Murder Takes No Holiday

by Brett Halliday

  “The letter—”

  “But don’t you understand, Paul? Where you have put this letter is merely one more of the things we must find out.”

  He raised his voice to summon the bartender. “Al!”

  12

  As Alvarez called, Michael Shayne moved his legs and nodded to Powys. Silently the Englishman began to wriggle backward. When they were around the corner, Shayne crawled across to the balustrade. Turning, he cautiously raised his head. Al had run in from the dining room. He was standing over Slater’s chair, and Alvarez seemed to be tying Slater’s hands.

  Shayne and Powys quickly slid over the balustrade. Crouched low, they ran past the dining-room windows. Gaining the protection of the garage, they stopped for a low-voiced consultation.

  “This becomes a bit more serious,” Powys said.

  “You’re still with me?”

  “Definitely. I want to get the Slaters aboard that plane as much as you do. How many men are we up against?”

  “The Camel and Al in the living room. Two in the bedroom with Mrs. Slater, two more around the house somewhere. I don’t think we need to count the cab driver. He’s neutral.”

  Powys said lightly, “Three apiece. Take them in sequence. I think we can handle them.”

  “O.K. Start with the bedroom. I want the one on the bed.”

  They circled the house. The kitchen, as they passed, still seemed to be empty. They were careful crossing the lighted strip of turf and the terrace, but once inside there was no further need for caution. The cab driver had turned up the radio to get the full driving effect of a Louis Armstrong solo. Powys followed Shayne quickly along a carpeted hall. The sharp pain in the redhead’s chest was gone, but a dull ache remained, a reminder that he couldn’t press an attack with his usual abandon.

  He counted doors, remembering the layout of the wing as he had seen it from outside. He stopped and exchanged a look with Powys. The Englishman tapped his pipe against his heel and stuck it into his breast pocket.

  Shayne turned the knob slowly, holding it in both hands. His shoulder muscles were knotted. When the knob was all the way around, freeing the latch, he drew back slightly and slammed his shoulder hard against the door. It came open violently. The man on the other side was hurled forward, and the chair fell on top of him.

  Shayne left him to Powys. On the bed, José’s face had gone blank with surprise. Martha, too, halfway between the bed and the door, had frozen as Shayne burst in. The redhead had to break stride to go around her, giving José the fraction of a second he needed. He scrambled up higher on the bed, but didn’t have time to get out of a sitting position. As Shayne came around the bed he rolled forward and kicked out hard with his right foot.

  The pointed toe of his shoe caught the detective in the side with stunning force. Six inches farther forward, and Shayne would have gone nowhere the rest of the night under his own power. He was probably unconscious for a moment. He fell, landing across the smaller man’s body, and his fingers fastened in the front of José’s coat. Momentum carried him across the bed. As he fell to the floor he dragged José with him.

  His brain cleared in time to see that José had managed to take out a gun. This wasn’t Martha’s little automatic, but an ugly short-barrelled revolver. Shayne grabbed for his arm, but he was rolling away, bringing the gun up between them. Shayne let go of José’s coat and batted him awkwardly across the head with his loosely clenched fist. It was more of a push than a blow, but it knocked the Latin’s head back against the metal framework of the bed, dazing him for an instant.

  In that instant Shayne recovered. He clamped a crushing grip on José’s right wrist. José stabbed out at his eyes with his free hand, his fingers bunched and rigid, but Shayne jerked his head and the dangerous fingers passed harmlessly across his cheekbone. He had discovered that he couldn’t lift his left arm. He increased the pressure with his right as José tried to get away. Straining against each other, they came to their feet slowly. José’s face was contorted with effort. José managed to turn so Shayne was behind him. Shayne was putting forth his full strength to keep the small man from twisting his wrist upward.

  No more than several seconds had elapsed. The fat-faced youth, who had been sitting tipped back against the door, now lay sprawled on his back, arms and legs outflung. He was unconscious, and it seemed to Shayne that his jaw was broken. Powys was sucking the knuckles of his left hand. He stooped swiftly and took a gun from somewhere inside the unconscious man’s clothes. There were running footsteps outside in the corridor. Turning, Powys ran out, holding the gun behind his leg.

  José squirmed, kicking back viciously at the detective’s leg. Shayne was slowly forcing his adversary in against the bed, smothering him with his superior weight and size. But his left arm still dangled uselessly.

  “Michael, you’re hurt!” Martha cried.

  “Get back,” Shayne grated through his clenched teeth.

  Martha looked desperately for something to use as a weapon. José spat out something in Spanish. In the next bedroom, the Louis Armstrong record came to a blazing climax, and an American with a Georgia accent began telling his listeners how easy it was to borrow money from the friendly finance company that was sponsoring the program. Sweat poured down Shayne’s face, and his hand began to slip.

  A man appeared in the bedroom doorway—Pedro, José’s brother. He looked stupidly at the scene, and it took him a moment to understand the meaning of what he saw: Michael Shayne, left bound and gagged behind the Half Moon for the police, no longer behind the Half Moon or in jail, but struggling with José for a gun. He started forward, shouting, and at that same instant Shayne’s hand slipped on José’s wrist, the gun came up and fired.

  Shayne chopped at José’s head with his right. He was able to put a little beef behind this blow, and it caught the small man on the ear and sent him sprawling. Shayne stamped at the gun. He missed. He tried again, moving quickly, and his foot came down hard on José’s hand. José’s finger was still curled around the trigger guard. He screamed as the finger broke. He had one knee beneath him, trying to rise. Martha ran across a room, lifting a lamp over her head. She brought it down. It shattered over his shoulders; the heavy bronze base caught the top of his head and he went over sidewards.

  Shayne kicked the gun out of his hand. He whirled, crouching. José’s brother was still standing in the middle of the room. The stupid look was back on his face, and he clutched his breast with both hands. Before Shayne could reach him his knees sagged and he folded forward. His coat came open, and Shayne saw the red stain on his shirt.

  Martha’s hands were over her eyes. She was trembling violently. Shayne strode up to her and took her by the shoulders. She looked at him, her eyes wide with shock.

  “Michael, I’m going to faint.”

  “The hell you are,” he said roughly. “You’re going to stay on your feet and get their guns. Toss them over the embankment. Then clear out.” He thrust a set of car-keys at her. “If we aren’t out in five minutes, go down the road and call Vivienne.”

  “Who?” she said.

  “Vivienne. And then get some cops out here. Have you got it?”

  She shook her head. “I can’t leave Paul.”

  “Goddamn it!” Shayne shouted. “Do what I tell you!”

  She shook her head again, returning his look firmly. Her eyes had cleared. Shayne could see that she meant to stay, no matter what he said to her. He put the keys back in his pocket, snatched up José’s revolver and ran out of the bedroom.

  He had put both hands on her shoulders, he remembered, so his left arm must be working again. He tried it. He could bend the elbow, but couldn’t bring it out from his side.

  The cab driver had heard the shot, and was looking out cautiously. Shayne gave him one look, his lips peeled back from his teeth. The cigar dropped from the man’s mouth. He popped back into the bedroom and slammed the door.

  Shayne ran into the dining room as Al came through the folding doors a
t the opposite end. Al had his big gun up, but he didn’t fire. Shayne stopped. For a long moment the two men looked at each other. The revolver was pointed at Al’s feet. Al’s gun was pointed over Shayne’s head.

  “You want to watch what you do from now on,” the redhead said quietly. “You don’t want to wind up as the guy who takes the fall for these bastards.”

  He began to walk forward slowly. The cards were still laid out at the end of the table. Al was planted solidly in front of the doorway, looking as though it would take a bulldozer to move him.

  Shayne said, “It’s a Mexican stand-off. You haven’t been playing solitaire. You heard what they’ve been saying. They’ve got each other sewed up. The Camel’s connections don’t stretch as far as murder. When he goes, the rest of his people go with him, and that includes you, Al. Don’t forget you’re a foreigner here. You won’t get any help from the American consul.”

  Confused sounds came from beyond the folding door. The volume on the cab driver’s radio was still up very high but the music was now cool jazz, played by a small group of calm musicians.

  “You were in on a kidnapping,” Shayne went on, still walking forward. “It wasn’t handled too well. Too many people in on it—very sloppy. If you think back, you’ll remember that the cops had me for a while, and I gave them all the names.”

  Al slowly lowered the heavy gun until it was pointed at Shayne’s chest. Shayne kept the revolver aimed at the floor.

  “I’m out of my own territory down here,” he said, several steps away from Al. “But if I get killed there’s going to be a certain amount of heat. The Camel must have something on you to make you wear that ring in your ear. The hell with that. He’ll have to have somebody to turn over, and you’re the number one prospect. Leave Alvarez to me. I’ll get him out of your hair.”

  He shifted the revolver to his left hand. As he came up to Al he reached out slowly, moving with care, and took Al’s gun out of his hand. The tension went out of the bartender’s body all at once. He seemed sure of himself again. Shifting his weight, he hit Shayne on the side of the jaw.

  Shayne rocked back on his heels. He grinned savagely, dropping the guns. Stepping back, he picked up a chair and whirled it at Al. It broke against Al’s upstretched arms. Shayne drove in behind it and nailed Al with a high right to the head. A left in the right spot now would have finished him, but the detective’s left arm was still dead.

  He tried to drop back into hitting position; with only one arm in motion, Shayne was badly off-balance, and he fell forward, knocking Al into the folding door. Two sections of the door folded shut on him. As he freed himself, it banged open all the way. Slater and the Camel, Shayne saw, were rolling across the living-room rug.

  Al came at Shayne, both hands up. Luckily he wasn’t a body-puncher. He threw a right and a left at Shayne’s head. Shayne slipped them both, and at that instant he had a sensation as though something had torn in his shoulder, and his left arm came up. He still couldn’t hit with it, but it put him back in balance and he could shield his ribs. Al caught him with a straight overhand. It helped Shayne set himself. He saw another punch starting, and he beat it in. Al’s punch landed, but with nothing behind it. Shayne hit him twice more. This was crude slugging, with no attempt at style. If either punch had missed, the redhead would have been wide open. But they didn’t miss. Al was already on the way down when Shayne hit him in the same spot a second time, with his weight behind it. One of Al’s arms, swinging, swept the cards off the table. He was unconscious before he hit the floor.

  Shayne staggered. He felt the corner of the table against his hip.

  Paul Slater had Alvarez by the throat and was knocking his head repeatedly against the floor. Slater was no longer the handsome, somewhat spoiled-looking young man Shayne had glimpsed from the terrace; his face was suffused with blood, his eyes protruded, and he was out of control. Alvarez flopped around helplessly, clawing at Slater’s wrists. A curious sound came from deep in his throat. Shayne knew that unless he did something to stop it, in another thirty seconds or less Alvarez would be dead. But a terrible weariness had come over him. He couldn’t move.

  Cecil Powys ran in from the terrace, a gun in his hand. He glanced at the struggling pair on the floor. Without an instant’s pause he chopped at Slater’s wrists with the gun. Slater cried out. Powys hit him again, and his fingers opened. Alvarez fell away from him, clutching his throat.

  “On your feet, Paul,” Powys said. “Your wife is still here.”

  “Oh, my God,” Slater said thickly.

  Alvarez croaked something and plunged upward at Slater, butting him in the chest.

  “Gentlemen,” Powys said impatiently.

  He dropped the gun into his side pocket. He pulled the Camel around with one hand and hit him with the other. It had been a long time since Shayne had seen anyone punch like that. The blow was delivered seemingly without effort, but Alvarez pitched forward as though he had been hit with a hammer.

  Slater scrambled to his feet. “Where is she?”

  A bell rang loudly in another part of the house. The strange lethargy fell away from Shayne. He whipped around. The bell went on ringing, a harsh and urgent summons. Someone must have opened the gate at the foot of the drive. He shouted to Powys and headed back through the dining room.

  José was in the kitchen, standing confusedly with his face streaming with blood. He had made it this far, but he wasn’t going much farther. His eyes were glazed. He swayed forward and fell towards Shayne. He was holding a large carving knife in front of him.

  “Watch it, Mike!” Powys cried behind him.

  The redhead sidestepped, and José fell through the doorway. As he went down he pulled over a table and a lamp crashed to the floor. There was a sudden brilliant flash, and the house was plunged into darkness. The bell stopped ringing. The music was cut off abruptly in the middle of a note.

  In the sudden silence, Shayne heard a car’s motor. He ran to the kitchen door.

  “Martha!”

  He heard Powys behind him: “Let’s get out of this place, Mike. That’s Sergeant Brannon or I miss my guess.”

  Shayne groped his way outside. A moment later he was across the terrace and down the steps. He felt gravel beneath his feet, then grass. He could see the headlights now, coming fast. There were sounds of movement behind him. He called Martha’s name again. A shot was fired inside the house, then another.

  “Off in the grass,” Powys called. “Keep together.”

  Shayne could make out a blur of movement on the other side of the drive. Three more shots sounded. He heard a woman’s voice.

  “Martha?”

  “Yes, over here,” her voice answered.

  “Is Slater with you?”

  Hearing the American grunt in reply, Shayne concentrated on getting the little group as far as possible from the house before the car reached them.

  “Now get down,” he snapped. “All of you. Down.”

  They fell to the grass as the headlights swept by. Shayne saw that the driver was wearing a police uniform. When the car was past, they ran for the gate, keeping to the grass that bordered the gravel. At the gate Shayne looked back. The police car’s headlights illuminated one side of the house. There was another fusillade of shots.

  The gate had been left open. Slater had apparently been hurt in the fight with the Camel. He lagged behind the others, his breath coming in great gasps. Outside the gate, he fell.

  “Powys, go on ahead and get the car ready,” Shayne said. “Take it easy, Paul. Plenty of time.”

  “I—” Slater gasped.

  “Darling, it’s all right now,” Martha said beside him. “It’s going to be really all right.”

  Shayne lifted him from one side, Martha from the other. For a moment the shooting had stopped, and Shayne heard a stentorian voice, unmistakably Sergeant Brannon’s, bellowing a command. More shots followed.

  The Morris was cleared by the time they reached it.

  “Give me a
hand, Mike,” Powys said. “We can roll it out without starting the motor. Vivienne? Steer it for us, that’s a good girl.”

  Shayne forced his way into the underbrush and gripped the rear bumper. Powys, on the other side, counted to three and they lifted and heaved forward. The little car hung for a moment, caught on a broken sapling, then rolled into the road.

  “All right, everybody,” Powys said. “Pile in. Going to be a squeeze.”

  Shayne tipped up the driver’s seat so Paul and Martha could get in back. He ducked his head to go in after them.

  “Paul?” Vivienne said in a small voice.

  “Hello, Vivienne.”

  Martha looked from Paul to the girl and turned her head, biting her lip. Powys leaped in and released the emergency. The little car began to roll.

  “Keep an eye out back, will you, Mike?” he said.

  As soon as they passed around a bend, he turned on the parking lights. The car rolled more rapidly. He put it in second and turned on the ignition; the motor started smoothly.

  “I didn’t introduce you people,” Shayne said. “That’s Cecil Powys at the wheel. Mrs. Slater, Miss Vivienne Larousse. I mean mademoiselle—or however the hell you pronounce it. You can thank Vivienne for getting us out here. We couldn’t have found the place without her.”

  Martha hesitated. “We are grateful,” she said quietly.

  “So much shooting!” Vivienne exclaimed. “When I heard that I was sure you would all be shot full of holes. Mon Dieu, how I suffered. Michael, were those policemen?”

  “Yeah,” Shayne said. “I guess Brannon took my advice and found himself a pigeon.”

  Powys said, “Rummage around in the dashboard compartment there, Vivienne. I need a map. I think there’s a short way to the airdrome without going around through St. Albans.”

  Vivienne snapped on the dome light. In a moment she found a travel folder with included a road map of the island. Powys waited till they reached the main east-west road, then stopped to study the map.