“Today, St. Albans. Caracas, tomorrow morning. Then down the east coast, to Brasilia. Then Rio, São Paulo, Montevideo. One day in each. Jules thinks they will wait till São Paulo, but he didn’t persuade me. I think sooner. The point of this arrangement, if I understand it, is to get out of the United States with the gold. That we have now done. Each day’s delay will increase their danger.”
She squeezed his hand and looked toward the front of the cabin. “Naomi Savage.”
A dark-haired woman holding a clipboard was standing in the aisle with a microphone. She introduced herself, welcomed them to what she was sure would be an exciting fifteen days, and explained where they were and how soon they would arrive in St. Albans, a Caribbean island which, until recently, had been part of the British Commonwealth, and what they would do there. She had a pleasant, low-pitched voice and was good-looking in an understated way. She was in her late twenties. Her manner seemed slightly flustered, but having to get thirty-seven tourists through twenty countries in fifteen days, Shayne thought, would be enough to fluster anybody.
She checked her clipboard, putting on horn-rimmed glasses, and came directly to Shayne’s seat to say she hoped he would enjoy himself on the tour.
“I’ll do my best,” Shayne said. “How about hotel accommodations? Would it shock anybody if Miss Hochberg and I shared a room?”
Mrs. Savage gave him a direct look. “Probably. But that’s your business, isn’t it? We booked you separately, but we’ll be glad to make a switch.”
She nodded coolly and went on.
“My reputation,” Christa murmured.
“We might as well make sure everybody knows we’re lovers. Did you find out anything about her?”
“Not much. She’s been with the travel agency four years. The marriage took place last summer, at the time the agency changed hands. We should agree now on strategy, Mike? We have announced ourselves. I think we should pretend to behave like the others, go to the scenic places and so on. Meanwhile, we stay on the qui vive, we watch the luggage, we watch George and Naomi. When the gold is unloaded, we find out where it goes and with whom. And to fill up the intervals I hope we can think of something, you and I, so the trip will not be dull for you.” Shayne shook his head.
“I don’t have that much time.”
“That was the way Jules outlined it.”
“That was yesterday. Things have changed. Do you have any bugging equipment with you?”
“To overhear conversations? A button mike and a receiver. Very short range. Perhaps one kilometer.”
“That’s good enough.”
The stewardess was working the aisle with a coffee cart. She served the Negro clergyman, then turned her smile on Christa and Shayne.
“Coffee?”
“I’ll have a drink,” Shayne said. “Cognac, if you have it.”
“We don’t serve liquor on this flight, sir,” the girl said nicely. “We’ll be in St. Albans in twenty minutes.”
“When you want a drink,” Shayne said abrasively, “twenty minutes can be a long time.”
Reaching across, he tweaked her blouse out of the skirt of her trim blue uniform. He could feel her quiver. Her breasts rose and fell quickly.
“Humor me,” he said. “It’s always easier.”
“I’ll just finish with the coffee.”
He sat back. “No, get it for me now. In the interests of peace and quiet.”
“Very well, Mr. Shayne,” she said coldly. “Cognac.”
She said it as though she planned to serve rat poison in it. Christa had been watching Shayne speculatively.
“Is there a point to this?”
“Yeah. I’m a hard-drinking private detective, and I want a drink. Don’t you think it’s hot in this plane?”
He pulled off his jacket and half stood to wad it into the hand-luggage rack. His thirty-eight slipped out of the side pocket, clanked against the coffee cart and bounced into the aisle. Shayne swore. As he retrieved the gun, he was watched by half the eyes in the plane. He heard the Negro clergyman across the aisle say softly, “My word.”
Shayne threw the gun angrily into his attaché case and slammed the lid. Christa reserved comment until after the stewardess brought the cognac. The girl gave Shayne a hostile but appraising glance. He grinned at her, gestured with the drink, and she moved on.
“You’re right, I suppose,” Christa said in a low voice. “There really wasn’t much chance of being mousy and unobtrusive, was there? So we might as well attract even more attention and make a virtue of it. You want to stand out in the open and draw their fire.”
“Something like that.”
“Mike, you’re taking a fearful chance. The next time, you know, they may not miss. Do you plan to do anything definite? I don’t want to be taken too much by surprise.”
“I don’t have enough information to make plans,” Shayne rumbled. “All I can do is throw a little weight around and see if I can start a panic. The more people we’re up against, the more chance there is that somebody’ll get jumpy too soon.”
“I still don’t see why we can’t let them make the first move.”
“Jules is dead,” Shayne said.
Her coffee went flying. The stewardess ran up with a towel and helped her dry herself off. When they were alone again, Christa said through set lips, “How did it happen?”
Shayne told her.
“God. God.”
“I asked at the desk for his room number. Most of the hotel people know me by sight. I may have been spotted at the airport. That means the cops will be looking for me. One cop especially, and he’s the worst kind—he never lets anybody else finish a sentence. With luck, I have about twenty-four hours.”
“I see that, yes.” With a visible effort, she made herself relax. “This—desolates me, Mike. Did he tell you he planned to retire in two months? He was always so careless when he was working. He took stupefying chances. But I wish—I wish he could have lasted out those two months.”
They were silent for a time. When a man passed down the aisle, she remarked without change of expression, “George Savage, the husband.”
Shayne tossed off the cognac. “Let’s see if I can jolt him a little.”
He stood up. Everyone in the cabin was watching him, to see what gauche and outlandish thing he would do next.
CHAPTER 6
Sticking a cigarette in his mouth, Shayne swung out into the aisle.
The women outnumbered the men by nearly two to one. He saw a few plainly dressed elderly couples, but the tone of the group was set by the women traveling alone. Most of them looked like schoolteachers or librarians.
One man glanced up from a travel guide. Like Shayne himself, he looked like the kind of man who would need a good reason to go on this kind of tour. He was lean, leathery, with pale, hopped-up blue eyes.
The Savages were sitting together in the last seat before the galley. George was a handsome, meaty man, some years younger than his wife. His hair was long and fair, with a noticeable wave. He wore a heavy ring on each hand, a thin platinum watch.
Shayne looked down at him amiably. “You must be George Savage. My name’s Shayne.”
He put out his hand. Savage gave it a brief shake without getting up.
“Glad to have you with us.”
“Are you?” Shayne said. “Better wait till you hear why I came. Now I want to chat with your wife.”
“Go right ahead.”
“In private,” Shayne said. “She said we should feel free to ask questions, and I’ve got a couple. It might take a few minutes. OK?”
Savage glanced inquiringly at his wife. She gave an almost imperceptible nod. He got up and went off toward the front of the cabin.
Shayne sat down in the vacated seat. “Why anybody in his right mind would take a job like this—”
“As a matter of fact, it’s quite interesting,” she said crisply. “I like people, and I like to travel. So does my husband. So there’s no mystery about it,
is there? You said you have some questions.”
“Well, not really. What I want is money.”
“Money!”
Shayne laughed and put his big hand on her knee. “It’s not a four-letter word. Do you mind if I call you Naomi? I like to be friendly.”
She said stiffly, “Perhaps you’ll be good enough to explain.”
“Why not? Usually I beat around the bush a little first, but you can’t be long-winded in a jet—there isn’t that much time. You’ve probably heard that I can be rough if I have to be. But I don’t start off being rough.”
“I don’t even know who you are! I certainly don’t know what you’re driving at.”
“Think it over, Naomi,” Shayne said, lighting his cigarette. “All I want is a reasonable percentage.”
Her husband came back with the captain, a graying, once-handsome man with heavy pouches under his eyes. He looked vaguely familiar to Shayne.
“Mike Shayne!” he exclaimed. “I’ll be damned. What are you doing with all these—” He glanced at Mrs. Savage and checked abruptly. “You remember me. I used to work out of Miami when I flew for Pan Am.”
“Joe Lassiter.”
“Older,” Lassiter said. “Ten pounds heavier. Not much wiser. Mike, I never really thanked you for covering up for me that time. Above and beyond the call of duty and what have you. Of course, they canned me anyway, but it wasn’t your fault. I’ll buy you a drink when we get in.”
“Sure.”
“And if there’s anything I can do—”
“I’m traveling for pleasure,” Shayne told him. “Did you happen to notice the blonde halfway up the aisle?”
“Did I? Mike, I have my eyes checked every year to get the license renewed. There’s nothing wrong with my vision. I did notice her, yes. And I’m sorry to hear she’s not traveling by herself.” He turned to George. “Don’t let that face of his fool you—he’s not trying to hijack the airplane. See you, Mike.”
He walked off toward the cockpit. George stayed where he was, undecided, until Shayne said sharply, “You’ll hear about it later. I like to play one-on-one.”
When he was gone, Naomi said quietly, “Are you a policeman?”
“A private detective. That gives me some leeway.”
“Mike Shayne,” she said. “Yes. I’ve seen your name in the papers. You said something about a percentage. A percentage of what?”
Shayne said sardonically, “Of whatever you’re carrying. I don’t look on smuggling as such a terrible crime. It’s in the same class as padding expense accounts. I do that. So does everybody. I’ve been known to accept an informer’s fee, but I never like the idea. Ten percent isn’t much when you think of the haggling you have to go through to get it. If you do it too often, you lose friends. I really ought to hit you for fifteen but the hell with it—ten percent of the U.S. price in dollars. For that I’ll throw in some service.”
“What do you mean by service?”
“Don’t you realize that this is more or less in the public domain by now? Somebody did some talking. I may not be the only one who’s heard about it, and that means you could have trouble making delivery. I’ll help.”
“Very generous.”
“Not at all,” Shayne said wolfishly. “You’ll be paying for it in dollars.”
She took off her glasses, and immediately looked more feminine. She had a clean-lined dancer’s body. She tapped her clipboard with the rim of her glasses.
“What sort of trouble do you anticipate, Mr. Shayne?”
“Shooting,” he said briefly.
Her eyes came to his face and jumped away. “You know your informant may have been talking nonsense?”
Shayne shrugged. “Then I’ll have a two-week vacation. I can use a little time off. Of course, I’ll have to call in the customs people to shake down the plane.”
The pilot’s voice boomed out of the loudspeakers. They would be over the St. Albans landing field in five minutes. Landing conditions were excellent. The seat-belt and no-smoking signs went on.
Naomi put on her glasses. “It was naïve of me to try to draw you out. I don’t seem to have gained anything by it. But I’m in charge of this tour, and I want everything to run smoothly. You’ve already alarmed us all by dropping your gun. Please keep it out of sight. As for these hints about smuggling—”
She looked at him narrowly. “You can go to hell! I’m sorry, but the situation seems to call for a little profanity. I’ve heard about people who smuggle cars and appliances into South America, but I truly doubt if we have a single refrigerator or washing machine aboard. This whole thing has the earmarks of a practical joke.”
Shayne laughed.
“I know we’re probably a little square, in your terms,” she went on. “Twenty countries in fifteen days—I’m well aware that it’s preposterous. How much can we see in fifteen days? But look at it from the other side for a minute. Most of the people on the tour have only a two-week vacation, and they may never have another chance to see any of South America. We give them their money’s worth. They end up with a great deal of exposed film and some insight into the immensity and the variety of the continent. So don’t try to sharpen your claws on us any more, Mr. Shayne. Let us enjoy ourselves in our own way.”
“You do a good job, baby,” Shayne assured her. “Talk it over with George. I’ll keep the offer open till tomorrow morning.”
The plane was being steered into its berthing slot. Shayne unfastened his belt and started up the aisle. From Naomi’s clipboard he had learned that the leathery man sitting alone was listed as J. Moss.
“I think I know you,” he said, stopping. “Your name wouldn’t be Moss, would it?”
“On the nose,” the man said calmly. He held out his hand. “I’ve got a lousy memory for faces, so you’ll have to excuse me.”
“Mike Shayne, from Miami. This is all beginning to close in on me. My girl wants to go sightseeing, but I plan to head for the nearest bar. Somehow you don’t look like somebody who’s interested in churches. If you feel like joining me in sampling some of that local rum—”
“Maybe later,” Moss said. “My company’s put me in charge of South American sales, and I’m supposed to get the feel of the territory. Crazy idea, but I do what they tell me.”
“What do you sell?”
“Vacuum cleaners,” Moss said readily, in a way that showed he didn’t care whether Shayne believed the story or not. “And how many people are there in Latin America who can afford even our stripped-down model? Ask me a year from now and I may be able to tell you.”
He laughed at Shayne’s skeptical look. “All right—who am I kidding? That’s what I’m supposed to say if anybody asks me. The travel agency wants to borrow some money from the bank I work for, and I’m taking a look at their operation. It’s all supposed to be very hush-hush, a lot of crap in my opinion. They probably have an identification on me by now, but don’t tell anybody.”
He laughed again.
As Shayne went on, a woman passenger exploded into the aisle in front of him, stamping her foot.
“Cramp,” she gasped, her face contorted.
She hopped up and down in agony. After a moment she leaned down tentatively and started massaging her calf. Then the cramp returned and she was dancing again.
“Wouldn’t you know?” She looked up at Shayne, towering above her. “If I try to reach it, it starts again. Would you be willing to—”
Beyond, Shayne saw Christa regarding him with amusement. Without the cramp in her leg, the woman would have been impossible to tell from the other unattached ladies in the group. She was pushing forty, with brownish hair pulled back in a knot. She had a plain, earnest face, with a broad mouth and a heavy jaw. She was hung with photographic equipment.
“Push your heel down,” Shayne said. “Put your weight on it.”
She screwed up her mouth. “It—doesn’t seem to help.”
Shayne squatted on his heels and gripped her chunky left calf in both
hands. She was wearing black net stockings. To his surprise, he found the leg smooth and unknotted.
She was squeezing his shoulder hard. Leaning down over him, she whispered fiercely, “Something to tell you. Important. Important! Arrange something.”
Her camera, swinging, banged the back of his head. Aloud, she exclaimed, “That’s better! Lovely. Knead it like that. You’ve got it. Now just a brief second more.”
When Shayne straightened, she took a trial step. “Vanquished! You have wonderful hands.”
“Feel free to call on me at any time.”
“Watch out—maybe I will! No, seriously—it comes on when I sit too long in a certain position. Thanks so much. My name’s Mary Ocain.”
Shayne introduced himself and went on. Christa gave him a quizzical look.
“Doctor, my leg is starting to stiffen up. Do you think you could—”
“In public?”
“No, on second thought I think I can wait.”
Shayne lowered his voice. “Do you know her?”
Christa shrugged slightly. “She had me take a picture of her looking up at the nose of the airplane. She’s nobody, as far as I know—a schoolteacher.”
CHAPTER 7
Shayne and Christa conferred briefly in the room they were given in the big new St. Albans Hilton. Alone, Christa was curt and businesslike, with none of the playfulness she had displayed on the plane. He went back to the lobby to put in a call to Tim Rourke in Miami, using a public phone so it wouldn’t go through the switchboard.
“You’re hot, as usual, Mike,” Rourke told him. “People saw you at the airport. You may remember I thought it would be a good idea to wear a beard. Dark glasses aren’t enough.”
“Do they know what plane I took?”
“Not yet. Painter’s been pestering me, as you can imagine. I told him you said something about having to leave for California on short notice, but I’m not sure he believed me.”
“What did the M. E. say about LeFevre?”
“He died from a half dozen raps with the barrel of a pistol. No surprises. And he was doped to the eyes. That square of blotting paper was loaded with pure cannabis extract. That’s like marijuana concentrate, very potent, very fast-acting. It’s supposed to make you relax and hallucinate at the same time, a scary idea. I’ve cleared it with the paper, Mike, and I can fly down tonight. They’ll even pay my expenses. How’s it going so far?”
Violence Is Golden Page 4