funeral processions. It was a fine sunny morning, too warm for neckties—the kind of weather Rashid preferred. A stately blimp drifted overhead. The ugly city stretched away on either hand. Great grotesque signs were everywhere. The wealth of this country was unbelievable, sickening.
He lit a kif cigarette, and sucked fragrant smoke into his lungs. Fuad Sabri, the driver, said nothing but his throat worked with desire. Rashid laughed and passed the cigarette to him.
“Only one breath for you,” Rashid said. “One long breath. You must keep watching the mirror for police or soldiers, the road for holes, the other traffic. I have a few minutes to think about nothing until I tighten up again for the assault at the airport.”
“Assault? But I thought the gate was to be unlocked.”
“We must be ready for accidents.”
Taking the cigarette back, he drew on it deeply. He was filled with respect for his bravery and cleverness, the bravery and cleverness of his comrades and friends. With such fighters, success was sure.
At the Point of a .38 Page 13