With Intent to Kill

by George Harmon Coxe

  “Funny,” he said, his tone reminiscent and totally lacking in any concern for what he had done or what he was about to do. “I’m the guy who did you the big favor. I got him off your back for good. So what happens? You give me trouble … But it’s okay, Sanford. I guess you did me a favor at that. If the superintendent hadn’t been out to tea, you wouldn’t have come here alone. If you hadn’t told me about the lipstick on that handkerchief I might have been waiting here like a sitting duck until the cops came and put the arm on me officially. This way I’ve got a real good chance, thanks to Freddie and his idea.” He looked at Blanche Hubbard and gestured with the gun. “Come on, Blondie. Get your coat and bag. Let’s take a boat ride.”

  The sudden request brought Cushman to his feet. “Sit still honey,” he said and looked at Breck. There was no sign of weariness or disillusionment in his broad face now, and the amber eyes were hard and purposeful. “She’s not going anywhere with you.”

  “Stay put, Freddie,” Breck said and pointed the gun.

  Over by the divan Blanche Hubbard was standing. “Do what he says, Fred,” she said, and when Cushman took a determined forward step she yelled at him. “Fred!”

  “Don’t kid yourself, Freddie,” Breck said. “I don’t intend to hang. Just keep that in mind. That is a .45. It will put an awful big hole in your leg and what will it get you?”

  Cushman was still not convinced. There was somehow a truculent set to his jaw and a look of recklessness in his hot bright stare. When he took another small deliberate step, Laura spoke up, her voice sharp and insistent.

  “For heaven’s sake, Fred, do what he says. The man’s got nothing to lose, has he? Do you want to get us all shot?”

  Sanford approved of her outburst and admired her spunk but the demonstration did nothing to bolster his own feeling of helpless ineffectiveness. He saw that Blanche was already moving and this was not the alcoholic Sanford had seen earlier. Dried tears streaked her makeup but there was no sickness in her eyes now and somehow the puffiness had gone from her face, leaving it tight and determined.

  “Laura’s right, Fred,” she said. “Don’t start anything. Why should George want to hurt me? You’ve botched things pretty well up to now so why not do it my way for a change?”

  “You said you had some money,” Breck said, as the woman came up beside him. “How much?”

  “About thirty-five hundred dollars.”

  “Fair enough. I’ve got over ten grand in a Panama bank. What I have ashore at the Ft. James can stay there … Let’s have the keys, Freddie. For both boats. Toss them over.”

  Slowly and with great reluctance, watching Blanche now, Cushman put his hand into his pocket and for the first time since he had seen the gun Sanford began to get scared. He felt certain now that Breck, with nothing more to lose, would use that .45 if he had to. He did not think Breck would deliberately hurt Blanche. The chances were that if the detective could reach some Guatemalan port safely the woman might be all right but he could not forget the hundreds of cays of the barrier reef that stretched so treacherously toward the southern border. Even a good chart reader would have trouble and if Breck got hung up on some cay he might become desperate enough to do anything …

  He watched Cushman toss the boat keys, saw Breck field them neatly. He thought: Where the hell is that police launch with Kirby and Larkin? He was not sure how much the police could do now that Breck had a .45 and the girl as a hostage, but some sort of help was needed and he hoped to delay the detective’s departure by getting him to talk a little more.

  “I guess you knew what Hubbard was trying to do last night, didn’t you?” he said.

  “You mean when he left the hotel in the outboard around a quarter of ten?” Breck said.

  “Yes.”

  “If you mean about that frogman’s suit routine, no.” Breck glanced at the keys in his hand and then, as though measuring distances, surveyed those in front of him. “I’ll tell you how it was,” he said. “Yesterday afternoon he gave me an order. He’d already told me how he was going to ruin me, you understand, but he still seemed to think he was going to get away with it. He told me to get down to your ketch sometime in the early evening and fix the lock on the companionway door. Not smash it but just tamper with it enough so that the lock wouldn’t work. Then last night he tells Pete and me to keep you away from the boat until ten-thirty.”

  He gestured with the gun. “Hell, it was an invitation to kill. Any dope could figure out that he planned to come back from the houseboat to the ketch sometime before ten-thirty and wait for you. I didn’t know about the frogman’s suit. If I thought about it at all I guess I figured he might use the dinghy. I didn’t know where you’d disappeared to but I decided to take a walk down to your boat anyway.”

  He grunted softly and said: “There was nothing to it. I was waiting in the main cabin when I heard him climb aboard. Those suits are okay in the water but ashore they’re not too easy to move around in. He came clumping into the cabin and I’d been in the dark long enough so I could see pretty good with what little light came in through the ports. He had a knife dangling from his wrist on an elastic cord. I grabbed it before he knew what was happening and I used it.

  “He went down without a word and I made sure he was dead,” he said. “I could tell then by the feel of it that I had some blood on my hand so I got out the handkerchief. I was still standing there when I heard something bump up against the side of the ketch and then Freddie called out and I knew what must have happened and what he had in mind.” He glanced at Cushman, the thin mouth still twisted. “You were lucky, Freddie. If it hadn’t been for that little forward cabin you’d have got it too.”

  He looked back at Sanford and said: “I stepped into that cabin and slid the door almost shut. Freddie struck his match and I watched him, and waited to see if I was going to have to use the knife again. When he got the hell out of there I felt a lot better. I was afraid to stick that bloody handkerchief in my pocket and I knew there were no initials or laundry marks or any way it could be traced to me—I never even thought about lipstick—so I tucked it under the mattress to get rid of it. I figured if the cops tied you in and gave you trouble it would serve you right for blowing the whistle on me to Hubbard. If not, it didn’t matter. I still had the knife. I was going to throw it over the side—”

  “And then you saw Pierce,” Sanford said.

  “I’d just stepped up out of the cockpit,” Breck said. “He was coming along the seawall and not more than twenty or twenty-five feet away. And I thought: Jesus, George, if you don’t take care of him right now they’ll hang you.” He hesitated and took time to wet his lips and swallow visibly. He gave a tiny shake of his head, as though trying to dismiss the memory of what had happened then.

  “I still had the knife, and I put it behind me and waited for him. I didn’t have any choice then and, lucky for me, he didn’t suspect anything. I was dressed okay and he knew I wasn’t a prowler and I said I had been looking for you but decided you weren’t aboard the ketch. He never knew what happened,” he said. “When he started to sag I stepped behind him and caught him under the arms. I pulled him into that yard and covered him with that old skiff so it would take a while before they found him. I chucked the knife in the river and started back for the hotel. Hell I don’t think I was gone more than ten minutes, if that.”

  He cleared his throat and then, as though realizing that he had been wasting time, he took Blanche by the arm and started to go back toward the doorway.

  “Let’s go, Blondie,” he said. “Just do what you’re told and you’ll be okay … Pete,” he said to Janovic. “Stick your head out that window and yell for the boatman, whatever his name is.”

  He stopped at the edge of the doorway as Janovic yelled for Tom Silva. “Here’s what we do,” he said, his tone cold, hard, and merciless now. “We file out nice and easy, one at a time. When you get out on deck you face the water and put your hands on the rail where I can see them. You first, Sanfor
d.”

  Sanford obeyed and the doorway was wide enough so that at no time was he close enough to make a grab for the gun. Aldington followed him, with Laura Maynard behind him and Cushman and Janovic bringing up the rear.

  They lined up at the rail, hands on top of it, obediently because they were afraid for the woman. The sun, round and deepening in color as it lost its heat, was well down over the flat land to the westward, and in less than an hour darkness would start creeping over the sea. They remained that way, their shadows long and thin, as Tom Silva came hurrying around one corner of the superstructure and stopped abruptly when Breck showed him the gun.

  “You got a family?”

  “Yes sir,” Silva said, his dark eyes suddenly wide and worried.

  “You want to sleep home tonight?”

  Silva nodded.

  “Then do exactly what I say. You understand?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Okay. The first thing, you go down to that outboard, take out the ignition key, and throw it over the side.” Breck waved the gun again. “I’m pretty handy with this thing, so watch yourself.”

  From where he stood Sanford could see the boatman pull the runabout over to the boarding ladder. He watched him step down, move aft, and remove the key. He saw the splash as it hit the water and when Silva came back Breck handed him the keys for one of the sport fishermen.

  “This is for the Rex I,” he said. “I understand the tanks are topped.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “With provisions and plenty of water aboard?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Here’s what you do,” Breck said and started to back toward the corner of the deck, still holding one of Blanche Hubbard’s arms and the automatic steady in his hand. “You start both motors. Then you stand by to help Blondie aboard.”

  He watched the boatman step down and move forward to the main instrument panel. Silva inserted the key, a starter growled, and one engine exploded to life, its power manifest in the full-throated sound that came from the exhaust pipe. It accelerated slightly, then idled rhythmically while Silva started the second motor. When Breck was satisfied, he backed to the edge of the deck by the boarding ladder and spoke to Blanche.

  “Behave, and nobody gets hurt. Just sit in the cockpit where I can see you.” He waited until Silva had helped her aboard and she was seated with the overnight case beside her. He motioned the man off the cruiser and told him to leave the stern line on and remove the others. All this time he had been keeping one eye on those at the rail and now he gave his final order.

  “Just keep those hands where I can see them and Blondie will be okay,” he said and started to back down the boarding ladder.

  It was no more than three feet or so to the narrow stern deck of the cruiser and at no time was Breck’s face or the gun out of sight. He knelt to slip the line from a stern cleat and gave a small push. He went forward to the wheel, still watching those at the rail but pointing the gun at Blanche now. He advanced the throttle slightly until he was well clear and then, leaving the main instrument panel and apparently believing that the added height would give him a better estimate of any shoal waters he might encounter, he climbed the ladder to the conning wheel. He moved both throttles on the dual controls and the Rex 1 sat her stern a little deeper as her bow lifted and the engines quickened the throbbing sounds in the exhaust pipes.

  Seconds later Breck was giving his attention to his helmsmanship as he completed his turn and pointed the bow to the east. Sanford was still staring at the boat, his guilt pressing heavily upon him as he wondered what he could have done to prevent this. Next to him the blond Janovic was cursing softly, and between the profane phrases he was speaking in the same furious monotone.

  “Never make it … I’ve been looking at some of the charts … A million cays and reefs between here and Guatemala. It’ll be dark in an hour and if Breck tears the bottom out of that boat …”

  He did not finish the sentence because just then some movement beyond Janovic caught Sanford’s eye and he saw it was Fred Cushman. He had not seen the man leave the rail but he understood that he must have moved to the gun cabinet and back with uncommon speed because he had a high-powered, bolt-action rifle in his hands and now, as he threw it to his shoulder and braced a hip against the rail, Sanford saw the telescopic sight as the barrel swung down.

  What Sanford did then was instinctive and had no basis in conscious thought He did not consider the odds or the motivation or possible consequences. The cruiser, straightening out at perhaps half throttle, was moving about fifteen knots, sixty yards or so away, and Cushman was going to shoot, and something told Sanford he should be stopped. Yet even as he turned, Janovic’s football training once again asserted itself.

  Sanford yelled: “Cushman!” and right then a shoulder blocked him off balance. Before he could recover Janovic had him in an arm tackle, holding him in his tracks, and a voice in his ear said: “Let him alone. Breck’s a killer and he’s got Freddie’s girl. I just hope to God he can shoot that thing.”

  The rifle cracked even as Janovic spoke. Just one flat and deadly sound. Sanford did not see the bullet strike and when he first looked seaward he thought Cushman had missed. For a second longer the cruiser stayed on course; then Breck started to topple from his high seat A hand pulled the wheel to swing the bow shoreward and a limp and boneless body went over sideways, turning in the air in a lazy arc before crashing out of sight on the deck below.

  The voice in his ear said: “Bull’s-eye,” as Janovic released his grip but it was Tom Silva who made the first constructive move. The boatman had not been missed but he had been busy. From some place well known to him he found a battery-operated, electronic megaphone, and now he swung it to his mouth, speaking only one word but repeating it with rising emphasis.

  “Steer! … Steer! … Steer!—”

  The Rex I, a hundred and fifty yards away now, was heading toward the rocks at the lighthouse point. Blanche Hubbard, on her feet, her palms pressed to the side of her face was staring at the deck. Shock or horror held her statuelike for what seemed like interminable seconds until Silva’s voice, magnified and metallic as though from some great echo chamber, finally penetrated her consciousness. She wheeled to look back at the houseboat, stared, snatched her hands from her face. She darted forward, gave a twist to the wheel that put the starboard rail down as the bow began to swing back toward open water.

  Although each tiny detail was clear-cut and unforgettable in Sanford’s mind the entire action had taken no more than ten or fifteen seconds. It took him that long to pull himself together and realize that there were other things to be done. He could hear Cushman being sick over in the corner of the railing but his eyes were on the cruiser as he ran to Silva’s side and reached for the megaphone.

  “Get the dinghy!” he said, “I’ll take over here … Blanche!”

  He could not tell whether she heard him or not because the bow was still up and heading this way. He spoke again, his voice sounding like something from outer space as the electronic device activated it.

  “Look at the instrument panel!” he yelled. “Find the keys! Wave your hand if you hear me.”

  A hand fluttered almost immediately at one side of the wheelhouse and he called again.

  “When I yell, turn off the ignition.”

  The cruiser was closing steadily and he waited a second or two, trying to judge how much weight had been built up, aware that there would be no collision if Blanche stayed on course. But it would be close, and when the cruiser was about fifty yards off he yelled again. Almost at once the steady beat of the twin engines cut out into silence. The bow came quickly down and the bow wave flattened. By the time the hull was finally dead in the water and almost motionless in the flat sea, Silva was putting the dinghy skillfully alongside the cockpit rail.

  Sanford put the megaphone down. He realized he was holding his breath and let it out noisily. The muscles felt stiff in his legs and back, and as Laura Maynard came up
beside him and squeezed his arm, reaction hit him and he began to tremble. He could feel her hands tighten above bis elbow and she moved her body close, not saying anything, just holding him.

  A moment later the cruiser’s engines came to life again and Silva began to ease the boat toward the ladder. Cushman hurried along the deck with Janovic and Aldington at his heels. Then Laura was pointing. She said “Look,” and Sanford’s eyes moved as directed just as the squat and sturdy police launch poked its nose past the lighthouse and began to turn.

  They watched it for a silent second or two until the girl sighed and said: “What will they do to Fred?”

  “I don’t know,” Sanford said when he had cleared his throat. “Breck may not be dead. Even if he is they probably won’t be too tough considering the circumstances. Breck was a killer. If it hadn’t been for Cushman he could have made it all the way.”

  “We don’t have to wait here, do we?” She gave his arm a final squeeze and released it. “I mean there’ll be plenty of questions later I imagine. I could use a drink.” She glanced up and her green eyes smiled. “I have an idea you could too.”

  For the first time since they had come aboard Sanford found he could grin back at her. “Yeah,” he said as they started for the doorway. To himself he added: What a girl! This time don’t let her get away.

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