Murder in Haste

by Brett Halliday

  Gray touched his head and looked at his hand for traces of blood. “They cut me open? My, my. I hope they didn’t take out anything I need. Here’s the late news, men. You’re making too much noise here, and we’re going to tape you up. You first, Shayne.”

  Klipstone advanced on Shayne.

  “He’s one of the hoodlums, Gray!” Painter cried. “Grab him.”

  Gray laughed. Looking at Shayne, he tapped his temple meaningfully. “What next? Pink elephants?”

  Painter said, confused, “You mean you aren’t—Well, I’ll say this, you look just like him!”

  “When will you smarten up, Petey?” Shayne said. “Get it through your head—you’ve been conned.”

  “Conned?”

  Gray went on laughing. “Put him out of his misery, Shayne.”

  “Listen to me, meat-head,” Shayne said roughly. “At least you had the sense to know what you were doing was dangerous. You took on a bodyguard. The people who grabbed you had to get him out of the way, and they couldn’t just invite you to get into their car and come along for the ride. They knew you’d act even more irrationally than usual if you thought you could hang something on me. Your views on the subject of Mike Shayne are in the public domain. Gray faked something. I don’t know what. You called an ambulance for him and ordered an all-cars alert for me. Somebody fired a couple of shots to get Heinemann away from your Caddy. You saw a car that looked like mine and took out after it.”

  “You were in it! I saw you.”

  “Maybe you saw somebody that looked like me. You didn’t see me.” Shayne gauged Klipstone’s height and build. Both were about right. So was his haircut, though he had brown hair. “What did you use, Jack? A henna rinse or a wig?”

  Klipstone moved his feet, embarrassed. “Put your goddam hands behind you and turn around.”

  Shayne looked from one man to another. Gray had his hand inside his coat.

  “Conscious or unconscious?” Gray said.

  Shayne turned slowly, putting his hands together at the base of his spine.

  “The filing cabinet!” Painter said desperately. “The way everything was thrown around. And the car, the car!”

  Klipstone ripped off a length of tape and wrapped it around Shayne’s wrists.

  Gray said, “A car wouldn’t be much of a problem, Chief. We didn’t actually go to the trouble of stealing Shayne’s car. There are plenty of cars like it, and we didn’t want him to come out and notice it was missing. It’s simpler to switch plates. People don’t check to see whether they have the right plates from one week to the next. When it was all over, we switched the plates back. And the mess? How long would it take to straighten that up? Not very long. The timing was a bit off. I’d rather you hadn’t called the ambulance and so on. But I couldn’t stop you. Probably the phone should have been pulled out of the wall, but you can’t think of everything.”

  Painter exclaimed, “That’s the slimiest trick I ever heard of!”

  Klipstone gave Shayne a push, tripping him. He fell heavily. After taping the redhead’s ankles and slapping an X of tape across his mouth, he turned to Painter.

  “Next.”

  “But—but I thought you were just going to leave me at a motel! You aren’t actually—”

  “It gets light in another hour,” Gray said. “People show up to go out sailing, and we don’t want you to yell for help and interfere with other people’s recreation. If anybody asked me, I’d say take both of you out in the Stream and drop you, but nobody’s asked me. Hands behind you, Chief.”

  “But—but—” Painter sputtered.

  Klipstone plastered tape over his mouth before fastening his wrists and ankles. They went out and left Painter and Shayne alone. The key turned in the lock.

  Shayne struggled into a sitting position, his back to the bulkhead. Painter lay on his side in the bunk. They looked at each other. Painter’s eyes turned away evasively, but they kept coming back.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The overnight light had been left on. Painter seemed to be trying desperately to say something. As for the redhead, he wasn’t interested in anything Painter had to say, and he had nothing to say himself that wouldn’t have been profane.

  Someone came down the companionway and went into the opposite cabin. There were footsteps and low voices overhead. After a time their captors settled down and the boat was quiet. Painter’s eyes closed. He forced them open. But the next time they closed, several minutes later, they stayed closed. Shayne remained awake, his thoughts going in circles, like mice in a cage.

  His watch was behind him, strapped up beneath overlapping layers of adhesive tape. The sky, which could be seen through the single porthole, was beginning to brighten. Dawn could be no more than fifteen minutes away. Exactly twenty-four hours earlier, he had parked his car in front of his hotel, and Joe Wing and his boys had moved in on him. And too much had happened in the next twenty-four hours that he didn’t understand.

  Occasionally he heard a car pass on the Beach, or the beat of a motor out in the bay. By now the fast Coast Guard cutters would have given up the search for the skin-diving bomber. Tim Rourke, he hoped, was still working north along the bayfront, looking for a large white boat called Panther. Unfortunately, he was also looking for a large white boat with a tuna-fish platform, but perhaps he would remember in time that such platforms are detachable.

  Another boat’s motor, louder than those he had heard so far, was approaching the marina, coming down from the north. His attention sharpened. It didn’t go by, but swung into the open water between the lines of berthed boats, throttling down until it was barely turning over. Suddenly, no more than a half-cable length away, it cut out entirely. Shayne rocked forward, working his feet underneath him, and listened intently. He heard the faint slapping of waves against a hull; the other boat must be almost alongside.

  Suddenly bare feet hit the deck directly overhead. Klipstone’s voice called, “Who’s that?”

  When there was no answer a door slammed open across the companionway and someone ran up the companion ladder.

  Klipstone’s voice, low and worried, said, “It looks like Juan Grimondi. Get Gray.” Then he called, “Juan? What gives, kid? Up late or up early?”

  A voice with a strong Spanish accent answered, “Coming aboard you, Jack. Gotta talk about something.”

  Shayne heard someone else run out on the Panther’s deck, and Gray said easily, “Take it easy, Juan, boy. You’ve got to be asked. That’s one of the things about boats.”

  Shayne strained to hear the answer.

  “Asked? You kidding me, boy. This here is important union business.”

  “But this ain’t no union hall,” Gray said softly. “Who you got there with you? Is that you, Whitey?” he called more challengingly. “I didn’t know they let you out.”

  “I made parole,” a voice answered from the other boat.

  “And does your parole officer know you’re this far from Baltimore? How many more you’ve got there, Juan? You brought a little army with you, didn’t you? Hold it! We don’t want to overload. We’re crowded already.”

  Shayne pressed his back to the bulkhead and slowly began to work himself to his feet. On deck, the argument continued.

  Juan said, “What’s wrong with a little talk? We’re good union brothers.”

  Shayne straightened his knees and came erect. He made the porthole in a series of careful movements, and looked out. The bow of the second boat had nudged into the same berth as the Panther, and the two boats lay alongside, front thirds overlapping. Shayne couldn’t see up to the deck. Painter, on the bunk beside him, snored heavily.

  “Okay, tell you what we want,” Juan said. “You got that cop, right? Painter. Very good trick, I hear all about it, just like you, Mr. Gray. Now we going to take charge of that cop.”

  “No, you’re not,” Gray said.

  “Honest, Mr. Gray, we take care of him good. Nobody complain afterward, nobody find the body. We got some big cinderbl
ocks, take him out in deep water.”

  “The hell you will. Not unless I get told by the right people. Sheer off, or we’ll blow a few holes in your boat for you.”

  Shayne bumped Painter’s shoulder with his knee, trying to wake him. The little man twitched, but slept on.

  “We blow a few holes right back,” Juan said. “What’s the matter, Mr. Gray, you in love with this Painter, or something?”

  He added something in Spanish, and one of his men jumped aboard the Panther. There was a rush of footsteps. Shayne’s eyes, cold and murderous, went rapidly around the cabin. A blow was struck, and Klipstone swore viciously. Several more boarders made the deck. A fight was raging forward. Shayne knew enough not to struggle against the tape, but he had never felt more helpless. He stood in a half-crouch, waiting.

  A gun went off.

  “Hold them!” Gray shouted. “Whizzer—you’ve got a gun, use it! Throw the bastards in the water.”

  There was a loud splash, as though his orders had been taken literally. Shayne heard rapid footsteps on the companion ladder. The key turned, and Gray darted in.

  “We’ve got eight or nine slobs on our decks,” he said with his usual briskness. He spun the redhead around and went on talking while he ripped the tape off his wrists. “They want Painter, and they want him dead. When they see you here, they’ll take you along. So lend a hand, even things up.”

  As soon as Shayne’s hands were free he ran out. Shayne, ripping the tape off his mouth, started after him, and remembered his taped ankles. Twisting back, he scratched at the tape with his fingernails. Painter had been awakened by the noise and was throwing himself from side to side, his eyes frightened. Shayne rapidly unwound the tape, and running to Painter, flipped him over roughly and began working at his wrists.

  “You were saving it for the first day of the convention, weren’t you, you goddam moron?” he said savagely. “So you could get your picture in every paper in the country. But there’s more than one faction in this union! One bunch of these guys just wants to keep you undercover till the election’s over. The other bunch wants to kill you. Get the rest of this tape off yourself, and let’s see if you’re any good in a fight. If you don’t want to fight, keep the hell out of my way.”

  Feet were stamping around on the deck above them. He ripped the last tape from Painter’s wrists making no effort to be gentle, and let him roll over by himself. Then the redhead picked up one of the chairs and broke it over the table to get a weapon.

  Only one shot had been fired since the fight began, but as Shayne started up the stairs there was another, near the top of the companionway. Someone stumbled through. It was Gray. He tried to grab the handrail but missed, and he went headlong down the steep stairs, his mouth wide open and his hands stretched out ahead of him. He caromed off one side of the companionway and ended in Shayne’s arms.

  The redhead staggered. He had caught Gray from the side, around the chest, and he could feel the blood. Gray tried to say something, but it ended in a groan. Shayne laid him down gently. His breath came out in a long shudder and his hand turned over. He was dead.

  Shayne grabbed the broken chair-leg, which he had dropped when Gray came hurtling toward him. His hand was slippery; he had to dry it on his sleeve. He stopped with his foot on the bottom step, his eyes narrowed.

  The shooting of Gray had taken the spirit out of the defenders, and the fight appeared to be over. He heard a series of blows, as evenly-spaced as though someone was methodically punching a heavy bag. The Spanish-accented voice said sharply, “Whitey?”

  “I better finish with him,” a voice answered. “Klipstone too, or we have trouble.”

  “What trouble? Plato’s through. Luke Quinn’s gonna take care of everybody.”

  Shayne calculated swiftly. If there were eight men on deck, the odds were very long. He turned. Gray had left the key in the lock, and Shayne whipped it out and dropped it in his pocket. He ran back into the cabin. Painter’s mouth was free and he was picking at the tape around his ankles.

  Painter said bitterly, “I won’t forget being called a moron, either. You probably didn’t think I heard you.”

  “Leave it alone,” Shayne said urgently. “They’ve clobbered Plato’s boys, and we’ve only got one chance. Leave it half off. Wait till they haul us out. When they get us on deck, jump overboard and get in under the dock.”

  “I will like hell,” Painter said belligerently. “I never ran from a fight yet.”

  “This isn’t a fight. It’s a massacre.”

  He knocked Painter’s hands from his ankles, threw him back on the bed and whipped loose tape around his wrists.

  “What are you trying to do, Shayne, damn it?” he said. “Oh, I see. You want me to be murdered. With me out of the way you’ll have a free hand in this town. Let me tell you—”

  Shayne found the big X of tape on the bunk and slapped it acrosss his mouth. He quickly looped what was left of the tape around Painter’s ankles. He taped his own, pasted the other big X across his mouth and lay back against the bulkhead with his hands behind him. He had done a hasty job, but it might pass a hasty inspection. Painter was writhing on the bunk, tightening the tape around his wrists and ankles. As soon as he was hopelessly tangled he gave up and glared at Shayne.

  Feet crashed down the companionway. Shayne forced himself to hold still. The door opened.

  It was the Cuban who had driven Al Cole in the stolen car to Rose Heminway’s house. His nose had been smashed and a front tooth was missing.

  “Gray’s dead,” a man behind him said. “Plato won’t like that.”

  “Plato, who cares?” He looked down at the redhead. “Lookit, it’s that bastard Shayne.”

  “What’s he doing here?” the other said, alarmed. “Nobody said anything to me that Shayne was gonna be—”

  “He’s not gonna be much longer,” the Cuban said. He prodded the redhead with his toe. Shayne looked up, his right hand gripping his left wrist A .45 dangled from the Cuban’s hand, on a level with Shayne’s eyes. “You fool me, Shayne. There at the house, Cole and me, we should both go in and hit you and the girl. But that damn little island, that one road off. I had the goddam shakes. I catch up with you anyway, eh?”

  Without warning he kicked Shayne in the side of the head. Shayne let go of his wrist. He managed to keep himself from diving at the Cuban and dragging him down, but it was one of the hardest things he had ever done. Juan’s face worked and he spat at Shayne. Then he turned contemptuously and checked the tape at Painter’s wrists and ankles.

  “Lousy job,” he commented. “This whole thing very lousy.”

  “What about Gray?”

  “What about him? You want to bury him with a priest, or something? Leave him alone. See if he’s got the key in his pocket.”

  The other man checked. “I can’t find it.”

  The Cuban said, “Hell with it. Come on, those shots, cops be here in a minute.”

  “You mean we don’t take Painter? You said—”

  “I said, I said!” Grimondi said angrily. “I said so they let me get aboard. This is Plato’s boat, right? Plato’s boys snatched him. The cops find him and Shayne dead on Plato’s boat, nobody’s gonna bother with Luke, get it?”

  “That’s just like Luke,” the other man said admiringly. “Smart.”

  They clattered up the steps. Shayne leaned forward and worked the tape off his ankles. It came readily. Painter was saying, “Wha—wha—” through the loose tape across his mouth. When Shayne’s tape was off, he removed Painter’s. The little man demanded angrily, “What are they doing?”

  “Scuttling the boat,” Shayne said in a fierce whisper. “Now shut up.”

  “I certainly will not. Scuttling the boat! It so happens I can’t swim.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll hold onto you.”

  “No,” Painter said. “No, no, no. Absolutely not!” He pushed Shayne out of the way and started for the door. “Any time I let myself be rescued by you—”
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  Shayne overtook him in one long stride and pulled him around. Painter opened his mouth to yell, but Shayne brought his fist up in a crisp disciplinary punch. Painter’s eyes turned up and his knees sagged. Shayne dumped him unceremoniously on the table. He opened the door to the companionway and listened.

  “Find it?” the Cuban said on deck.

  Another voice called from the engine room. “Water coming in to beat hell!”

  Shayne could feel the difference in the trim of the boat Whitey’s voice asked. “What do we do with Klipstone?”

  “Take him,” the Cuban said. “And Whizzer. Luke can use them.”

  The Panther was settling fast. Shayne picked up the unconscious Painter and walked him to the door. He lifted him to get him past Gray’s body, and as he did so, Painter’s head snapped forward. He opened his mouth to complete the yell he had started before Shayne punched him. Shayne held his fist in front of his eyes, and he closed his mouth again, giving the redhead a look of extreme hatred. Shayne kept a firm grip on him as they went up the stairs.

  “Going fast!” the Cuban cried. “Untie!”

  Shayne kicked off his shoes. He couldn’t take off his pants without letting go of Painter, whose eyes were darting in panic from one side of the companionway to the other. The boat lurched sharply to starboard. Shayne held Painter on the step next to the top, restraining him from running out on deck.

  “No!” Painter cried clearly. “Let me—”

  Shayne clapped his hand over the little man’s mouth. “Do that again,” he whispered, “and we’ll both be killed.”

  Whitey’s voice called from the other boat, “Did you hear that, Juan? Somebody—”

  “Nah,” the Cuban said scornfully. “Start up the motor.”

  The Panther righted herself for an instant, but her decks were awash. Shayne started to count. He got as far as six, and then the boat seemed to rush away beneath his feet. He had to use both hands to hold Painter, who was struggling like a cat being drowned. Water poured in through the companion doorway. Shayne thrust Painter ahead of him and pushed off hard.