Brett Halliday

Violence Is Golden

CHAPTER 1

Like everybody else, Michael Shayne was on his feet yelling. He had five hundred dollars on the local team. With the score tied and three minutes left in the second quarter, the Dolphin quarterback slipped between two tacklers, scrambled out of the grasp of another, waited, and finally found an open receiver. The man had the defense beaten by a step, and scored.

Sitting beside Shayne, Tim Rourke yelled something that was lost in the din. A moment later the kick was good.

“Mike, how do you do it?” Rourke cried happily as the noise began to subside. “This guy, no kidding,” he said to the pretty girl between them. “He hasn’t lost a football bet all year.”

They sat down, and Rourke, who was emphatically off duty as a Miami News reporter, produced a nest of plastic cups and a pint flask from a hamper between his feet. “After all that exercise, we deserve a drink.”

“Mike Shayne, yes?” a voice said politely. “The detective?”

They had seats on the forty-yard line, a dozen rows back. Shayne, on the aisle, looked up.

A small Japanese, wearing a flowered shirt and holding an elongated camera, was smiling down at him.

“Yeah, I’m Shayne,” the detective said, taking the cognac Rourke had poured him.

“I would like to shoot your picture, OK? The most famous American private eye, at the great American spectacle, with a beautiful blonde lady. Japanese people so much interested in latest adventures of Mike Shayne.”

Still smiling mechanically, he went down a step and raised the strange camera.

Rourke shouted, “Mike, watch out!”

The photographer’s smile tightened. Rourke flung himself across Shayne’s date and aimed an awkward punch at his big friend’s red head. Shayne recoiled instinctively, and as he pulled down and away he heard a small, crisp pop, a noise he had heard more times than he liked to remember. He knew, without actually taking time to shape the thought, that he was being shot at by a medium-caliber gun equipped with a silencer. And then Rourke’s other hand, coming up, dashed the cognac into Shayne’s face. Shayne twisted sideward and left his seat in a hard, flat dive. Behind him, he heard one of the girls cry out.

Shayne’s fingers closed on the photographer’s shirt. The cloth ripped and the smaller man jumped away, trying to get the camera into position for another shot.

Shayne’s hip banged painfully against the edge of a concrete step. He rolled. In addition to the power packed into his rangy frame, he had a gymnast’s grace and economy of motion. Again he hurled himself downward, as though diving into water. This time he fastened on flesh.

Rourke yelled, “Another one behind you, Mike!”

The Japanese had broken Shayne’s fall. Shayne held on and kept rolling. The narrowness of the aisle stopped him. Reversing, he brought the Japanese to his feet. Another man with the same kind of doctored camera was a few steps above them, a Japanese like his companion but larger and more powerfully built, as tall as Shayne himself. He was crouching, holding the camera to his eye as though trying to photograph the action. The smaller Japanese was attempting to wriggle out of Shayne’s hands, to give his companion a clear shot. Shayne hesitated only an instant. He shifted his grip and ran the wiry Japanese back up the aisle and thrust him hard against the bigger man, who went down in surprise. Then Shayne whirled, raced down the remaining steps, touched the railing lightly, and vaulted over.

Momentum carried him across the grass toward the playing field. After three steps, he cut abruptly toward the fifty-yard line. Glancing back, he saw the larger of the two gunmen, one leg over the rail, trying to pick up Shayne in his sights. An instant later Shayne was among the officials on the sidelines.

The Miami quarterback, on the field, was making the same kind of calculation as Shayne, on the sidelines. The big Japanese dropped over the railing and came after Shayne in a crouching run, keeping close to the stands. Shayne had several options. One was to dash toward the Dolphin bench, assuming that the hidden gun was inaccurate at any distance over a few yards. One of the defensive tackles, six feet seven inches, two hundred sixty-five pounds, was a friend of Shayne’s. With this man and the other members of the front four as escort, Shayne could scare the Japanese back into the stands. But he didn’t want to do it that way. He wanted to find out who had ordered this shooting, and why.

A Dolphin pass fell incomplete. As the ball was brought back, Shayne swung sharply and set out across the playing field. One of the men on the bench yelled at him. He waved and kept going. The defensive linebackers, lumbering back into position, gave Shayne looks of surprise.

“What the hell’s this, Jack?” one of them demanded.

Shayne had reached the first hash mark by the time the referee spotted him. Two officials started toward him from the end zone, and Shayne broke into a hard run, angling away toward the line of scrimmage. He veered, a conspicuous, almost puny figure amid the helmets and facebars and padded uniforms. He heard a whistle.

Running at top speed, he broke through the officials before they could converge in front of him. He stepped out of bounds and straight-armed an assistant coach. A press photographer fell out of his way. Shayne faked toward the ground-level ramp leading into the locker rooms. Swiveling, he swung over into the field boxes, reached the aisle without stepping on anybody, and took the steps two at a time.

An usher in a bright striped blazer planted himself at the top of the aisle, but thought better of it after a look at Shayne’s face. Play resumed. As Shayne went out through the lower-tier exit, he heard a full-throated roar, the roar of a partisan crowd witnessing a breakaway run.

Seeing a cop ahead, he plunged into a men’s room. He was alone there except for another usher, who was using the urinal. Shayne showed him his private detective’s license.

“Rent me that blazer for five minutes for fifty bucks.”

The usher, a corpulent, red-faced youth, stared at Shayne. The detective took a fifty out of his wallet.

“I’m following a guy who held up a bank. I want to get next to him without being spotted. Fifty bucks for five minutes.”

He snapped his fingers impatiently.

“I guess it might be all right,” the youth said uncertainly, and took the bill out of Shayne’s hand before removing his blazer and straw hat.

The blazer fitted, but the hat was two sizes too small. Shayne told the boy to meet him at Gate One in five minutes, and went out. The cop he had seen was walking toward him, but Shayne was now invisible in the bright clothes. He went down to ground level and out past a ticket taker wearing the same kind of striped blazer.

“You’re missing a great game,” Shayne observed.

“I’ll see the highlights on TV.”

A broad apron of concrete separated the stadium from a sea of parked cars. Shayne tipped the tight hat over his forehead and started cautiously around the big horseshoe. He heard a groan from the crowd; someone had dropped a pass or been caught in the meat grinder. There were seventy-five thousand people within shouting distance, but Shayne and the two armed Japanese were probably the only ticket holders who were interested in anything at that moment besides football. For that reason they would be easy to see.

A long chartered bus, probably the one that had brought the visiting players from their hotel, was parked in front of a blind exit. Shayne left the protection of the curving concrete and crossed the sun-drenched pavement.

The bus was empty; the driver, too, was inside watching the game. Leaving the door open, Shayne swung behind the wheel and flicked the ignition switch, seeing the ampere needle flicker and a red light jump up on the instrument panel.

One of the reasons for Shayne’s success over the years was that he could think like a criminal when necessary. The gunmen, having watched Shayne dash across the field, would reason that his next move, before returning to his own side of the bowl, would be to pick up the gun which, as a private detective, he would undoubtedly be carrying in his car. Shayne’s car was parked in a distant lot, and he didn’t want to be caught in the open lanes without a weapon. In a moment more, if his hunch was correct, one of the Japanese would appear around the curve, his camera ready, watching the gates.

Shayne was low in the front seat. Waiting, he felt absently in his shirt pocket for cigarettes. He had lost them during the clash with the Japanese. He found a crumpled package in the pocket of the blazer, with one cigarette in it. Before he could light it, the smaller Japanese passed from the rear, close to the wall.

Shayne gauged the distance. He could make it in two bounds, closing with the Japanese before he could bring up his camera. He checked the rearview mirror. No one was in sight.

At that moment something made the Japanese look around. Shayne tipped his head, to screen the upper part of his face with the hat brim. The Japanese looked away, then back. He took a step toward the bus.

Shayne hit the starter and the gas at the same moment and jammed the stick down into low. The motor roared. The inner wheel jumped the low curb as the Japanese raised his camera.

Shayne threw himself sideward. A bullet went through the windshield, leaving a starred hole. There was another great, sustained howl from the crowd inside the stadium. Shayne shifted feet. The gas pedal was all the way down, and he was steering with his left hand, braced for the crash. The Japanese fired again, then once more.

Then the bus hit him, lifted him, and smashed him back against the concrete.

CHAPTER 2

Will Gentry rubbed his nose with his thumb and forefinger as he studied his friend across the desk. Gentry, Miami Chief of Police, was a tough, honest, courageous cop whose face had developed deep lines of weariness and disillusionment as a result of several decades in an appointive office in a volatile town. He knew Shayne’s methods. He had seen them succeed often enough so he was willing to cooperate with the private detective whenever it was politically possible.

“All right, Mike. If that’s the way you want to play it.”

“I’m not concealing a thing, Will,” Shayne said flatly. “I really didn’t know those guys. I don’t know why they wanted to kill me. You know as much about it as I do.”

“You don’t even have the faintest inkling, the faintest shadow of an idea, why anybody would send a couple of professional gunmen after you?”

Shayne shrugged. “I’ve stepped on a few toes. There are people around who wouldn’t mind reading my obituary. I’m adjusted to the idea-it goes with the job.”

“I take it you aren’t asking for police protection.”

“The same amount you give to ordinary citizens.” He added more seriously, “Hell, Will-you can’t give me twenty-four-hour coverage for more than a few days. You don’t have that many men to spare. I’ll have to handle it my own way.”

Gentry sighed. “And the odds are you’ll come out smelling of roses. Of course, I could put a man on you whether you like it or not, but I won’t if you’re dead set against it. To be realistic,” he added, “you generally manage to lose a tail.”

“Because I know them so well.”

“One more minute, Mike,” Gentry said as Shayne stubbed out his cigarette. “I don’t like to hear about guns going off at the Orange Bowl during a big game-it’s bad news for the tourist business. It was a pretty good effort. The guy said he wanted to take your picture, and what could you do about it, short of making a boor of yourself by smashing his equipment? But you wouldn’t like it. You wouldn’t look at the camera. Luckily for you, Rourke spotted it in time and threw his hand in front of your face, getting his wrist smashed with a thirty-two caliber slug. You came very damn close to taking that slug between the eyes.”

“I remember what happened.”

“OK-you got one of them. You didn’t have anything else to hit him with, so you hit him with a fifty-four-passenger bus. Fine. And now you’re going to stand around with your hands in your pockets until they try again, and hope you’ll be able to counter with something equally violent and unpleasant and public. Two or three more times, and maybe they’ll get the message.”

“That’s the way it has to be, Will.”

“Speaking as a friend now, not Chief of Police. It may work. Lloyds of London might not agree with me, but I think a bookie might give you pretty good odds, say five to four. But five-to-four shots have been known to lose. If you get unlucky for a change, it won’t be any consolation to me to know that you probably want me to help carry your coffin.”

He picked up the oddly shaped Japanese camera and pressed a hidden release. The case sprang open, showing a short-barreled revolver. The muzzle fitted into a circular opening that would have been the lens aperture in a camera designed for taking pictures.

“It’s a lovely gadget,” Gentry said. “Definitely not a mass-production item. This wasn’t put together by an amateur. It was hand-tooled and manufactured as a unit. It’s a perfect assassin’s weapon, when you have to pick your man out of a crowd at close range.”

“You can get just as good results with a rusty thirty-eight from a pawnshop.”

“Usually better. But that’s not the point. They didn’t use pawnshop guns, they used these. Two Japanese, and that’s not routine either. The one you splashed on the front of the Orange Bowl had nothing in his pockets but the stub of his ticket to the Dolphins’ game. His fingerprints don’t mean anything in Washington. I’m putting out a sheet on the survivor, and if any metropolitan police department has ever had any trouble with a six-foot-one Japanese, I’ll be hearing about it. But I doubt if I will. These people were imported.”

“I don’t disagree with you,” Shayne said impatiently. “What are you leading up to?”

“The whole operation stinks of money. It’s international. It’s-I don’t know what to call it; ‘elegant’ is probably the word. So when you say you’ve made a few thousand enemies over the years and this could be any one of them, you’re not being honest with me. What was the name of the character you tangled with in New York on that narcotics theft? Adam something.”

“Adam’s his last name,” Shayne said, his voice flat and unemotional.

“You cost him some dough, as I remember. You made him look like a slob. If he’s behind this, it would explain a few things. Those Japanese were conspicuous enough so nobody would think you’d been killed in some two-bit local quarrel. Like a public announcement-don’t fool around with me or I’ll have you assassinated expensively in front of seventy-five thousand witnesses.”

“You’ve convinced me,” Shayne said sardonically. “Our next move is to bring him in and book him as a material witness.”

“Very funny. All I’m trying to do is rub your nose in the obvious. He’s a rich man, with good connections. You stick out in this town like a sore thumb.”

Shayne made a brusque gesture. “Do you have any real suggestions, or is this just talk so you won’t blame yourself if I don’t duck fast enough the next time?”

“It’s partly that,” Gentry admitted. “But if you do have anything to go on-anything at all-don’t keep it to yourself this time. Sometimes it’s an advantage to operate alone, but this isn’t one of them.”

“I don’t know a thing I haven’t told you, Will. Sure, what you say is a possibility. But I don’t even know the guy’s full name. He knows where he can find me-I don’t even know what country he lives in. Maybe that gives him an edge. And maybe not, too. He has to come to me. Don’t worry so much about me-I’ll be careful. That doesn’t mean I’m going to stay out of public places. Who won the game, incidentally?”

“Miami, thirty-four to nineteen. Mike, would you consider talking to somebody in Washington? I’m thinking about the Intelligence Unit of the Treasury.”

“Yeah,” Shayne said. “Very good idea. I spent four days up there last month. If they know anything about Adam, and I’m not sure they do, it’s classified. I didn’t have the proper clearance.”

“What the hell!” Gentry exclaimed. “You broke up that New York deal without any help from anybody. Doesn’t that qualify you-”

“I thought so,” Shayne said. “They didn’t seem to agree with me. They’ve got a jurisdiction to protect. And I guess it’s understandable. I broke a few rules.”

“Why, the bastards,” Gentry said in disgust. “I get along pretty well with the Congressman. Why don’t I see what strings I can pull?”

“Forget it. Will. I don’t belong to the club, and I do better that way.”

He stood up. Gentry remained seated, swinging from side to side in his swivel chair.

“You’re not being your usual hard-nosed self, Mike, I’m happy to see. I thought I was going to have trouble with you. I take it you’ll have no objection to talking to somebody who knows more about this Adam business than you or I do?”

“Who’s that?”

“A Frenchman named Jules LeFevre. He’s a prefect in the Paris police, on assignment to Interpol. Do you want to hear more?”

“Damn right I want to hear more. Keep talking.”

“You surprise me. I told him I thought you were just bullheaded enough to want to handle this by yourself.”

Shayne was scraping his chin with his thumbnail. “How much do you know about him?”

“I never saw him before today. But I had an idea you might be asking, so I called Paris. He’s who he says he is. I’m the cop on the beat and he had to check in with me, but he didn’t really tell me what he was doing so far from home.” He stood up and came around the desk. “When you find out, tell me, Mike. You’re a local responsibility. He’s at the Sans Souci, on the Beach.” He hesitated. “Better take a gun with you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m probably all wrong,” Gentry said slowly. “But he gave me the impression he wasn’t too serious. That’s the worst thing I can say about a cop. It’s a game with him, and people like that take the wrong kind of chances. Don’t hold me to that. As I keep telling you. I’m a meat-and-potatoes man. I know you’ve got a prejudice against carrying a gun-”

“Especially on the Beach.”

“Make an exception this time, will you, Mike?”

The private detective shrugged. “If you say so, Will.”

CHAPTER 3

Jules LeFevre had only one arm. His empty coat sleeve was pinned to his shoulder. He gave Shayne a reverse handshake with his left hand and drew him into the room.

“So you survived. Without a scratch. My heart jumped when I heard about it, I can tell you. What will you drink? I have Scotch and cognac, or we can order from the hotel bar.”

“Cognac.”

Shayne watched him pour the drinks deftly with his single hand. He was in his mid-fifties, with a sharp-featured face, a neat, narrow mustache, waxed at the points, thinning black hair which he combed across. His suit was sharply pressed, with a decoration in the buttonhole of the jacket. He wore narrow pointed shoes, a faint but unmistakable perfume. He chatted rapidly as he handed Shayne a snifter half full of brandy. His pronunciation was good, but he ran the words together in short, fast takes.

“I’m afraid there’s no doubt who thought up those devilish cameras, eh?” he said brightly, his sharp little eyes probing Shayne’s face. “It’s an Adam idea. Brilliant, but also definitely perverted. Why not simply come up to you on the street with an ordinary gun? Bang bang. You fall to the sidewalk. One more shot in the brain to make sure you are dead. But the commonplace is never good enough for Adam. The world must applaud his cleverness. And you knew, he was clever enough this afternoon so failure was almost as good as success. People will think you only escaped because the goddess of luck wrapped her cloak around you. I think so myself. Very well, Michael Shayne. You would like to take him, would you not?”

“Yeah,” Shayne said briefly. “Gentry said you have an idea about how to do it.”

The Frenchman took a long drink of straight Scotch. “I have an excellent idea. Why do you think this attempt was made today, not a week from today, or a month from today? He has an operation which he wishes to work through Miami. He will feel more confidence if you are lying in the morgue with a shattered skull.”

“What kind of operation?”

“Gold. Gold smuggling. And because it is Adam, of course, it is complex and ingenious. Do you know much about the illegal traffic in gold?”

“I see headlines about the gold drain. Big political policy stuff. As for the illegal traffic, it’s not something I think about very much.”

“It is one of my specialties. Adam is another. The two subjects overlap-for the last five years he has financed about a third of the world’s illegal gold movements, by our calculations. The profits, my dear Shayne, the profits have been glorious.”

He swallowed more Scotch. “The subject of gold makes me thirsty, for some peculiar reason. After I have finished my small lecture, perhaps you will show me what Miami Beach has to offer in the way of after-dark entertainment. I have a theory, unhappily not shared by the academic sociologists, that the quality of a given civilization can best be expressed in terms of its striptease. I don’t know if you agree with me. Have you dined?”

“Not yet.”

“Then perhaps you will dine with me. Meanwhile, take some pate or caviar. The pate is excellent, I recommend it. Now back to the business.” He pointed up the ends of his mustache. “The ordinary citizen, of course, cannot buy gold in the United States, but in certain European countries, Switzerland is a good example because of the anonymity of the banking system, if you happen to have fourteen thousand dollars in cash, a gold dealer will be delighted to sell you a bar weighing four hundred ounces. And in certain Asian countries that same bar is worth twenty-eight thousand dollars, which presents an overwhelming temptation to people who like a hundred-percent profit on turnover. Dowries in India and Pakistan are computed in gold. The currencies there are weak. Officials are bribable. And so the trade flourishes.”

His white, even teeth bit into a cracker.

“The typical route, we all know it, is from Europe to banks in the Middle East, and from there-all so far perfectly legal-to the ancient fishing villages on the Red Sea, on the Gulf of Aden, on the Persian Gulf. A Persian Gulf sheikhdom in a year’s time will import, legally, gold bullion amounting to some fifty million dollars. According to officially published records, it will export hardly a sou. Among the fishing dhows in the harbor, you see, there are three or four secretly equipped with diesel engines. Gold is loaded on these vessels in the dark of the moon for a quick run to the coast of Asia, where it is unloaded in shoal water at specified points, to be picked up later at the convenience of the gold merchants. Very simple. Very rewarding. I’m not sure how much you know about the role Adam plays in such undertakings?”

“Not a hell of a lot. All I’ve been told is that he provides the financing. The Treasury people don’t want to trust me with any more information.”

“At Interpol we’re a trifle more free and easy. Adam is basically an export-import banker, except that his deals are illegal and he trades in nothing but contraband. He has no formal organization in the usual sense. That makes him a hard man for the police to handle. For two years I’ve done nothing but defend against Adam. That was the most we thought we could do-make things hard for him, increase his costs, interfere with an occasional deal and keep harassing his subordinates, until eventually he himself as well as the people he needs to impress will begin to believe he’s losing his touch. We never expected to arrest him. All he has to do is stay in his exquisite Georgian house in the Mayfair district of London and we can’t touch him.”

Shayne was beginning to show his impatience with the stylish Frenchman. “Do you really want to touch him?”

“Oh, very much. I admire the man, in a way, I think about him constantly, but nothing would please me more than seeing him on trial for his life at the Old Bailey. But look at this gold thing. How do we stop it? We can’t search every fishing boat in the Arabian Sea. If the Pakistani police arrest a Karachi merchant with gold in his possession, how do we connect him with Sir Geoffrey Adam, in London?”

“Sir Geoffrey?”

“He has recently been knighted. There are too many links in the chain, you see. The Saudi sheikhdom is sovereign. The sheikh and half his subjects are profiting from the gold trade. The Damascus banks won’t let us inside the door. The Swiss numbered accounts are sacrosanct.”

“Do you mind if we get back to a place I know something about? Where does Miami come into this?”

“Fetch the bottles, will you, and I’ll tell you my scheme.” Shayne replenished the drinks while LeFevre ladled caviar onto several crackers.

“Quite decent caviar. Come, Michael, eat. Nothing like expense-account living, after all.” He downed a cracker in two swift bites and licked his fingers. “I said Adam couldn’t be touched as long as he stayed in London. But he isn’t content to stay in London. He’s a gifted businessman, an excellent psychologist, incredibly lucky. He’s perfectly capable of making a fortune in any legitimate business. So why should he choose to make his money illegally? The illegality itself, the danger, must be what attracts him. The legal export-import business, after all-you import cocoa and export needles. You deal in arbitrage or foreign exchange. You borrow money at six and lend it at six and a half. You buy sterling at two thirty-eight, turn it into francs, then into lira, back into sterling at two thirty-nine. Predictable. Boring. Compare it to false-bottom holds on an Arabian dhow, dawn unloadings on the coast of India, beaten-gold necklaces for a Hindu girl’s dowry-”

“Miami,” Shayne growled.

The Frenchman drank deeply. “I’m quite sure he was in the crowd at the football game this afternoon, probably in your section.”

Shayne lifted his cognac with a steady hand. “What makes you think so?”

“Because at last I’m beginning to know him. I’m not yet in a position to write his biography, but whenever a new fact or a new rumor or a new lead comes along, I pop it into the file. After a time, it begins to add up. A pattern emerges.”

“Can I look at it?”

“At the dossier? Why not? I brought it for that purpose. It’s in the hotel safe. I’ll show it to you when we return after wallowing in the fleshpots. At the moment the gold markets are chaotic. The Persian Gulf route has been interrupted because of political trouble in the Middle East, coups and countercoups and threats of war. Adam himself, I understand, suffered a bad loss some three months ago, when one of his dhows went down in a storm. Meanwhile, in India and Pakistan, people are clamoring for gold and the price is rising. There has been a series of gold thefts in American airports-”

Shayne made a quick movement. “Was Adam behind those?”

“We think not. But they took place. Stolen gold bars to a value of perhaps one million dollars has been offered for sale. Our information is that people working for Adam have bought it at a price of seventeen dollars an ounce. It can be resold in India at eighty, eighty-five. The only problem is to get it there. We are quite sure that this gold is at present in this city.”

Shayne waited while LeFevre drank.

“In September,” the Frenchman went on with mounting excitement, “through agents working for a dummy corporation, he purchased a Miami travel agency, Three-Seas Travel, a perfect cover, with correspondents and offices in all parts of the world. Three-Seas has a jet tour of South America leaving Miami International at eight o’clock tomorrow morning, using a rented DC-8 fanjet, and we have reason to believe that the gold will be on it.”

“A million bucks’ worth. That’s a lot of gold.”

“In bulk, not so much. It would weigh out at about six hundred pounds. The travel-agency people control the baggage. Dummy suitcases can be mixed with the real ones. I’m suggesting that what will happen is that at one of the stopovers, Brazil would be my guess, where the officials are known for their poverty and their approachability, the gold will be unloaded and transshipped aboard a tramp freighter, which will then head straight for Asia.” He swallowed more caviar. “I hope I can persuade you to join the group of tourists on that plane.”

“And then what?”

“Keep your eyes open and do as common sense dictates.”

Shayne frowned. “I’ll have to know a lot more about it first.”

“I’ll tell you all I know, which isn’t much. We can make the seizure ourselves, without your help, by keeping close surveillance on the plane at every stop. If we’re clever, and don’t move too soon, I think we can hurt him. But it isn’t enough. Everything I know about him convinces me that he’ll be on the scene when the gold is transferred. Think of the opportunity, Michael! Tie him into this, even at second hand, and there’s a chance that we can put him out of business for good.”

“How?” Shayne said bluntly.

“You’re interested?”

“Why wouldn’t I be interested? Before you go any farther, how would you cut up the seizure fee?”

“That would be negotiable, depending on the scope of your contribution. Our original informer is demanding three percent. I don’t insist on enough hard evidence to justify an arrest. Let’s speak of possibilities. Bring in enough facts so Adam will have to write off this travel agency. Show him up publicly. Leave him with his jaw hanging open. Do that, and I’ll recommend that you get the remaining seven percent, which would bring us up to the maximum. That would be seventy thousand for you. We still have details to thrash out, but are we in agreement in principle?”

Shayne shook his head decisively and poured more cognac. “A long way from it. Will you have anybody else on the plane?”

“A very competent person, named Christa Hochberg. Of the West German police-a beautifully constructed female, if that would weigh with you, and I think it might. An Amazon, and at the same time very feminine.” He licked a globule of caviar off his lips. “To put it another way, very, very sexy and yet a crack shot with a pistol. I can say definitely that she is not known to the opposition. This all blew up in the early hours of yesterday morning. We have had no chance to do any staff work on it. Christa was available, luckily. She flew here from Lisbon. Here’s your passport.” He dropped an American passport on the table between them. “No picture as yet but that presents no problem. There are eight or ten unsold seats on the plane. We’d better collect Christa and have a conference, plan your cover story while my brain’s still working with some small degree of efficiency. She’s been reconnoitering the airport, their system of handling luggage.”

Shayne, his face thoughtful, spread a cracker with pate while he reviewed what the Frenchman had told him. LeFevre lifted his glass in a half-salute and smiled loosely. He had absorbed four ounces of Scotch in fifteen minutes and was beginning to show it.

“I know you only from the Adam dossier,” he said, “but still it seems to me that I know you very well. I have wondered whether we could ever take common action against our mutual enemy. Now to meet you at last.”

One of the reasons Shayne was still alive and healthy was that, bit by bit, as the years passed, he had developed a kind of distant-early-warning radar, and he was getting a strong set of signals now. Something was seriously wrong with the story LeFevre had told him. The Frenchman’s smile concealed a hard edge of anxiety.

“What makes you so sure Adam’s going to be there?” Shayne said.

“Because I’ve spent the last two years studying the man. That’s the good thing about Interpol. Anything that has a bearing on the subject, no matter how trivial, no matter in what country it happens, ends up in the one central file.” He spooned out more caviar and ate it greedily. “His deals are sometimes almost too clever. I think he would prefer to lose ten thousand pounds on a brilliant conception than earn five thousand on a stupid one. He likes to pull off several tricks at a time. He likes to be in on the denouement, to see the look on his adversary’s face when he realizes he’s been beaten.” He reached for his glass, nearly knocking it over. “I know things about him he may not know about himself.”

He had suddenly turned very pale. He ran his hand across his forehead and looked at Shayne with real entreaty.

“Your answer is yes.”

“It’s no,” Shayne said. “Get somebody else.”

LeFevre’s mouth opened and closed, and he swayed forward. “You know he’ll kill you unless you kill him first. You’ll never have another chance as good as this.”

“I’ve got something going for me as long as I stay in Miami.”

“I don’t understand. That thing this afternoon was very close.”

“Not close enough. I knew my way around the Orange Bowl. The Japs didn’t. That gave me a small percentage. I don’t think Adam’s going to bother waiting for the gold in South America. Why should he? He might louse up the deal by being there. The one thing I agree with you on is that he might make a point of meeting the plane if I’m on it. I don’t think you want me on that plane to break up a smuggling operation. You want to use me as bait.”

“Of course,” LeFevre said simply.

“And I took him for more than money in New York. A girl named Michele Guerin was killed. She meant something to him-they’d been living together. You know about all that if you’ve read the dossier. You know he holds it against me, and you think he might be tempted to do his own shooting. You’ll be there in force. You’ll wait till his gun is empty, close in on him, and nail him for murder. A big success for Interpol.”

“You’ve done the same thing before, set yourself up as a target-”

“Sure, sure,” Shayne said roughly. “But not unless I had at least a fifty-fifty chance. Do you think I won’t be noticed on that plane? I might as well carry a sign-‘I’m Mike Shayne. Shoot me.’ If I’m going to be surrounded, I prefer to have it happen in my own town, where I know the names of a few cops, where I know which streets are one-way. I don’t speak Spanish. I’ve never been farther south than the Caribbean.”

“Mike,” LeFevre said desperately, “you don’t seem to realize what I’m offering-a chance for an open showdown. If you don’t take it, you’ll never be able to relax, you’ll never know what direction a bullet may be coming from-”

“I’ve been shot at before,” Shayne said curtly. “I’m still in business.”

“It never occurred to me you wouldn’t jump at this chance. Perhaps if Christa-”

“You can’t have a very good file on me,” Shayne said. “I like good-looking girls. I don’t always do what they ask me to.”

LeFevre wet his lips. And then suddenly an extraordinary change came over his face. The sharp downward lines smoothed out and his eyes lost their intensity.

“Well,” he said, sitting back. “I agree, people put too much emphasis on money. As for me, I only wanted money for one reason. To make up for my lack of an arm. Women, you see-”

He fell forward to one knee. Shayne watched without moving while the whiskey glass dropped from his fingers. He tried to speak, but his head dropped forward and he sagged to the floor.

Shayne went around the table and thumbed back one of the Frenchman’s eyelids. The pupil was enormous. Shayne ran a finger through the spilled whiskey, sniffed it, and touched it to the end of his tongue. It smelled and tasted like ordinary Scotch.

Turning the Frenchman so he could get inside his coat, Shayne removed his wallet and went through it quickly. He found, among other things, several hundred dollars in cash, an obscene photograph of a man with two women, a three-pack of rolled contraceptives.

He started a rapid search of the room. A fog was gathering behind his eyes, and he knew he might not have much time. An ashtray had been emptied into a wastebasket; some of the butts were tipped with lipstick. If any of this meant anything, it would have to wait.

The door was a long distance away; the phone was nearer. Shayne picked it up, but he had already forgotten why he had wanted it. He could feel a smile spreading across his face. There was no longer any urgency about anything. He hung up slowly and dropped the phone in the wastebasket. The light in the room softened.

He didn’t quite make the bed before he fell asleep.

CHAPTER 4

Michael Shayne, face down on the hotel carpet, lost a few hours. Then he began to dream. Lights moved around him. LeFevre was stumbling aimlessly around the room, mumbling, “I want a woman.” Shayne heard a buzzer. The door opened. LeFevre’s voice: “Well. You look lovely.”

It seemed to Shayne later that someone pulled at his clothes. There were strange ugly noises in the room, quarrelling noises. He knew he should do something to stop it, but the carpet had a sticky coating, like flypaper, and he couldn’t move.

Blackness followed.

Then there were lights again. Again someone turned him over. He forced his eyes open. This time it was his friend Tim Rourke.

“Can you hear me?” Rourke said urgently. “Come on, Mike. Wake up. Move.”

Shayne attempted to speak.

“You’re making noises,” Rourke commented. “That’s an improvement. Keep trying, boy. You’ve got a long way to go before anybody can understand you.”

Shayne said something else. It trailed off and his eyes closed. Rourke shook him angrily.

“Mike, Goddamn it.” He slapped Shayne as hard as he could. “We’re going to have cops in a minute. I can’t carry you. I’m a weakling, and I only have the use of one arm.” Shayne opened his eyes again. Rourke’s right arm was in a cast extending down to his knuckles. Shayne appreciated what his friend was trying to do, but he was too tired to help. Rourke let go and came back a moment later with a glass of cognac.

“No, I better not,” he said in an undertone.

Putting the cognac down, he emptied cold water from the ice bucket over Shayne’s head.

Shayne sputtered his way up and asked Rourke what the hell he thought he was doing. The words were intelligible when they left his brain, but they came out as a meaningless babble. Each small movement of his head sent a flash of pain through his eyes. But the pain helped clear away some of the fog and numbness. His throat burned disagreeably. He still had amazingly little command of his arms and legs. He tried one thing at a time, first one hand, then the other.

“I think you may make it, Mike,” Rourke said. “And if you don’t, you’ll be in the worst jam of your life. This is Miami Beach. How would you like it if Petey Painter walked in right about now?”

Painter, Miami Beach Chief of Detectives, was an old enemy of Shayne’s. He had been trying for years, without success, to come out on top in his constant altercations with the private detective from across the bay. A circuit closed in Shayne’s fogged brain and he managed to sit up all the way.

“Give me a drink.”

“If you’re thirsty, you can have some tap water,” Rourke told him. “Let’s assume the liquor’s contaminated. You don’t pass out on the floor of a hotel room with your clothes on unless there’s something else in your glass besides cognac.”

Rourke held a glass for him and Shayne managed to drink some cold water without gagging.

“Hell,” Rourke said, “I don’t suppose the fumes will hurt you.”

He waved the brandy glass back and forth under Shayne’s nose. Shayne breathed in deeply and the vibrations in his head began to fade.

“What time is it?”

“I heard that. You’re getting better. It’s two-thirty A.M., and if you want to see why I’m advising you to get moving, look around.”

Shayne turned his head slowly. Chairs had been knocked over. An uncorked bottle of Johnny Walker lay on the floor. Continuing his slow inventory, he saw two feet in pointed shoes. LeFevre, the one-armed Frenchman, lay sprawled on his back between an overturned chair and the bed. His body was unnaturally twisted. The side of his head was bloody.

“Dead?”

“Very much so,” Rourke said.

Now it was essential for Shayne to come forward onto his hands, then to bring his knees under him and push himself erect. His body followed directions sluggishly.

“Need any help?” Rourke asked.

Shayne rocked and almost fell. A thirty-eight caliber revolver with blood and tissue on the barrel lay near the dead man’s head. Shayne blinked at Rourke.

“Caviar. Pate.”

“Caviar-are you out of your skull? What do you want with caviar at a time like this?”

The room whirled like a chuck-a-luck cage, and Shayne caught at a bedpost. “He was feeding himself crackers and pate. There was a bowl of caviar in ice. Where is it?”

“I’ll look around, if you’re really dying for a snack,” Rourke said sarcastically.

Shayne picked his way to the bathroom, where he filled his cupped hands with cold water from the tap and splashed it in his face. He repeated this twice more, then toweled himself off. His reflection in the mirror was still misty, as though seen through frosted glass.

“Not a thing to eat in the place,” Rourke reported from the bedroom. “I don’t want to be repetitious or anything, but let’s split. You can get a hamburger at a dog wagon.”

“Hand me the cognac.”

“Better not, buddy,” Rourke said doubtfully. “Let’s get it analyzed first.”

“No, the Mickey was in the food. What time did you say it was?”

“It’s still two-thirty.”

Shayne emptied a glass of cognac while Rourke watched anxiously.

“Don’t pass out again, Mike. Please. How do you feel now?”

Shayne didn’t reply until the cognac hit him.

“Better. How long has he been dead?”

“I’ll let you decide. Mike, you really don’t want to be too cool about this. I notice you’re wearing an empty shoulder holster. That’s your thirty-eight on the floor, right? Let’s hold the post-mortems someplace else.”

“This was rigged.”

“I know that, for God’s sake. You’re a very old friend of mine, and I know you don’t get impatient with visiting French cops and slap them dead with the barrel of a thirty-eight.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

He went down on one knee beside the dead man and checked the soft flesh beneath the jawbone. It was firm but rubbery.

“More than a couple of hours,” he said, sitting back on his heels. “So there’s no hurry. How many people know you’re here?”

“Will Gentry. Has your memory come back yet? Do you remember the last time I saw you? A Japanese was about to take your picture when I noticed he didn’t have any lens in his camera, just a hole. This was observant of me. And did I hesitate? No, it all went through my mind in a flash-all the times we’ve got drunk together, all the murder cases we’ve worked on. The least I could do was save your life.”

Shayne grinned at him. “That was reflex, Tim.”

“To a certain extent,” Rourke admitted. “But you ought to be glad I have a good reserve supply of adrenalin. I moved like a snake. They had me under the anesthetic for over an hour. Everything’s going to grow back together, thanks for asking.”

Shayne put out a hand. Rourke pulled him to his feet.

The reporter went on, “And when they said I could go home, naturally the first thing I asked myself was how my old friend was making out. I’d hate to think I went to all that medical expense for nothing. Nobody seemed to know where you were. Gentry said you had a meeting with a Frenchman at the Sans Souci. The guy wasn’t answering his telephone. It’s in the wastebasket, incidentally. How do you explain that? Well, I worried. I kept calling and kept getting no answer, and finally I decided I had to do a little ad hoc research. It’s lucky you gave me that lesson in how to get into locked hotel rooms with a strip of celluloid and a nail file. If you really want to take a chance on that cognac, bring the bottle with you. I suggest we leave through the basement.”

“Not yet.” Shayne poured himself more cognac. “I don’t want to think of something when it’s too late to check it. This may look like a murder frame, but it’s more than that. They want me to take a trip to Latin America, for some Goddamn reason.”

“All very clear,” Rourke said, looking around nervously. “Who is ‘they’?”

“I don’t know yet. Shut up for a minute. I want to see if I can remember what he told me.”

Rourke swore under his breath. “Don’t take too long, Mike. I took a sleeping pill, and I’m fighting it.”

Shayne sipped at the cognac, concentrating hard. His mind was still working at only twenty-five percent of capacity, with unexpected skids and lurches.

“Wash the blood off the gun,” he told Rourke. “Don’t use any towels, and let’s start being careful about fingerprints.”

“Fine. And what good that’s going to do if we get caught in here-”

The passport LeFevre had prepared still lay on the coffee table. Shayne put it in his pocket. He checked the Frenchman’s wallet for a second time, finding one thing he didn’t remember seeing before-a small square of gray blotting paper. He thought about it.

When Rourke came out of the bathroom, he said abruptly, “Tim, can you get the paper to give you a few days off?”

“I think so. Why? They’re getting a nice page-one story tomorrow-ace News reporter saves Mike Shayne’s life. Whenever a reporter breaks a bone in the line of duty, they usually give him a day off.”

“I wonder if that Jap was actually trying to kill me,” Shayne said slowly. “Yeah-I think that part was probably legit.”

“Damn right he was trying to kill you!” Rourke said indignantly. “That was a real bullet. I can show it to you. They gave it to me for my collection.”

“Don’t get excited. You know more about these things than I do. How do the dealers handle LSD and so on these days? They used to put it on sugar cubes.”

“Not any more. The minute a cop sees a cube of sugar he begins thinking in terms of a narcotics pinch. Lately the boys and girls have been dropping it on a scrap of newsprint or blotting paper.”

“That’s what I heard. There’s a square of blotting paper in LeFevre’s wallet. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t there before I conked out. He told me a fancy story about a big gold shipment that’s leaving the country on a plane tomorrow morning. He wanted me to ride shotgun on it. I turned him down. With the facts I had then, it would have been a stupid move. I thought he was a little too anxious. What do they want me to think now? That somebody killed him to keep him from telling me about the gold? It’s a possibility. I don’t know.”

“Can we talk about it at your place, Mike? LSD-that’s a wonderful piece of news. No wonder you’re not your usual self. He wanted to try it, and being the soul of hospitality, you went out and bought him some. Those damned synthetics do funny things. This isn’t the first LSD killing and it won’t be the last.”

“You’re right about one thing, Tim-Petey Painter would love it.”

“As I keep reminding you.”

“But if all they wanted was a frame, the cops would be here by now. That wouldn’t be hard to arrange. They must want me to think there’s only one way I can get off the hook-to take the plane and find out who really did the killing. They obviously figure I’ll decide I have to go.”

“I think I’m following you,” Rourke said dubiously. “But you’re one step ahead of them, right? So you’re not going.”

“Don’t be silly,” Shayne snapped. “Of course I’m going. Let’s find a photographer who’s still awake. I need a passport picture.”

CHAPTER 5

Most of the passengers were already aboard by the time Michael Shayne arrived at the loading port, tie-less and in need of a shave, wearing dark glasses and carrying an attache case.

After parting from Rourke, he had slept only two hours. He had a dull headache. His movements were more guarded than usual.

The stewardess at the gate put a check beside his name and looked at him curiously.

“I know,” Shayne said, rubbing his chin. “I look like something off Skid Row. I’ll shave on the plane, unless I forgot to pack a razor.”

She was a dark-haired girl with a good figure and an expectant look. “I’m Sue Cornelius. Do you have any preference about where you sit, Mr. Shayne?”

Before he had to answer, a tall, lovely blonde hurried out of the lounge toward him. She threw her arms around his neck and gave him a warm welcoming kiss. Her tongue flickered briefly inside his mouth. It was all very authentic, in spite of the fact that he had never seen her before. His arms came up and closed around her. He felt the muscles moving in the small of her back. She was breathing hard when she let him go.

She pressed her face against his chest. “I was so damn worried.”

She spoke with a faint German accent. Shayne tried to think of her name, and after a moment it came to him-Christa Hochberg.

She looked at him reproachfully. “Darling, do you know we leave in precisely five minutes?”

“I’m sorry. The traffic was murder coming out.” He gave the stewardess a quizzical look. “In answer to your question about where I want to sit, Miss Hochberg and I are sitting together.”

“Obviously,” she said with a laugh.

Christa hugged Shayne’s arm to her breast as they entered the cabin. Forty pairs of eyes were looking at them. She dropped his arm self-consciously and followed the stewardess to their seats.

“You take the window, darling. Airplanes terrify me. I’d much rather not know how high up we are.”

As soon as they were seated, she kissed him again, as efficiently as before and with even more passion. It was part of an act, Shayne knew, but nevertheless he felt himself responding. When it had run its course, she whispered against his ear, “You know who I am?”

“Yeah, lady. You’re a cop.”

As he turned his head, he caught the eye of a Negro sitting across the aisle, a dignified, gray-haired man in clerical black with a reversed collar. The Negro smiled faintly.

Christa whispered, “Keep your arms around me, Mike. I couldn’t get through to him. Can you seem a trifle more affectionate, my dear? We are lovers. That is the story I have invented for us. We haven’t seen each other in weeks.” She drew back slightly to look at him. “Do you object?”

“Not so far.”

“Then why aren’t you kissing me?”

Shayne exerted himself this time. She subsided against him with a sigh.

“That was much better. You almost convinced me.”

She pulled away as the order came to fasten their seat belts. The powerful jets began to whine. Gripping the arms of the seat, she looked straight ahead.

“Excuse me. Now I say a small prayer that we get up into the sky safely.”

She put her head back as the big DC-8 wheeled around. The whine of the engines passed upward into a thin scream. There was a sudden forward rush.

Shayne studied the girl. Her hair was long and crossed her forehead at a slant, nearly touching her eyebrows on one side. Her eyelids were a subtle shade of violet, delicately veined. Her nose and mouth were nicely formed.

She was wearing a smartly cut red suit, low in front. She was well tanned.

He glanced out the window. The squat buildings of the International Airport were falling away beneath them.

“We’re up,” he told her.

Her eyes opened and they looked at each other. She said softly, “Three weeks is a long time to be apart.” Her eyes changed slightly and she snapped her belt open. “No. Business first. Can you hear me when I talk like this?”

“Barely.”

“If you can barely hear me, no one else can hear me at all. Damn Jules! He was with a woman, I suppose? That is one of the hazards with Jules. He meets someone new and he stops answering his telephone for twenty-four hours. We had discussed different stories, but nothing was definite. I decided to keep it simple. And this is not bad, you know. You are not a typical fifteen-day tourist, by any means. Nor am I. You were shot at yesterday in a football stadium. They will have read about that in the morning paper. An unsettling experience even for a rugged private detective. The press, the police. Who were these Japanese, and why did they want to kill you? You decide you have to leave town, to get clear away for two weeks. Alone? Mike Shayne? Assuredly not. So you call me and tell me to pack a bag and meet you at the airport.” She laughed softly. “Are we agreed? That is the story?”

“It’s too late to change it now.”

She giggled and took his hand. “But it was a gamble for me, before I saw what you looked like. If you had turned out to be fat and sweating and unpleasant-Look. Did Jules give you a file to look at, on a man who may be involved in this?”

“He told me he had it. I didn’t see it.”

“Nor I. A maddening person. No one is ever too delighted to work with him.”

“What did you find out about the luggage arrangements?”

“There are three hatches. Each passenger is permitted fifty pounds, and some are paying for excess weight. It is a rented plane. The captain and co-pilot come with the package, the flight engineer is a Miami man. A husband and wife run the tour. George Savage, Naomi Savage. The husband handles the baggage, the hotels and buses. I let him give me a drink last evening. He is a little too talkative, a little too friendly. The wife seems worried. I know that there are other things to worry about in the world besides the smuggling of gold. Husbands, for one. When he learned I would be on the tour, he looked at me in a certain way, as if plotting some adventures in the hotel rooms of Rio. Well, we shall see.”

“How much does the Treasury Department know about this, did Jules tell you?”

“I believe very little. He likes to work with as few people as possible. Interpol is a lovely theory, but he thinks also of the glory of the French police.”

“That’s going to make it rough,” Shayne said. “We’ll have our hands full. I never got our itinerary. Where do we go first?”

“Today, St. Albans. Caracas, tomorrow morning. Then down the east coast, to Brasilia. Then Rio, Sao Paulo, Montevideo. One day in each. Jules thinks they will wait till Sao 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 attache 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 naive 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?”

“Pretty terrible. I’m in the spotlight. I’ve got a couple of names I want you to check. George and Naomi Savage. J. Moss. Joe Lassiter, the pilot. See if there’s anything in the files. I’m at the Hilton. But be careful when you make contact, because I still don’t know who’s playing on whose team, and that goes for a sensational blonde I seem to be shacked up with.”

He saw Mary Ocain come out of the elevator and said hurriedly, “Got to go now.”

As he folded the door open, the Negro clergyman who had been sitting across the aisle on the plane swerved toward him, smiling.

“We never got around to introductions,” he said. “I’m Crane Ward.”

Mary Ocain stopped at the newsstand and looked at the paperbacks while Shayne and the minister shook hands. They continued across the lobby to a cigar stand, where Shayne bought cigarettes. George Savage, standing beside several unclaimed suitcases, was watching them.

“Are you coming out to the Old Fort with us?” Ward asked. “It’s meant to be extraordinarily interesting, one of the first Spanish structures in this hemisphere. I’d be happy to offer you and your friend a seat in my carriage.”

Mary glanced at her watch and started for the coffee shop. Naomi Savage, still with her clipboard, intercepted her.

“I know who you are, you see,” Ward said with a touch of shyness. “I like to unwind with a good mystery at the end of the day, and I find more and more that, when I open a newspaper, I turn first to the crime news. So the name Michael Shayne isn’t new to me. In an unprofessional way, I might be termed an aficionado. While I certainly can’t condone some of your methods, there’s no question that they get results. You’ve probably accomplished more good, without intending to, perhaps, than nine-tenths of the people in-” he hesitated, and said self-consciously, “in my own racket.”

Shayne snorted.

“I’m sincere,” Ward declared. “Possibly I tend to idealize your role because I have come to the end of my own career. I like to think that, with a slight change in circumstances thirty-five years ago, I myself might have chosen a life of action. I have no intention of asking any prying questions. If you’re on a case, I know I couldn’t be of any real assistance. But there’s one thing perhaps I can do. There’s been a great deal of buzzing about you and Miss Hochberg. Hypocrisy, in my humble opinion. The church would have to be blind to reality to maintain that all sexual intercourse outside of wedlock is evil or ugly.”

Naomi and Mary started toward the street. Mary gave Shayne a significant look as she passed.

“I’ve heard some uncharitable and un-Christian remarks,” Ward was saying. “I didn’t want to rebuke them directly. They aren’t members of my congregation. They may not even be Episcopalians. But one advantage of this reversed collar is that it confers a kind of dubious status. I would like to sponsor you and Miss Hochberg, to take some of the heat off, as it were. If we are seen together, I think it might stop some of this malicious gossip and make your trip more pleasant.”

“Christa wanted to do some shopping,” Shayne said. “But I’ve been down here a dozen times and I’ve never taken the trouble to go out to see the Fort. Today I think I’ll surprise myself and go.”

The harbor had silted up since the sixteenth century. It was only used now by shallow-draft fishing boats. The old Spanish fortifications still dominated the headland looking out to sea. The governor’s palace had been partially restored and was in use as a museum.

About half the members of the tour, like Christa, had decided to skip the side trip and go shopping for bargains. The others rode out in chartered carriages. It was a hot, dusty ride. Before leaving, Shayne had filled a flask with cognac, and after clopping along the narrow road for twenty minutes, he offered the clergyman a drink.

“With the greatest of pleasure,” Ward said, accepting the flask. He took a healthy swallow. “In recent years I’ve had a high-prestige parish in a commuting suburb of Chicago. I not only drink, I play a murderous game of bridge, and I’ve forced myself to learn a sedate version of the twisting dances the young people do nowadays.” He laughed. “Religion in a modern suburb is a terribly competitive thing.”

He proved to be well informed on Shayne’s major cases and questioned him closely about why he had done certain things and not done certain others.

“Most of the time I was guessing,” Shayne said. “When I guessed wrong, I scratched everything and started over. But it’s surprising how many criminals really want to be caught.”

“You’re not serious.”

“It’s part of the point. I don’t mean that they feel guilty about something else and they want to be punished. Take an imaginary case. Say you’re only pretending to be an Episcopal minister. The best disguise isn’t necessarily the most perfect one. When somebody offered you a drink in the middle of the morning, it would be smart to accept-only a real minister would feel secure enough to go out of character. If you see what I mean. But even if it worked, it wouldn’t be really satisfying unless the rest of us knew how clever you’d been. And that’s where I come in. I’m always willing to admit that a murderer is smarter than I am, so long as we’re talking into a tape recorder.”

Ward looked at him shrewdly. “I really am a member of the Episcopal clergy, I’m a little sorry to say. But I still have some of the wits God gave me, and I’ve kept fairly fit by way of tennis and mountain climbing. I think I can lay claim to being on the side of the angels. If you ever need a strong right arm-”

He added, “Although I’m sure you and Miss Hochberg joined this tour solely because you wanted to visit the Latin-American capitals, and you’re carrying a gun only as a matter of habit. Now would it be out of character to ask for another drink of that excellent brandy?”

They collected on the steps of the restored museum. Naomi Savage was an excellent guide, well informed and full of enthusiasm. While she was talking, she went through a nervous routine with her glasses, sliding them along her nose, pushing them back firmly, then taking them off to swing them by an ear piece. Mary Ocain hovered about in the background taking pictures. Outside in the ruins, she asked Shayne to pose on a tumbled heap of rocks looking out to sea. She gave him careful directions, then took several shots from different angles.

“Those were great! Now. Back up against that big rock and look at me without smiling. Straight at the camera. I want to get the contrast of textures.”

She advanced, squinting into her viewfinder. The others had scattered. Looking around to make sure there was no one within earshot, she said in a muffled voice, “Where can we get some privacy? I have a roommate, who clings to me every minute. I’d rather not be seen having a long conference with you because I’m a little scared, to tell the truth. No, I’m not. Not really. But I do think it wouldn’t be an unintelligent idea to take a few precautions.”

“That’s always a good idea,” Shayne agreed.

The camera clicked. She moved the film ahead with a practiced flick of her thumb.

“Turn your head a bit more. Steady. Try to take me a little more seriously, Mr. Shayne. I’m onto something, I know I am. I’ll plead a headache and tell my roommate I have to lie down. Then I’ll look for a back way out of the hotel. I saw a nice-looking ice-cream parlor on High Street, Cranshaw’s. It has high-backed booths. I think we’d be safe there if we don’t go in together. At two. Two sharp. Everybody else will be swimming, according to the schedule.”

She lowered her camera. “Thank you for posing. If we live through this, and why shouldn’t we, I’ll send you some prints.”

Naomi Savage, swinging her glasses again, cut Shayne off as he returned to the carriage.

“I think we should have another of those informative little chats, Mr. Shayne. I know that scene on the plane was carefully calculated, throwing it at me in the crudest possible way to see how I’d react. And, of course, I reacted like an amateur. Which isn’t surprising, because that’s what I am, a complete and utter amateur. My room number is 1031. Will you join me there as soon as we get back?”

“Sure.”

Christa was reading a London paper in the lobby, her long legs crossed, looking cool and composed. She folded the paper when Shayne dropped onto the sofa.

“How was your morning?” he asked.

“Unproductive. Yours?”

“I made a couple of dates, including one with Mary Ocain in an ice-cream parlor. Did you find out anything more about her?”

“She definitely teaches school. She’s traveling with another social-studies teacher from the same school system, Milwaukee. What are social studies? She didn’t explain. They have a thirty-day leave to develop curriculum materials. That means photographs, primarily, I think, but I didn’t understand every word she told me.”

Shayne scraped his chin. “Mary could get to be a real problem unless I can cool her off. She’s beginning to think of herself in terms of those girls in the James Bond movies.”

“Heavens,” Christa murmured. “She doesn’t have the figure for it.”

Shayne asked if she had succeeded in planting the bug in the Savages’ room.

“Not yet. It’s only two doors from the floor clerk. But I talked to George for a time, and if you want me to do it that way, I think I can get him to invite me up. But the wife must definitely be busy elsewhere. He is a little afraid of her, I think.”

“Let me have it-I’ll see what I can do first. Naomi has something to tell me. If you see George on his way to the elevator, head him off and keep him entertained.”

“It’s folded inside the newspaper. But it’s dreadfully old-fashioned, I feel quite ashamed. Unless it’s out in the open, it doesn’t pick up voices clearly across the room. I hope you succeed. I will be pleasant to George if I must, but he definitely doesn’t excite me.”

She touched Shayne very lightly, giving him a message.

Shayne checked the combination microphone and transmitter in the elevator. It was the shape of a small pillbox, with a grilled top. There was an on-off switch and a double suction cup by which it could be fixed to a flat surface.

Naomi was barefoot and wearing a short flowered kimono when she opened the door for him.

“I have exactly five minutes,” she said. “I’m taking my flock to the beach, and there are always two or three who begin to get nervous if things don’t happen on schedule.”

She was nervous herself and trying hard to control it. She straightened her glasses, pointed Shayne toward a chair, and said she was sorry there was nothing to drink.

“And there isn’t time for Room Service,” she said. “I’m definitely squeezing you in.”

Shayne showed her his flask. “Cognac. Get a couple of toothbrush glasses.”

“Mr. Shayne, as I say, do we have the time?”

Reaching out, Shayne removed her glasses. She snatched after them, then gave an uneasy laugh.

“I know. I’m developing a thing with those glasses. It makes people jumpy. I can’t actually see much without them.”

She went into the bathroom. Shayne looked around quickly. The room was furnished with ordinary Hilton hotel furniture. The phone was on a small table beside one of the beds. The underside of that table would be the best place for the bug, but before he could do anything about it, Naomi came back with two plastic glasses. She murmured something about drinking in the middle of the day and swallowed the cognac with a shudder.

“Well.”

“Well,” Shayne repeated. “What did you want to talk to me about?”

She fussed with the hem of the kimono. “I don’t suppose you’ll tell me how you knew-”

“No point in it, Naomi.”

“All right, I won’t delay you. You told me to talk it over with my husband. I’ve done that. He feels we’re in a rather good position to ignore you. We hold certain cards you may not know about.”

Shayne drank. “You’ll have to put that in plain English if you want me to listen to it.”

“You and Miss Hochberg are two people. George and I are also two people, but does that mean the sides are equal? No, it doesn’t. There are others, and you don’t know who they are, do you? I don’t think your information goes that far. And I’m on my home ground, so to speak, Mr. Shayne. I’ve been to South America many times. I have friends. I speak the language. We’ve already made some changes as a result of your warning, and we can make others. We’re neither of us made of jelly!”

“So you don’t want to play it my way?”

“That’s not precisely what I’m saying. But we won’t consider paying you a percentage. That would presuppose mutual trust, and we don’t really trust each other, do we? But I’m prepared to discuss a flat sum.”

“A hundred thousand bucks.”

He could have slapped her and got the same effect. Some of the color left her lips.

He went on, “Payable when you make delivery. I don’t know why you think you can’t trust me. I need a deal like this right now. I’ve been doing too much of the cops’ work for them lately. I can’t function unless everybody on both sides of the law believes I’m flexible. The real problem is, can I trust you? I don’t want to walk up to the payoff window and have it slammed in my face.”

“I really doubt if that happens too often.”

Shayne grinned. “Because I don’t have a trusting nature. You’re a nice-looking girl with your glasses off, but I don’t intend to take your IOU.”

“How do you suggest we do it?”

“I can’t make any suggestions without knowing a little more about your plans.”

“You surely don’t think I’m going to tell you, do you? Just like that? Maybe you don’t know as much as you say you do.”

“Do I look like the kind of guy who would con anybody?” Shayne said, still grinning.

“Yes, frankly.” She stole a quick look at her watch. “Meanwhile, time is passing.”

“Stop fidgeting, Naomi. They can find the ocean by themselves. Have another drink. We’ll think of something.”

“They not only have to find the ocean, they have to get mats and suntan oil and umbrellas and refreshments. Well-I can be five minutes late. Perhaps one more drink.” Shayne uncapped the flask and poured. She continued to watch him closely. He needed an instant alone to plant the transmitter.

“Go ahead and get ready. Leave the door open and we can go on talking.”

“I’m ready now. I’ve got my bathing suit on. You said you wanted a hundred thousand dollars. How firm is that figure? I think it’s way high-you wouldn’t be taking any of the risks.”

“Honey, if they connect me with that kind of payoff, I can kiss my license goodbye. I think one hundred just about fits. I didn’t say I had to have it this minute. I don’t think you have the authority to make that big a payment yourself.”

“To put it mildly.”

“OK. I’ll back off for now and let you make the arrangements. I’ll keep in touch with you through the day, but I won’t be looking over your shoulder every minute. Let’s make tomorrow morning the deadline. From the minute we land in Venezuela, I’m going to move in with you. Tell George not to be jealous. It’s business. If you try anything foolish, I’ll shoot you.”

“Now the melodrama. I was waiting for it.”

“Yeah. And there’s a distinction I want to make. I’ll kill you if I’m sure you’re trying to double-cross me. I can get away with that, and you’d better believe me. But if I’m not sure, I’ll just put a slug in your knee.” He tapped her bare knee with one fingertip. “There are some delicate connections in there, and a thirty-eight caliber bullet can do a hell of a lot of damage. So don’t try anything.”

“I imagine you think you’re scaring me.”

“I hope I am. I don’t know what you’ve heard about me, but the kind of bet I like best is a sure thing.”

She stood up, tightening the belt of her kimono. “I think I understand your proposition. I’ll let you know what we decide.”

Shayne looked up at her, grinning crookedly. He still had the transmitter in his pocket, and he wasn’t that good at sleight of hand.

“Don’t feel you have to pay me off too soon. Sticking to you could be a pleasure. George is just going to have to understand.”

Coming to his feet, he took her by the waist and kissed her. Her breath caught. He tightened his hold, moving his hands on her back, and forced her almost naked body hard against his.

“It’s always better to set up a personal contact.”

She stared up into his eyes, her lips parted. He could see her decide that this was the one way he might prove to be vulnerable. She gave herself orders. Her arms came around his neck and pulled him down.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, Mike. Then we can start over from the beginning.”

He turned her gently and they sank together onto the bed. The knot of her kimono opened.

The scraps of red cloth that served her as a bathing suit were quickly unfastened. Dressed, she had seemed a little ordinary, too much of a businesswoman. Undressed, she was altogether different. The back of one hand over her eyes, she waited for him. Shayne slipped the little electronic gadget out of his side pocket, activated the sending switch with a flick of his thumb, and, as he changed position on the bed, pressed it into place beneath the table. Then at last he kissed her. She brought her arm down and touched the back of his neck.

A long moment later he raised his head and said in a softer tone than he had used with her so far, “You don’t really want to do this, do you?”

Her lips moved. Her body arched slightly as she looked into his eyes.

“Touch me,” she whispered. “You’ll find out how much.”

Her eyes closed and her hands moved on his body.

“Mike?” she said questioningly.

She opened her eyes when he didn’t respond. Shayne shook his head slowly.

“Sometime, maybe. Not now. You’re thinking of too many other things. What if your husband walked in? Could you make him understand that the one reason you’re letting this happen is so you can make a better deal with me tomorrow?”

Her tongue appeared briefly. “That’s why it started. It changed.” Raising her head, she kissed the corner of his mouth. “You’re not as tough as you pretend, Mike. It wouldn’t actually matter much if George-I don’t know how to tell you. My marriage isn’t quite the same institution they talk about in the women’s magazines. If you want to go on, I will. In a physical way, I know it would be lovely. But it’s probably the wrong time?”

“I think so.”

She took his face in both hands. “Do you think we’ll end up as friends?”

“I don’t know enough about you yet.”

“You’re a mystery to me, too! I should go now, Mike. My poor ladies will be ready to mutiny.”

He separated himself from her, and she retied her bikini. “Come for a swim with us. We might find something else to talk about besides sex and money.”

“I’ve got a few things to take care of.”

“Such as Mary Ocain?”

He laughed. “Such as Mary Ocain. She’s not much of a conspirator yet, but give her time. She’s new at it. She wants to tell me that somebody’s using our DC-8 to smuggle gold. I’ll act surprised and impressed. If she talks to anybody else, it could get serious very fast.”

“What could she do?”

“Notify the wrong people and get the plane impounded. I can stall her, I think. It would help to know how long the stuff is going to be aboard.”

Naomi began running a comb through her long hair. “I’ll check with somebody and see if it’s all right to tell you. I’m honestly a very small cog in this.”

“So you don’t know who’s going to take delivery?”

“I honestly don’t. Leave George to me. I know how to handle him. He gets erratic after a few drinks, and I think I can say, at five minutes to two in the afternoon, that he has had a few drinks.”

She wasn’t looking directly at him, but there was a special urgency in her tone.

“Why not leave him to you?” Shayne said after a moment. “We have a deal.”

“We don’t exactly have a deal.” She kissed him once more. “Not yet. God, I’ve got to hurry. Those women will eat me alive.”

CHAPTER 8

Mary Ocain was waiting. Shayne, looking through the front window of Cranshaw’s Ice Cream Parlor, could see the top of her head in one of the back booths. To attract mainland tourists, the store was a self-conscious replica of the kind of small-town ice-cream parlor that hasn’t existed in American small towns for years. Marble-topped tables were surrounded by wire-backed chairs. The air-conditioning unit was assisted by a slow-moving overhead fan.

Heads turned as Shayne entered. It was dim and cool.

He joined the schoolteacher, who was working her way through a chocolate sundae, topped with whipped cream and a candied cherry. She looked pointedly at her watch.

“Fifteen minutes late. I expected you to be more prompt.”

“I was in the middle of something. Do they have anything here besides ice cream?”

“Soft drinks. Hot chocolate. I know you’d rather be in the pub down the street, but it’s safer here. Try a sundae. They’re delicious.”

Shayne ordered plain ice cream and lit a cigarette. Mary gave an odd little bounce.

“Don’t half the people on our plane remind you of actors in an Alfred Hitchcock movie? Maybe not. You’ve never been on this kind of a tour before, and don’t tell me otherwise because it’s all so obvious. People don’t carry guns on tours. They don’t take along gaudy blondes with great protruding bosoms and too much eyeliner.”

He looked at her more closely. Very little daylight penetrated this far into the store, but he thought he saw a slightly different glitter in her eye. She was wearing bright makeup. She had changed into a white linen dress that left her freckled shoulders bare.

“Do you know what I had to drink for lunch?” she demanded. “Absinthe! For the first time in my life. It tasted a bit like medicine, but the second wasn’t quite as bitter as the first. I was about to try a third when I remembered that I wanted to be enunciating clearly when I talked to you. Not knowing you planned to be fifteen minutes late. Honestly-do you think absinthe is all it’s cracked up to be?”

“How does it go with a chocolate sundae?”

“Pretty well so far. I’ve been amusing myself trying to imagine how the master would have handled that departure scene this morning.”

“What master are we talking about?”

“Hitchcock, of course. I’m a tremendous admirer of his films. I’ve seen The Lady Vanishes fourteen times. Do you know it? Think about it for a minute and you’ll see what I mean. It all happened on a train, remember? Everybody in the hero’s compartment was just a bit strange. The charming little old lady turned out to be a British spy. The nun had on high heels. Don’t look so puzzled. Take that Negro clergyman of ours. He’s no more a clergyman than I am.”

“Was he wearing high heels?”

“You aren’t taking me seriously, are you? If there’s one thing I can claim to be an expert on, it’s package tours. It’s easy for somebody like you to sneer, but this kind of tour isn’t such a bad way to do a continent for the first time. You get a fast overview, for a modest amount of money. Later, if there’s a place you especially like, you can go back for a visit in depth, by yourself or with a few friends. Well, I want to assure you, this is no ordinary tour. J. Moss. He actually looks like an interesting man, and believe me, if there’s one thing these tours have in common, it’s a shortage of interesting single men.”

“He sells vacuum cleaners. No, he changed that. He’s a bank investigator.”

“He’s a bank investigator, my foot. Naomi Savage isn’t very typical either. She’s too intelligent for the job. I’m not sure about her husband. I tried to talk to him a couple of times, but we didn’t seem to make any sparks. And now we come to a big redheaded swinger who calls himself Mike Shayne.”

Shayne’s ice cream arrived. He looked at it without enthusiasm.

“You’re a private detective, apparently,” she went on. “Specializing in murder cases, I believe. You command large fees. Most of the time you work on the extreme outer fringes of the law. Am I right so far?”

“Even private detectives take vacations. Not as often as school teachers, but-”

“This isn’t a vacation for me. I happen to be working on curriculum planning and development. And I doubt if it’s a vacation for you. I really doubt it. Your behavior. You yanked the stew’s blouse out of her skirt-a symbolic rape if I ever saw one. Did you feel the frisson of shock run through the plane when you did that? You dropped your pistol. Don’t pretend that wasn’t deliberate. Strange things! The captain downed a double whiskey before we took off. I’m sure the Federal Aviation people wouldn’t approve of that. Reverend Ward’s flight bag wouldn’t open and he used a piece of profanity which I hesitate to repeat aloud. What about your Christa’s charming accent? Swedish, isn’t it?”

“German.”

“Perhaps. What role is she supposed to be playing, a floozy? She’s mercenary enough, I’m sure, but actually I’m convinced she’s a lesbian.”

Shayne laughed. “Mary.”

“Men can be fooled, you know! To change the subject slightly, don’t you think it was clever of me to pretend to get a cramp in my leg?”

“Very clever.”

“Well, it was! Whether you think so or not! Have you figured out yet what they’re smuggling?”

Shayne held up one hand. “You mean Reverend Ward and the rest are-”

“Don’t pull that innocent act on me, Mr. Michael Shayne. You’re after the ten percent, aren’t you?”

“Ten percent of what?”

“I’m not ready to start answering questions quite yet.” She peered at him, then opened her bag and took out a flat pint of cognac. “I had an idea you might take that sarcastic attitude, so I came prepared. Notice that it’s cognac. Maybe I know more about you than you think. I want to appeal to your better nature, and I’m told that hard liquor helps.”

She poured cognac into her empty water glass and pushed it across the table. She sniffed tentatively at the open bottle, said, “Nothing ventured, nothing gained,” and took a long pull of the raw spirit.

“Goodness!” she said after a strangled cough. “It’s powerful.”

She poured the water from the second water glass on the floor and partially filled it with cognac. Shayne raised his glass and she clinked hers against it.

“I’m impressed with myself,” she said with another little bounce. “I tend to order Alexanders and Daiquiris, as a rule. Hurry up and get tight so you’ll stop being so critical.”

“Do you have any other reason to think Ward isn’t a clergyman?”

“No-o-o. But just because a zipper on a flight bag was stuck, would a genuine clergyman say-” She leaned across the table and whispered a word. “Would he?”

“I don’t know many Episcopal clergymen.”

“Well, I do.” She drained her glass, continuing to swallow till she had it all. “Are my roommate’s eyes going to pop when I come reeling in! Mike-” She put her hand on his, but quickly pulled it away. “Excuse me. One of the side effects of alcohol as far as I’m concerned is that it makes me amorous. I’ll try to control myself.”

“Mary, sooner or later you’re going to have to get around to what you wanted to tell me.”

She moistened her lips and folded her hands on the table.

“I’ve ruled out the possibility that you might actually be on vacation. If you wanted to take a vacation with an overstuffed Playboy Club bunny, you’d move into a Miami Beach hotel or take her down to Key West. Or maybe you have some reason of your own for signing up for the tour. I don’t think so. It would violate the unities. One further question-are you one of the good guys or one of the bad guys? I understand you’ve been known to be ambidextrous. I think you’re a good guy this time. I think you dropped your pistol so the bad guys would be sure to spot you. A bit dangerous? Not really. Nobody can catch you in a dark alley if you stay out of dark alleys.”

She poured more cognac, the neck of the bottle ringing against the glass. Shayne moved the glass out of her reach. “Let that first one soak for a minute.”

“I bet that’s the first considerate word you’ve spoken today,” she said, pleased. “Does that mean you’re human? Don’t worry about me, Mike. I’m famous for the amount I can drink without showing it. Famous in a limited circle, I’ll be the first to admit. A limited circle without any men in it. I’m thirty-seven, a terrible age for a woman. I’ve reached the top step of the salary schedule in the Milwaukee school system, and who cares? I’m pretty damn unappetizing, you don’t need to tell me.”

“That’s a long way from what you started out to tell me.”

“I notice you aren’t contradicting me, though. And it’s not really such a long way. I have some information that could be worth something. That ought to give you an incentive to sweet-talk me, but it doesn’t seem to work that way. I see a small streak of lipstick at the corner of your mouth. It doesn’t seem to be the shade I’ve seen your girl wearing. It looks more like Naomi’s. Probably you felt you had to kiss her and so on and so forth, standard procedure for people in your business-”

When she reached for her drink, he let her take it. She set it back without drinking.

“Self-pity, the curse of the spinster.” She was speaking quietly. “Here’s what happened, Mike. I came down to Miami a day early to go to the racetrack and get some sun. I left my suitcases at the airport. Alfred Hitchcock doesn’t use coincidences too often, but they do happen in real life, as everybody knows. There was a big baggage wagon at one of the checkout counters. The name on one of the tags jumped out at me. Mary Ocain! Do I need to remind you that that’s my name? It was a new bag, definitely not one of mine. It’s an uncommon name, but I do run into Ocains now and then, and I didn’t exactly clutch my forehead with amazement. I didn’t think of it again until I was introduced to that rather nondescript math teacher from East St. Louis. Sally Jennison, she was sitting behind me on the plane. And all at once I remembered another suitcase on that baggage wagon, tagged Jennison. You see what they’re doing? They have a whole set of bags with labels made out in the names of people on the tour. And I bet if we looked in those bags we’d all get a nice surprise. It’s a pretty good system, I’d say, not knowing anything about it.”

“That’s not much to go on, Mary.”

“Wait. My brain has been clicking away merrily ever since. I was in the lounge at the Miami airport when they were loading the luggage, and I made a point of looking out of the window. You know the luggage space in the bottom of the plane. There are three compartments with separate doors. They load the bags into metal containers, like pods, and bring them out of the terminal on a forklift. Later, when they unload, all they have to do is slide the pods out of the hatches and move them inside. It saves a lot of handling. They loaded three containers. Mike, I must have telegraphed what I was thinking. I turned around and saw George Savage watching me. It was a very dirty look he was giving me, I assure you.”

“Did he say anything?”

“You mean I’m imagining all this? Well, anything’s possible! But when we unloaded this morning, they only took out two containers, not three. So I decided to make myself obnoxious, and I asked George for my other bag. What other bag, he said with a stupid expression. The new one, I said, and, Mike, he blushed! How often do you see that nowadays? He got all red in the face and he said he’d see if he could trace it, et cetera et cetera. To me that’s conclusive. The phony luggage is in that third hatch. And in case you’re still skeptical,” she went on as Shayne started to speak, “Naomi offered me a bribe to keep quiet.”

“Tell me about that. When?”

“In the lobby of the hotel this morning. I knew I’d get you interested sooner or later. I’m a pretty good photographer, in my own unbiased opinion. She saw some of my transparencies. She wants me to stay here in St. Albans to take pictures for a brochure the travel agency is getting out. If I stay here, I won’t be on the plane asking questions about luggage, will I? Actually, I’d love to do it, but I have certain commitments. This year’s whole in-service training depends on my getting back with the right kind of pictures, and there we’re talking about my bread and butter. She said why didn’t I skip Venezuela and rejoin the tour in Brazil? But-”

“Where in Brazil?” Shayne said quickly.

“Brasilia.” She put her hand to her mouth. “Brasilia! I’m not connecting too well. That means they’re going to leave the hot suitcases in Caracas. It does!” she insisted excitedly. “I’ll bet any amount of money. Then when I get back on the plane in Brasilia, it won’t matter what I think because the third hatch will be empty!”

Shayne felt a twinge of disappointment. He had begun to like Naomi. But he ought to know by now that the way a young woman looked in an imperfectly fastened bikini had no bearing at all on whether or not she was taking part in an illegal operation.

Mary said, “Are you having another drink? I think I will, too. I feel a lot more relaxed now that I know we’re working together.”

“Did I say anything about working together?”

“No, but you will. I’ve still got some ammunition. I was looking at the news on television last night. It’s a little blurred in my mind because I didn’t know you were going to be massaging my calf the next morning-”

She giggled. Shayne asked her to continue.

“Didn’t you have some kind of an argument with a Japanese?” she said. “Well, maybe this doesn’t mean a thing, but I was in a gift shop looking for postcards, and I saw somebody from the plane talking rather furtively with a Japanese man.”

She held out her glass. “More, please.” He poured. “Furtive,” she said. “You’re going to pounce on that word, and I’ll forestall you. I really can’t tell you what gave me the impression it was a furtive conversation-the angle of their shoulders, perhaps. Alfred Hitchcock would know what I mean. The Japanese was the big, handsome wrestler type, reeking of virility. One thing I noticed particularly, being a photographer of sorts myself, was his funny camera. I’ve never seen one shaped exactly like it”

“Who was he talking to?”

“Well, Mike-” She gave him a coy look. “What’s the good old Latin expression? Quid pro quo. You butter my parsnips and I’ll butter your parsnips, and I hope you don’t think I’m trying to be lewd.”

“This isn’t table tennis we’re playing, Mary,” Shayne said. “These people play for blood. If that’s the same camera I saw yesterday, it isn’t a camera. It shoots bullets. All this is very romantic, and a big change from your ordinary routine, but are you prepared to be killed?”

She gulped. After a moment she said faintly, “I’m sure it won’t come to that.”

“Two people have been killed already,” he told her. “Is there anything else?”

“No,” she said in a small voice.

“OK.” He made an angry gesture. “Then will you please tell me what the hell’s the point in behaving like a Goddamn sixteen-year-old? You’re a grown woman. Didn’t anybody ever tell you there’s something to be said for minding your own business?”

She said with dignity, “Mike, you have no right to talk to me in that-”

“The hell I don’t. If you want to play catch with a hand grenade, that’s up to you. Just don’t do it while I’m two feet away.”

“I’m sorry that’s how it seems to you. I’ve been brought up to believe in personal responsibility. When I see somebody being beaten, I don’t believe in crossing the street and pretending it was a figment of my imagination. Smuggling’s a crime!”

“It’s a nothing crime, Mary. It’s the export business without paying any taxes.”

“What if they’re carrying heroin or something, would that change your mind?”

“I know what they’re carrying, but I’m not going to spend the afternoon explaining it. It isn’t heroin.”

“Very well,” she said firmly, “if you’re so determined to go it alone, I think I’ll just let you guess who was in the gift shop with the Japanese.”

He gave her a dangerous look, and she said quickly, “Thompson. He was in the front of the cabin by himself. I don’t suppose you noticed him, because externally he’s a bit colorless, but I’m in the habit of reconnoitering unattached men. Not that I’m not perfectly contented as a single person, thank you very much!”

She looked at him defiantly, but crumbled at once. “Which is a damn lie. In vino veritas-after cognac on top of absinthe, a person’s likely to start telling the truth. I never have any money left over after taxes. The thought came to my mind that, if I could let the proper authorities know that some hankypanky is going on, I might get a cash award. I know I’ve read that that kind of money is tax-free. I could quit my job and travel in the off-season, and maybe I could meet somebody. In summer there are such hordes of schoolteachers on the move-they flow across the map by the hundreds of thousands. And just for once, I wouldn’t be out in the audience, watching the action on a screen, I’d be part of it myself.”

“In a movie the actors do what they’re told,” Shayne said. “The villain always gets killed. With real villains that sometimes doesn’t happen.”

She ignored him. “Mike, I’m so out of everything! All the interesting things are always taking place somewhere else. Maybe you’ll think I’m getting maudlin, but I’ve never had a real love affair with anybody. I’m not making a pass at you, don’t worry! I know you wouldn’t give me the time of day. But if I had money, I wouldn’t mind paying someone to make love to me. I wouldn’t!” she insisted.

Her hand closed into a fist and she hammered it on the table. “I’m not going to stay in St. Albans like a coward and miss out on what happens tomorrow. I could help you, Mike. I won’t insist on any of the fee. I won’t go around asking any more provocative questions, but I can keep my ears open, can’t I? Like seeing that Japanese with Mr. Thompson. I told you something you didn’t already know.”

Shayne drew a deep breath. “I would have found it out soon enough. Thanks very much, but I can’t use you. They’re giving you an out and for God’s sake take it. This isn’t a simple smuggling operation. There are other angles.”

“But I’d be helping you, didn’t I make that clear?”

“Yeah, baby, but-” He ran his hand through his hair. “You’d be a chain around my leg. Can’t you see I have to be ready to jump?”

“No, I can’t,” she said. “I wouldn’t hamper you. Right now I think I’ll go back to the hotel and take a nap. Then I’ll get up and wander around and take a few pictures and have dinner and gamble away the ten dollars they’re going to give us to lose in the casino, and go to bed. Go to bed alone, it hardly needs saying. And if I happen to observe anything that seems significant, I’ll pass it on to you privately. What’s so awful about that?”

Shayne finished his cognac. “I can’t put you in a straightjacket, as much as I’d like to. Just try not to do anything too stupid.”

“I have an IQ of a hundred fifty-four,” she said coldly. “And all my life it’s been a real burden. But I’ve taken one big step forward.”

“What’s that?” he said warily.

“You called me ‘baby.’ Nobody ever did that before.”

“Christ!” He stood up. “Are you coming?”

“We’d better not leave together. I’m going to order a milkshake. It may sober me up. Never mind about the check. This is on me.”

CHAPTER 9

George Savage was drinking moodily in the Calypso bar at the hotel. Shayne slid onto the empty stool beside him and ordered a drink.

“I thought everybody was supposed to be out getting sunburned,” Shayne said. “Doesn’t that include you?”

George turned his head heavily. His breath was like a blowtorch and his eyes were bloodshot.

“I’m allergic to gnats. Naturally, we don’t mention the gnats in our literature. I stopped taking that damn schedule seriously weeks ago.”

“Your heart’s not really in the travel business?”

“That’s a fair statement.” He turned back to his drink. “I’ve been asking about you, Shayne, and this doesn’t seem to be your kind of caper at all.”

“Just a vacation.”

“And Santa Claus comes down the chimney every year on Christmas Eve, I understand. What’s happened to your technique? Why are you so determined to antagonize me? Oh, I can see how you figure. The billing-and-cooing stage with the Savages has been over for months. You may even have heard a rumor that I’ve been sleeping around, with this one and that one. You’re outgunned, so why not see what you can do about splitting up the opposition? That calculated put-down on the plane this morning-you made an enemy there, you know, and what did you gain by it?”

Shayne picked up the glass the bartender put down in front of him. “Does it matter?”

“It could matter very much. The floor clerk tells me, in return for a promise to mention her in my will, that you spent half an hour in Naomi’s room after lunch, and you had lipstick on your face when you came out. Goddamn it, it’s actually still there. Why can’t you be satisfied with that babe of yours? She’s one of the sexiest things I’ve seen in years.”

“You haven’t looked at your wife lately,” Shayne said. “She looks good in a bikini, and even better out of a bikini.”

“There,” George complained. “You’re trying to get me mad. And why? All it does is cloud the issue. There’s money at stake! I shouldn’t have to remind you. We’ve all got to keep our eyes on the Goddamn ball. Do we want to end up in the local can charged with drunk and disorderly? I mean, it’s all out of proportion. Why should I care what you do with Naomi? The whole concept of marital fidelity is out of the Stone Age. It simply doesn’t apply. From the rational point of view, if you want to fool around with my wife, why, go right ahead. Be my guest. But speaking from the gut, Shayne, stay away from that woman or by God I’ll-”

“You’ll do what?” Shayne prompted.

George spread his hands. “That’s just it. What can I do? My God, Shayne! There’s enough here for everybody. Don’t keep pushing me and prodding me or you’ll spoil it. You’ll end up with nothing. I’ll end up with nothing.”

“I don’t think I’ll worry about that,” Shayne said carelessly.

“I know what you’re trying to do! You’re trying to get me into a situation where I’ll have to do something to prove my manhood. I see through it, but that doesn’t mean I may not fall for it.” He looked at his watch. “Luckily I’ve got an appointment, or in another couple of minutes I’d be trying to knock you unconscious. And what good would it do?”

He knocked back the rest of his drink and pushed off from the bar. Shayne exchanged a look with the bartender, who lifted an eyebrow and shrugged.

Christa, wearing only earphones and a bathing suit, was smoking on one of the beds in the room she shared with Shayne. The bathing suit was punctuated here and there with circular openings, like Swiss cheese. It covered a greater area than Naomi’s bikini, but it was equally startling.

“Why did I ever think police work was going to be romantic and glamorous?” she said. “It seems to me I spend most of my time in hotel rooms listening to static.”

“George went up in the elevator a few minutes ago.”

“I heard him come in, yes. But he’s alone. No phone calls yet. The last thing I heard of any interest was at five minutes before two, when you were trying to seduce poor Naomi. Or was she trying to seduce you? I didn’t hear the beginning of that, and I couldn’t determine.”

Shayne laughed. “I had to do something to plant the bug. She was watching me like a hawk.”

“I thought you handled her very skillfully.”

“There at the end I was beginning to think we might have the wrong idea about her. Her marriage is a mess, but if George is in trouble, she might think she ought to cover up for him.”

“I see she impressed you.”

“For about two minutes,” Shayne said bleakly. “She has a damn nice figure. That shouldn’t make any difference, but it seemed to.”

“Oh?” Christa said coldly.

She sat forward suddenly. “Someone has come in.”

She summoned Shayne with a quick gesture and gave him an earphone. George’s voice came over clearly. He was probably lying on the bed only a few feet from the microphone.

“If I get out of this without ulcers, believe me-”

A woman replied, but the words were inaudible.

George went on, “And it was all supposed to be so very simple. Open and shut, a child could do it. Do you still think it’s simple?”

The woman’s voice, very faint and scratchy: “… panic. He’s overrated.” Then a murmur, ending with “… fool.”

“If you think Shayne’s a fool,” George said distinctly, “it’s because that’s what he wants you to think. We’re going to have to buy him off. It hurts me as much as it does you, but we’re going to have to give him a couple of those pretty gold loaves and tell him to get lost.”

The woman said something from across the room. He replied irritably, “Sure, I’ve been drinking. But you wouldn’t like to see me sober-I’d terrify you.”

More words were lost. Then: “… get rid of him.” Christa’s hand tightened on Shayne’s arm.

“And what do we do about the blonde?” George demanded. “I hope you don’t think she’s just some babe he brought along to while away those off-duty hours. That’s not my interpretation at all. She knows what’s going on, and underneath all that surface sexuality, she’s a very cold fish. A very cold fish. Take her temperature, and you’ll find it’s a long way below ninety-eight point six. Let’s pay them both. It’s much simpler.”

The woman’s next words were again inaudible.

George exclaimed, “What do you mean he’s going for the whole thing? You’re out of your mind! He knows he’s up against an organization. Even if he could pull it off, how could he market it? He’ll settle. I guarantee it.”

More scratching followed, broken by scattered words. “… could be bad if…”

George answered but now he, too, had moved beyond the microphone’s effective range.

“Damn!” Christa said. “Damn, damn, damn!”

Shayne was still listening intently. The faint electronic scratchings and mutterings continued, but the voices were too far from the pickup point to come across as words.

After a time he went for drinks. He gave Christa a questioning look when he came back, but she shook her head: still nothing. He paced the rug restlessly, considering and discarding possible courses of action.

She hissed at him, and he picked up the earphone in time to hear George say, “… too bad he knows what Yami looks like. But hell, I suppose it could work. It damn well better. If it doesn’t, then we do it my way, all right? And if that doesn’t work, we might as well quit. What I need is a drink.”

This was followed sometime later by scraping and rustling sounds.

George said harshly, “Not now. Damn it. where’s your sense of timing? I’ll call Mike Shayne for you. He might not even charge you a stud fee.”

There was a resounding slap. It took place near the microphone, and was followed by the sound of a brief struggle. No words were spoken for a time. Something fell.

George said, “You’re a real bitch.”

A door slammed.

CHAPTER 10

Each member of the tour was given a complimentary glass of champagne with dinner and ten dollars’ worth of chips to lure them into the casino. The main gambling room combined features copied from the elegant European casinos-chandeliers, paneled walls, impassive male attendants in evening dress-and the great Las Vegas supermarkets, which go in for varied action, fast turnover, and no frills. Lassiter, the pilot of their chartered DC-8, was shooting craps, the pastime that had got him into trouble when he worked for Pan American. Several sunburned schoolteachers from the tour were feeding half dollars compulsively into the slot machines. It was early in the evening, but they already wore the stupefied look of slot-machine players everywhere.

The Reverend Crane Ward, among the onlookers at the roulette table, caught Michael Shayne’s eye and shook his head in amazement. Shayne, playing idly, had been winning steadily. After an hour and a half, he was thirty thousand dollars ahead. A crowd had collected around him. Women kept touching him, in the hope that some of his luck would rub off. He lost on a combination bet, then won again heavily. There was a general exhalation of breath around him as the croupier’s rake, which usually moved in the opposite direction, pushed another impressive stack of chips toward him.

Shayne bet two fifty-dollar chips on the next spin and lost.

Christa, beside him, in a glistening silver evening gown with no back, was as excited as the others around the table. Shayne staked another hundred dollars and lost. He won again when he increased his bet, and now he began to pay more attention to his surroundings. He surveyed the room casually.

He had no trouble picking out the professionals by a certain quietness of manner. He recognized several of them who at one time or another had worked in Miami Beach.

The croupier was waiting for his play.

“What’s your name, croupier?” Shayne said.

The man, a small, sallow Italian, wet his lips. “Tony Gambino.”

Shayne reached out, but delayed before placing his bet on the table. “I haven’t kept up. Who has the concession here now?”

“Why, Al Luccio.” He corrected himself immediately. “Mr. Luccio.”

“Send for him.”

“Isn’t everything satis-”

“Send for him.”

Shayne dropped the chips on black, and the wheel spun. Black came up, to squeals of delight from Shayne’s little cheering section.

“Michael, you marvelous man!” Christa cried.

While she was stacking the chips, a thin bald man with a cigar appeared at Shayne’s elbow.

“How are you, Al?” Shayne said without looking around.

“Not bad, Mike. And yourself? You seem to be lucky tonight.”

“And all with that complimentary ten bucks. You’ve got a nice store here.”

“The best,” Luccio agreed quietly. “Are you picking up now, Mike?”

“No. The reason I called you over, Al, besides wanting to see a familiar face, is to talk to you about social conditions in St. Albans. I remember how generous you used to be when the Miami ladies passed the hat for some worthy cause.”

“Yeah, well-a lot of that was public relations,” Luccio said modestly. “You know how it is.”

“And I suppose you keep up the good work down here.”

Luccio said quickly, “Why don’t we discuss it in my office? This is no place-”

Shayne wagged his head, and when he spoke next his speech had thickened. He made a loose, drunken gesture.

“Anything I have to say, I’ll say in front of these wonderful people. I’m not going to give you a big speech, but when I was walking around this afternoon, I saw plenty of kids who could use a pair of shoes. Fine-looking kids. Al-I want you to cash in these chips and see to it that the dough gets where it’ll do the most good.”

He interrupted himself to ask Christa for a total.

“Just over forty-seven thousand.”

“As much as that!” Shayne exclaimed happily. “Al, this is going to do your public relations a world of good. Let’s nail this down. Not that I don’t trust you,” he assured the gambler, turning to look at him for the first time, “but there’s always a chance of a bookkeeping mistake. Who can give me the name of a good local outfit that can use forty-seven thousand fish?” He looked around. “Anybody.” A woman across the table said hesitantly, “There’s a free clinic in Old Town. The doctor who runs it is always short of money.”

“Perfect,” Shayne said. “Give Al the address. He’s known all over the Caribbean as a man who’s satisfied with the house percentage, and I think we have enough witnesses so he’ll make sure the clinic gets the full forty-seven thousand. I want to thank you, Al, for running an honest game and giving me this opportunity to help people who may not be quite as fortunate as the rest of us. I’ll be moving on tomorrow, but you’ll be staying. It’s really your money, in a sense. I’m only a vehicle. I know your name is going to be mentioned in a few mothers’ prayers.”

“Yeah,” the gambler said unenthusiastically. “It’s always a pleasure to see you, Mike, even if it usually costs me money.”

Shayne cocked an eyebrow at Christa. Leaving the chips where they were, she rose and came with him. The slot machines continued to clank and whir, but the rest of the action in the big room had stopped.

Alone with Shayne in the automatic elevator, Christa let out her breath in a long whistle. “You really think they were planning to jump you?”

“Sure. I spotted a couple of specialists. The wheel has an overhead photoelectric control.”

“You were winning, not losing. It never occurred to me that the wheel might be crooked.”

“The idea was to set up a legitimate excuse so I could be found with a fractured skull and the cops wouldn’t tie up the plane.”

“And Luccio would get his money back.” She shivered. “I was completely taken in. Still,” she added wistfully, “forty-seven thousand dollars! Wasn’t there any way you could put it in the hotel safe?”

Shayne shook his head. “All they were trying to do was get me tabbed publicly as a big winner. The money wouldn’t be there when the cops looked for it.”

She hugged his arm. “To me that’s six years’ salary. And you swindled it in an hour and a quarter. But he was right, you know-you are lucky.”

In their room, she kicked out of her shoes and picked up an earphone. “I saw Naomi in the lobby, but not George.”

Shayne loosened his tie. It would take time for his adversaries to plan and mount another action, but he would be hearing from them again, he knew. The Miami plane bringing Tim Rourke was due in another half hour. Christa was Shayne’s immediate concern. An obvious strategy would be to try to reach him through her. His obvious counterstrategy was not to let her out of his sight between now and the time the plane left for Venezuela in the morning.

She was watching him. After a moment she slowly took off her earrings. Shayne had a feeling that this was going to be one of his most agreeable assignments in a long time.

One of her hands flew to an earphone. “This wretched equipment,” she said after a moment, disappointed. “Now the static is making noises like a person being sick.”

She brought him to her side with a gesture. “The phone’s ringing.” Picking up the second earphone, Shayne heard George’s voice say sullenly, “Hello.”

After a moment he continued, “Does it have to be tonight? To tell you the truth, I’m not feeling too well.”

Again he listened.

He snapped, “OK, I’ll be there,” and hung up with an oath. There was a retching sound, then, a little later, a rush of water.

Hearing nothing more, Shayne put down the earphone and shook a cigarette out of his pack.

“Darling, I have something I wish to say,” Christa said later. “And I happen to be quite serious, so listen to me seriously. If there were more of us than two, either you or I would go out and follow George to see where he goes. But we are without a car, without contact with the local police. I think logic calls for us to spend the night here, with the door locked and a gun under each pillow.”

“I decided the same thing when you took off your earrings,” Shayne said.

“I am trying to say something, Mike, so will you please not look as though you already know what it is? It might be something you don’t expect.”

“You’ve surprised me a few times. What are we talking about, whether or not we sleep in separate beds?”

“Damn you, Mike. I made a few careless remarks on that subject, as I hope you don’t remember, but I am not that type of person. Not exclusively that type of person.” She lifted her hands in despair. “I’ve lost track. Don’t sit there looking so sure of yourself.”

“We’re both cops,” Shayne suggested. “This isn’t a pleasure trip. We’re here on business.”

“Precisely. And we’re both mature people. Simply because the job requires us to share a room-”

“Doesn’t mean we have to do anything we don’t really want to.”

“You’re twisting my words! And will you stop grinning? That’s better. It has nothing to do with wanting or not wanting. Mike, listen.”

She pushed back her hair. “When I was seventeen, I had a bad and cynical time. I did some foolish things. Jules LeFevre found me and helped me. He needed an agent who would be accepted by the world I was living in then, on the edge of the drug business, among small criminals and students and politicals. Later I became a bona fide member of the police. I worked for a time on the French Riviera, then in Lisbon. I was given money to dress well, so I wouldn’t look like a policewoman. I broke up a group of jewel thieves when I was twenty-two. I saw Jules only sometimes, and it was always business, but I had a special feeling for him. He had saved me, I think, from something very bad. All during the day today, at odd times, I have remembered that he’s dead. Killed perhaps by one of these people we are playing cat-and-mouse with. Tonight, Mike, I think we should do nothing to break our concentration. If I ever make love to you, I want it to fill my mind! After tomorrow perhaps-”

One foot grazed Shayne’s knee.

The little contact canceled her arguments, and she came in against him. But before their bodies had adjusted to each other the phone rang, not the phone in the Savages’ room, but the one on the table between the beds.

It went on ringing. By the time Shayne decided it had to be answered and reached for it, it had stopped.

“Damn it,” Christa said with a little laugh. “But you see? Definitely not tonight.”

She clicked for the operator and asked if she had a call for them. She made a sour face a moment later.

“Yes, he’s here.”

She handed the phone to Shayne. The familiar too-girlish voice of Mary Ocain exploded against his eardrum.

“Mike! Just what are you up to there, with your blonde bombshell? Why weren’t you answering your phone? You’re supposed to be working, according to the story you gave me. I think it’s too disgusting for words.”

“As a matter of fact,” Shayne said, “we were in the middle of-”

“Don’t tell me!” Mary screamed. “I know what you were in the middle of. I’ve been picturing the scene. Mike, I’m ensconced in bed with a liqueur, a box of chocolates and a ribald paperback novel. I’m wearing a new nightie I bought for this trip on the chance that I might meet some impetuous Latin. I have something to tell you, and I thought I might inveigle you into coming down? It’s Room 285, and my roommate, to everybody’s surprise, has been invited to have drinks with the captain and won’t be in till-”

“What do you have to tell me, Mary?”

“I really think you’d get more out of it face to face?”

She made it a question. “Sorry,” Shayne said curtly. “Could you move it along a little faster, Mary? I’m expecting another call. I don’t want to tie up the phone.”

“I see through that! That’s very transparent! You want to get back to your blonde. Well, I won’t keep you long, a minute or two at the most. And if at any time you want to interrupt me and come down, don’t hesitate.”

“Now that you’ve got that out of the way-”

“Yes, Mike,” she said meekly. “Coyness is one of my many vices. I know you told me to crawl back into the woodwork and leave the investigation to you, but you didn’t think I was going to plug up my ears and wear a blindfold, did you? I didn’t do anything imprudent. I took a very small risk, and it paid off. I’m alive to tell about it.”

“You aren’t telling about it yet,” Shayne said patiently.

“I’m coming to it. I was down on the beach, well-oiled because of the fact that I freckle, and there was quite a breeze blowing. In ten minutes my skin felt like sandpaper. We were supposed to stay another half hour, but I went up to the pool to rinse off, and I saw George Savage going into one of the cabanas. Nothing suspicious about that, but do you remember I told you about that big Japanese with a camera? As I was climbing out of the pool, he went into the same cabana!”

“And you decided it was just a coincidence and went up to your room to change for dinner, because you remembered I told you to stop acting like a character in a Hitchcock movie.”

“No, to be honest with you I didn’t. How often does anybody like me get a chance to do something about crime? Now, Mike, I can tell from the tense way you’re not saying anything that you don’t think it was a good idea. But I’m not a moron. I had my camera with me. If anybody saw me they’d think I was getting into position for a low-angle shot of the beach. And nobody saw me, I’m sure.”

“That’s great,” Shayne said through his teeth.

“Mike, you were right to give away that forty-seven thousand dollars! Of course, poolside cabanas are built of the flimsiest materials. I heard George say something about some arrangement he was making at the casino. I came in on the tail end of that and I didn’t know what he meant until tonight, when some of the other gals and I were arguing about why you didn’t keep the money. And it struck me. They were planning to sandbag you and make it look like a robbery!”

“Yes, Mary. Now, if that’s all-’”

“It’s by no means all! They mentioned a ship, the S.S. Mansfield City. They mentioned a location, La Guaira. For your information, if you’re not up on your geography, that’s the port for Caracas, Venezuela. And they mentioned two names.”

“Mary?” Shayne said when she stopped.

For an instant he thought the connection had been broken. Then she cried, “What do you think you’re doing? Get out this instant or I’ll-”

There was a guttural exclamation. She squealed almost comically and the phone fell. An instant later a click sounded in Shayne’s ear.

CHAPTER 11

Christa, sitting forward, questioned him with a look. He weighed the phone in one hand, then put it down.

“This may he the break I’ve been waiting for,” he said decisively. “Don’t leave this room. When Tim Rourke phones, tell him to come here.”

“Mike, we decided-”

He thrust the thirty-eight into the side pocket of his jacket. “They had no way of knowing she was calling me. It’s a chance to get everything sorted out so we’ll know where we are tomorrow. But if I do get booby-trapped, the gold is scheduled to go out of La Guaira on a ship called the Mansfield City. Give it to the cops, and let’s have everybody picked up when they make the transfer.”

“Mike, be careful.” She added softly, “Come back to me.”

Shayne gave her a slanting grin and ran for the elevators. On the second floor he looked for Room 285. The door was locked, but a locked hotel door never delayed Shayne for long. He entered carefully, his gun out. After waiting a moment, he snapped on the overhead light.

One of the two beds was turned down for the night. The other was badly tangled. A crumpled pillow and a spilled box of chocolates lay on the floor. Shayne took in the scene in a fast glance. As he turned, he heard the loud blast of an automobile horn outside. After going on too long, it broke off abruptly.

Shayne went quickly to the window.

This room was on the blind side of the building. He looked down on a dimly lit expanse of parked cars. The horn sounded again, this time briefly. A flicker of movement near one of the mercury-vapor lamps drew his eye. Three figures, a woman and two men, were struggling in the front seat of a white convertible. The top came down and hid them from view.

Shayne moved fast.

He took the stairs to the mezzanine three at a time. Still moving quickly but without seeming to hurry, he descended the curving stairs to the lobby. Ward, the Negro clergyman, was in his path, talking to one of the older women from the tour. He nodded to Shayne and turned as though to stop him.

“Meeting a plane,” Shayne said, and brushed past.

As he approached the taxi stand to the right of the main entrance, an elderly Negro sprang to attention beside a battered Checker cab.

“Cab, sir?”

“Yeah, and I’m in a hurry.”

The driver slid behind the wheel. Shayne came into the front seat beside him. The driver wheeled the cab around, completing the turn just as the convertible shot out of the driveway leading into the parking area.

“There they are!” Shayne snapped. “My wife’s in that car.”

The driver, a small man with grizzled hair and gnarled hands, came down hard on the gas. “There won’t be any-altercation?”

“Nothing like that,” Shayne told him. “This is just to see where they go, to protect myself. She’s trying to hit me for heavy alimony. Don’t hang too close. Just don’t lose them.”

“Because,” the driver continued, shifting gears, “I wouldn’t want to become mixed up in somebody else’s domestic argument. I’m a peace-loving man.”

“So am I,” Shayne said, peering ahead.

The driver glanced across at him skeptically. “And that thing that’s dragging down the right-hand pocket of your coat could be a pipe, too, but I doubt it.”

Shayne sighed. “Why do I always pick a driver who notices things? I’m a detective. The lady’s not my wife. She’s my client’s wife.” He took out a twenty-dollar bill, held it up so the driver could see the denomination, and tucked it in his shirt pocket. “All right now?”

“Well-l-”

“How long’s this Checker been kicking around?”

“Nearly as long as I have. The difference is, everything’s been replaced a few times and I’m still running on the original parts. They made a good automobile. This about the interval you like?”

“Fine.”

The convertible they were following was a recent-model Pontiac. It twisted through the cobblestone streets of the Old Town. As it emerged into the countryside, Shayne told his driver to drop farther back. The road surface became rapidly worse. The Pontiac’s big double taillights danced crazily as the wheels went into potholes or over breaks in the asphalt. The high old Checker was less troubled by the road, but the motor labored as they began to climb. “You could use a valve job,” Shayne observed.

The driver chuckled. “Can’t the same be said for almost everybody? For another ten dollars I’d be willing to cut my lights through here. I know this road like a newspaper, and it’s easy with another vehicle to follow.”

Shayne paid him, and he slowed abruptly as the lights went off. Whenever the taillights ahead vanished from view, he put his own dims back on and speeded up till the road straightened and the taillights reappeared. They crossed an intersection and continued another few miles in silence.

“This is bad country around here,” he said nervously. “The people will pick the meat off your bones, if they catch you, and leave nothing of your automobile but the chassis. I can’t make out where this fellow is going.”

“Doesn’t the road go around the island?”

“Not this one.” He swung the wheel to avoid a bad hole. “He is driving too fast for conditions. He’ll lose the bottom out of his oilpan if he isn’t careful. No, the coast road is behind us. I can tell better in a few kilometers. There is a Y ahead. If he goes to the right, it is one thing.”

The road dipped and the taillights disappeared. When they came into view again, the driver murmured, “Now we see.” A moment later: “To the left. Now we can turn around and go back to town.”

“Where are we?”

“In a district known as La Esmerelda. The right fork comes down into a valley where there are cane plantations. The left fork goes nowhere. A ridge with a waterfall, a view of the ocean. A man from New York started to put up houses there, then he went away. That is how it is done, it seems. There is one house, only half finished. People say he will return when the banks give him more money.”

They reached the fork. He cut his wheels and began to turn.

“How far is the house?” Shayne said.

“A few minutes on foot. Also a few minutes by car-the road is bad. If you listen, you can hear the waterfall.”

“Pull over and wait for me.”

“No. As I told you, this is a bad part of the mountains, and so I think I will go back to the lights of the town. If you are getting out here, that will be five dollars.”

Shayne opened his wallet. “Fifty.”

The old man shook his head. “I do not interfere in anybody’s business. But when a man with a weapon in his pocket follows a woman in a modern automobile into the mountains, I know from history that shots will be fired. And the man with no connection with the affair is always the one struck by the bullets-that is the way it happens in St. Albans.”

“I’ll make it a hundred.”

“I am truly sorry, sir. Even a third-class funeral costs more than a hundred dollars.” The valves tapped loudly as the motor idled. “I am nervous to be standing here. Are you coming or staying?”

Shayne paid him and got out. “Come back in an hour.”

Again the driver apologized; this had to be his last fare of the night.

“There is a telephone at the inn at the foot of the mountain. And of course,” he added slyly, “there is always the Pontiac.”

“Yeah.”

“The road goes straight to the site. There is a big hole, where the man planned to build a swimming pool. A person might fall into it if he hadn’t been told it was there.”

He came down into low gear and roared away.

Shayne waited for his eyes to adjust to the change of light. The noise of the Checker’s motor dwindled away beneath him. There was no moon, but the sky was brilliantly sprinkled with stars.

He started up the road, which was rutted and unpaved. In places it had washed badly. There was dense foliage on either side. As he rounded a bend, the sound of the waterfall became suddenly louder. Seeing a light ahead, he went more carefully, stopping every few steps. Soon he was able to make out the white bulk of the Pontiac, parked just off the road. As the foliage fell away on either side, a building took shape against the stars.

The light he was following proved to come from a battery-powered lantern inside the building. He heard voices, and a figure crossed in front of the light. Standing absolutely still, he let his eyes range slowly along the front of the building. It was long and low, on a single level. The framework was finished and the roof had been closed in, but construction had been interrupted with the sheathing barely begun. There was only one room with walls. Space had been left for two large picture windows looking north. At that end of the house a still-unpaved terrace stretched almost to the edge of the waterfall.

The ground was open, dotted with piles of building material. Off to the right, Shayne saw the irregular outlines of a big piece of earth-moving equipment, a bulldozer-backhoe combination.

Crouching, he moved closer to the house, his gun in his hand.

A man’s voice said complainingly, “What a bunch of bushers. How much planning went into this, I’d like to know? Very damn little. I thought I was going to be working with pros.”

Another voice, with a trace of a Japanese accent, answered stiffly, “There is nothing to talk about. We have to kill her at once. Forget about Savage.”

“Chop chop,” the first voice said with a sneer. “That’s all you know.”

Mary Ocain said brightly, “Am I allowed to say something?”

Her voice was thin and shaky, but she seemed in an odd way to be enjoying herself. Shayne reached the building line. There was a rough scaffolding still in place. Maneuvering around a low pile of cinder blocks, he moved cautiously toward the nearest opening in the plyscore sheathing.

The Japanese said sarcastically, “You don’t wish to be killed? Think of that.”

“Does anybody?” Mary said. “I don’t know what happens to murderers down here, but they’re probably executed, and I should think you’d be willing to talk about an alternative.”

The first man broke in. “Don’t let Yami scare you. He’s not going to kill anybody-we’ve got enough headaches as it is.”

“That’s good,” she said, “because I told Mike Shayne about those phony suitcases, and maybe I told other people. You can’t be sure, can you? I’ve been chattering away to various people all day. Don’t you want to avoid trouble?”

“The thing we absolutely want to avoid is trouble.”

The Japanese said, “Dead people don’t bother anybody.” A thin beam of light slanted through a hole drilled in the plyscore to admit an electrical cable. Shayne saw Mary Ocain, her ankles and her wrists bound, lying in the middle of the long room near the lantern. The Japanese, the same man who had tried to kill Shayne in the Orange Bowl, was wearing a short-sleeved pullover, flowered shorts, and sandals. His legs were knotted and muscular. The second man was sitting on a nail keg, smoking a cigar. His name on the passenger list had been given as Samuel Thompson. He was conservatively dressed and looked like a businessman.

“But why do you think we shouldn’t kill her?” the Japanese demanded. “It worries me, all this changing around. When I make up my mind to do a thing, I like to do it.”

“If we do it,” Thompson said, “if we do it, it has to be right. This is an island, don’t forget. The police here were trained by the British.”

The Japanese cut the air with his hand. “We have to decide fast and get away. We need more than just twelve hours. They can come after us in naval vessels and catch us at sea. She knows everything, about the helicopter, the name of the ship.”

Mary declared indignantly, “How can you say that? I know nothing of the kind.”

“You heard everything said in the cabana,” Thompson pointed out, “and you won’t gain anything by lying about it.”

“All I could hear was a lot of profanity. Haven’t you got any sense at all? If you’re so worried about what I heard, change your plans! Use some other ship or bury the darn gold. Dig it up when everybody’s forgotten about it.”

“How do you know it’s gold?” Thompson asked quietly.

“All right, maybe I did catch a few words!”

The Japanese swung around. “Thompson,” he pleaded, “we don’t have time. There was a car behind us coming out of St. Albans. I have a bad feeling. Something will happen unless we finish this up fast and go. No one will come up here for days or weeks. I can use a rock and we can throw her off the cliff. It will seem that she fell.”

Shayne, ready to move, saw a glitter of light against the black building-paper on the floor behind the woman-a sliver of broken glass. She had another piece of the broken pane in her hands and was working it back and forth across the cord binding her wrists.

She said hurriedly, “I have a wild idea. All this is my own fault! I have a bump of curiosity as big as a hen’s egg, and it’s been getting me in trouble all my life. I had to sneak behind that cabana. I don’t know why.”

The Japanese growled under his breath. Shayne slipped along the wall to the unglazed window.

Mary went on, “I can see you’re working yourself up to kill me. I’ll tell you what you ought to do first. You ought to rape me! Don’t laugh! Why on earth would anybody believe I fell down a mountain? What would I be doing wandering around out here in the middle of the night? Dozens of people saw me go up to bed.”

“I don’t get it,” Thompson said in a puzzled voice. “Rape you?”

“Don’t you want to make it look convincing? You don’t want the police to think it has any connection with this stupid smuggling. What happened-I decided to go out for a walk and a couple of drunken natives picked me up. They brought me up here, and after they-abused me, they were so scared I’d have them arrested-”

The Japanese gave a grating laugh.

“All right,” Mary said desperately, “so I’m not a sexpot like some people. I’m a woman! I have quite a nice-looking figure-”

Thompson said thickly, “Cut her ankles loose.’”

“Thompson-”

“It’s got to be the real thing,” Thompson insisted. “They’ll examine the body. There was a case like it last year, an American college girl.”

“All this is, she’s playing for time. Can’t you see that?”

“Maybe. But nobody followed us, Yami. You were seeing lights that weren’t there. You’re still skittery because of what happened in Miami.”

“You weren’t there,” the Japanese said sullenly. “You didn’t see it. That Shayne-”

“I am partly playing for time,” Mary put in eagerly, continuing to work away with the sliver of glass. “But there’s something else. I’m”-she hesitated-“well, it’s ridiculous, but I’m a virgin. I’ve read all the books, but I can’t imagine what the sensation is really like. You’d be giving me my last wish, don’t you see? Don’t think you have to be gentle with me just because it’s the first time.”

Shayne thumbed back the hammer of his thirty-eight and drifted slowly into the window opening. Both men were intent on the woman. Her wrists were still together, but Shayne could see that the cord had been severed.

The Japanese swore softly. A knife in his hand flicked open.

“But leave me out of it.”

He leaned down and sliced the cord around Mary’s ankles. Thompson folded his glasses and put them away, then went down on his knees.

Shayne swung into the room. Thompson looked around, blinking, and at that moment Mary brought both hands, fingers laced, down on the back of his neck.

There was a sound behind Shayne. Before the detective could turn he was hit very hard with a short length of two-by-four. He fired, but he was off balance and the bullet went into the wall. The two-by-four came back in a chopping arc and knocked the gun out of his hand.

The blow drove him out of the way of the Jap’s savage rush. Shayne caught his knife hand as it went past. George Savage, his face a peculiar greenish white, was swinging a leg over the low sill, the two-by-four ready. Shayne levered the Japanese around, trying to use him as a weapon. But his responses were slow, and there seemed to be a heavy curtain in front of his eyes, curling out gradually to wrap itself around him.

The Japanese slipped out of his grasp and sliced his hand at Shayne’s throat. Moving slowly, with the desperation of motion in a dream, Shayne caught the blow on his shoulder. Mary was gone. Thompson, he saw, was stretched out face down on the floor. The Japanese swung viciously again. Shayne went backward, blood in his eyes. He collided with George, grappled with him weakly, feeling little resistance, and subsided to the floor.

As he slipped the rest of the way into unconsciousness, he heard the roar of a car motor. Mary. The Pontiac had been parked some distance from the house, and all she had to do was keep the pedal all the way down for about thirty yards, and they couldn’t catch her.

CHAPTER 12

Shayne came back gradually, an inch at a time. He was straining against imaginary ropes, unable to move. Slowly the ropes turned into real ones. His mouth was plastered with tape. His head was bleeding.

Outside in the darkness, George was being sick again. Light glimmered in Shayne’s eyes. He tried for a moment to move his head to a less sticky spot, then gave up and rested.

The puzzle began to assume a kind of shape as more pieces fell into place. He heard voices, and after a time, they began speaking intelligible words.

“I thought Japanese were supposed to be karate experts.” That was Thompson. “She threw you about twelve feet, or was I seeing things?”

“It was aikido,” the Japanese replied. “I was never trained in aikido. And what do we do now? We have perhaps twenty minutes before the police arrive. The first thing to take care of-”

Shayne opened his eyes as a shadow came between him and the light. The shadow changed into an arm. The muzzle of a gun was pressed between his eyes.

Thompson said sharply, “Not yet.”

He knocked the gun away. The Japanese said mildly, “I can wait. So long as you understand that I am the one to do it. I have a debt to pay from Miami.”

“I think we can use him before we kill him. There is a way out of this, if we can think of it.”

“It will take much luck,” the Japanese said flatly. “None of us knows these mountains. We must go different directions and make our way to the coast. We have no chance together.”

Thompson hissed for silence. “I hear something.”

The Japanese was quiet for a moment. “Not the police. It’s too soon.”

“Tell George for God’s sake to be quiet. Let’s get Shayne-”

Shayne felt himself being pulled over on his back. Lights whirled around him. The two men dragged him into another room.

The floor here was unfinished. Thompson worked him onto a plank and pushed it across the floor joists.

“Can you hear me, Shayne? I hope so, for your sake. Don’t wriggle around or you’ll go through to the basement. That’s a ten-foot drop to a concrete floor.”

He returned to the other room and Shayne was left in darkness. Now a new sound was added to the others in his head. A car was laboring up from the main road. Headlights slid across the bare joists overhead, and he heard the familiar tapping valves of the old Checker taxi.

A car door opened.

Reverend Crane Ward’s voice called out cheerfully, “Anybody around? Hello. Hello. Is anybody home?”

Thompson answered, “Well, for the love of God, will you look who’s here? Are we glad to see you! I thought we’d be stuck up here all night. Come in, come in. Careful of that plank.”

Shayne heard footsteps crossing the crude bridge leading up to the front door.

Ward exclaimed, “Mr. Thompson! What are you doing out here in the middle of nowhere?”

Thompson groaned. “It’s a long story. This is a friend of mine, Yami Koniusha. Reverend Ward.”

The two men exchanged greetings, and Thompson went on, “I didn’t think we had a chance of getting back in time to catch the plane. Friend of mine back in Kansas City is building this place. He’s had nothing but trouble-strikes, mistakes, late deliveries. His foreman walked off with a week’s payroll. Finally he closed down to dig up some refinancing. He asked me to come up and see how it looked. Did you pass a Pontiac convertible on your way up?”

“I think I did. Going about sixty-five.”

“That’s the one. We brought a girl with us, a real wack. She took it into her head that we enticed her up here to take part in some kind of an orgy, and off she went, leaving us stranded.”

He paused, and Ward put in, “I’m looking for Mike Shayne. You haven’t seen him, have you?”

“You mean the big redhead? The one with the blonde?”

Ward chuckled. “That’s a good description. It’s a funny thing-he went barreling off in a taxi about an hour ago, and the taxi came back without him. Should I be worrying about Mike Shayne? Crazy, isn’t it? But I’m worrying about him, just the same. The driver told me where he dropped him, but he refused to go back. So I thought I’d hire the taxi and wander up to see if Shayne could use a lift back. I wonder if he could have been following you people.”

“We haven’t seen anybody.”

“There must be some explanation. He told the driver some wild story about an unfaithful wife, and unless I took the wrong road somewhere-”

Shayne, on the other side of the plywood wall, was inching toward the open doorway. His progress was steady, but much too slow. The men in the other room were winding up their explanations and preparing to leave. Shayne hooked his heels against one of the joists, and pushed off hard. The plank skidded away.

“Did you hear that?” Ward said, alarmed.

Thompson brought the lantern to the door and directed the beam around the unfinished room.

“Must be an animal,” he said. “Well, let’s get out of here. It’s a little spooky. We can cruise around and see if we can find him.”

When the light left the doorway, Shayne pivoted on one hip. For an instant his body was parallel to the joists and he was in real danger of slipping through. He completed the pivot, twisting, came forward on his knees and toppled into the room. When he looked up he was surprised to see that Ward was holding a heavy forty-five automatic.

“Put your light on the floor, Thompson,” he said pleasantly.

Thompson bent down slowly. George Savage, for the second time that night, appeared in the window opening, directly behind the clergyman. He had Shayne’s thirty-eight revolver. He looked almost too weak to stand.

Shayne began making gobbling noises behind the tape, bobbing his head at Ward and willing him to turn around. George stepped, almost fell, into the room and pressed the pistol against the small of Ward’s back.

“Too bad,” Thompson said, straightening. “You’d better drop your gun, Ward. George isn’t feeling his best tonight, but it doesn’t take much strength to squeeze a trigger. Three seconds, George. One-”

Ward’s hand opened slowly. The forty-five fell to the floor. George’s face began working. He retched, crumpling forward. Ward looked around warily as the light blinked off.

There was a rapid change of positions in the darkness. Shayne, in a series of jackknife motions, hitched toward the forty-five.

“Kill the car lights!” Thompson yelled.

Shayne’s knee struck the automatic. He reversed and convulsed himself backward, groping along the floor with spread fingers. The lights outside went off. Somebody tripped over him as his fingers gripped the butt of the forty-five.

“Reverend,” Thompson said softly, almost whispering. “Where are you now, Reverend? You shouldn’t fool around with firearms. You’re in trouble. It’s three against one, and you know you’re going to get clobbered.”

It was actually three against two, but Shayne, tied hand and foot, was not yet a part of the count. A lighted book of matches flew in the window. Thompson and Shayne were alone in the room. Thompson now had the thirty-eight which George had dropped. He whirled and stamped out the flame.

For a moment after that there was silence. It was broken by a flurry of action as two figures collided.

Shayne strained downward against the cord around his wrists. It slipped slightly, allowing him to get the muzzle of the heavy automatic to within three or four inches of his ankles. He wanted to cut the ankle cord, but it would be a risky shot. If he missed by an eighth of an inch, he would shatter his heel.

There was a stealthy movement near him. Glass crunched underfoot. Shayne backed toward the sound. After a half dozen twitching movements, he began feeling behind him for the glass.

For an instant Thompson’s figure, the thirty-eight in his fist, was outlined against a window opening.

“Move in, Yami. He hasn’t got a gun.”

George retched somewhere outside in the darkness. Shayne’s fingers scraped up a few crumbs of glass, but not enough to give him a cutting edge. Swearing to himself, he pressed down hard with the forty-five, doubling his feet up behind him and fighting to bring the muzzle of the automatic into contact with the cord. He raked the gun forward and back, within the limits of his contorted posture.

He was running out of time. He forced his ankles as far apart as they would go, corrected the line of the gun, concentrating hard, and pulled the trigger.

His feet sprang apart.

Thompson fired at the flash. Shayne rolled twice, coming up into a crouch. A figure loomed in a window. Identifying the bull neck and bristling haircut of the Japanese, Shayne hurtled at him, knocking him backward into a pile of sand.

Shayne came down with his shoulder against the other man’s throat. The Japanese grabbed up at him, raking Shayne’s face with his fingernails. Shayne uncoiled, went up in the air, and came down hard with both knees. While the Japanese clutched at himself, groaning, Shayne floundered to his feet and kicked him in the head.

He still had a firm grip on the forty-five, but he was unable to bring it around. He skidded back into the shadow of the building.

His feet struck an overturned bucket. Reversing it, he kicked it into the open. It rolled to the unguarded edge of the cliff and went over with a clatter. Thompson, inside the house, fired blindly at the sound.

There was a slight movement overhead. Looking up, Shayne saw Ward, on his knees, on the staging over the doorway, holding a cinderblock.

“Back,” the Japanese yelled. “Thompson!”

Falling forward, he wrenched at the staging. Ward threw the cinderblock and the staging came down. One of the heavy boards caught Shayne across the knees. He kicked himself free. Thompson, in the doorway, had taken the full weight of the scaffold.

The Japanese threw himself at Ward and the two men grappled, rolling over and over in loose sand. Shayne went on hunting for something sharp enough to cut the remaining cord. He kicked against a shovel. Crouching, he felt for the cutting edge of the blade. It was blunt and useless.

George stumbled against him. Shayne took him out of action again with a hard body block and kicked him twice after coming erect, making sure this time that he placed the kicks exactly where he wanted them.

Ward cried, terrified, “Don’t! For God’s sake, no! Shayne!”

The struggle had moved to the edge of the steep drop. Thompson was still clawing at the planks, trying to free himself. Shayne ran to the two grappling men, in time to see the Japanese, on top, raise his knife. Shayne crouched backward against the Japanese, touched him with the forty-five, and fired.

The bullet’s impact tore the Japanese out of Ward’s grasp and flung him sideward. He clutched out, yelled something, and went over.

Shayne began to feel frantically for the dropped knife.

“Is that you, Mike?” Ward gasped. “What are you looking for? Are you hurt?”

Shayne made an urgent sound. Didn’t the damn fool realize there was no time for questions and answers?

“God, yes-the knife,” Ward said. “Here.”

An instant later Shayne’s wrists were free. He ran for the house, pulling at the tape across his mouth. Changing direction abruptly, he took cover behind the sand pile and considered the changed situation.

The weapons were now evenly distributed, and Shayne had the heavier gun. Thompson was only a hired hand, probably with little personal stake in the venture. As soon as he realized that the Japanese was dead and Shayne had the use of both hands, he would remember the taxi and try to use it to get away.

Shayne crawled out from the protection of the sand pile. Halfway to the taxi, he saw a figure dart out of a shadow, then veer away from the edge of the unfinished swimming pool. It was Thompson. For a few steps he was hidden from Shayne by the shadow of the bulldozer. When he came out into the open again, Shayne took careful aim and shot him in the leg.

With a muffled cry, Thompson fell backward into the excavation. Shayne ran to the Checker and, after starting the motor, wheeled the cab around until its headlights illuminated the edges of the rectangular hole.

“Thompson!” he called. “Say something if you can hear me.

There was no answer.

Leaving the taxi, Shayne circled toward the bulldozer. “Put up your head and I’ll blow it off, Thompson,” he called. “How can I miss? Throw your gun out. Then crawl out slowly.”

There was still no answer. Shayne waved Ward back with a peremptory movement of the forty-five and slid around the bulldozer. Its blade was raised a few feet above the ground. He eased forward and called again.

“Thompson, you’re through. You must know that by now. You’re all alone. Yami’s dead and George is out cold. I have the forty-five. I’m in no hurry. I can wait till you bleed to death or put your head up out of that hole.”

There was a flicker of flame. A bullet whanged against the bulldozer blade and whined off into the darkness.

Shayne swung up into the bulldozer’s high cab. He didn’t know this model, but all the controls seemed to be in the usual place. Thompson scrambled into view and snapped a shot up at him. Shayne switched on the ignition. As the powerful motor took hold, he pulled the blade lever, and the blade came up slowly to protect the cab. Thompson slid back, scratching at the loose dirt.

Shayne put the monster in gear. It lunged clumsily forward. As soon as it began to tip, he cut the switch and set the stabilizers, two long hydraulic props which served to anchor the machine when the backhoe was being used.

He called down, “Let’s do it this way, Thompson. You might not feel like answering questions after you get out. Two things I want to know. Throw your gun out first.”

Thompson screamed an obscenity and tried to come in under the blade. Shayne put a forty-five slug in the dirt a few inches from his hand.

Thompson scrambled back. He had lost his glasses. His clothes were torn and filthy. He lay on his back, breathing heavily and staring into the bulldozer’s single headlight.

“Two questions,” Shayne said. “Who are you working for? Where’s the gold going?”

Thompson stared up without answering.

As Shayne started the motor again, Thompson did a terrified scrabbling dance in the loose dirt.

“The Paladin!” he yelled. “Forced landing. That’s all she told me-Shayne, look out!”

The bulldozer lurched. The left stabilizer had gone down to solid ground, but the right one was beginning to slip. The cab swung. Shayne yanked at the hydraulic control. The stabilizer went in deeper, arresting the tilt for an instant. Then the edge of the hole caved in and the big machine started to go.

Thompson, below, twisted onto his hands and knees and scrambled desperately. “The Paladin!”

Shayne pulled himself to the door and jumped. Thompson looked up over his shoulder and screamed. Slowly and deliberately, the bulldozer leaned forward and came down on top of him.

CHAPTER 13

Ward walked into the light. He had a cut over one eye, and his black clerical coat had been torn in front, showing the straps of the shoulder harness.

He and Shayne looked at each other.

“If this is what you’re like with your hands and feet tied-” Ward said.

Shayne made no reply. He returned to the house for the lantern, then hunted outside until he found George Savage, lying on the cement-flecked dirt in his own thin vomit.

George moaned as the light hit him. Gathering a handful of his shirt front in one hand, Shayne jerked him up into a sitting posture and said savagely, “We’re going to talk now, George. The Paladin. What is it, a boat?”

George’s head lolled. Shayne shook, him angrily. George dribbled something and batted at the light. Then he fell forward against Shayne’s arm.

“Sick. Leave me alone.”

When Shayne released him, he crumpled into a tight crouch.

“I can tell you about the Paladin,” Ward said.

“It wouldn’t surprise me a bit,” Shayne said briefly.

He took the lantern to the edge of the cliff and shone it down on the tumble of broken rock fifty feet below. The body of the Japanese lay face down in a pool at the base of the waterfall.

Shayne put the lantern down. Filling his cupped hands with cold water, he dashed it in his face. After repeating this several times, he washed the edges of his scalp cut with his fingers. Shaking water from his hands, he returned to George Savage.

Pulling him roughly out of his fetal crouch, Shayne slung him over his back and carried him to the stream, where he put him down and splashed water in his face.

“Information, George,” Shayne said grimly. “Your two friends are dead. What are the plans for tomorrow?”

George doubled forward and threw up. When the spasm had passed, Shayne pulled him up with one hand and slapped him.

“The Paladin, Goddamn it. Where are you taking the gold?”

George’s head fell back. Shayne flashed the light in his eyes. He was unconscious.

With a disgusted exclamation, Shayne carried him to the cab, tore his shirt into strips and lashed his hands and feet together, tightening the knots cruelly. Then he returned to the house, where the Negro was waiting, seated on an upended cinder block.

“OK,” Shayne said. He directed the beam at the Negro’s chest. “Who are you?”

“My name’s really Crane Ward, but thank God I can drop the ‘Reverend.’ It seemed like a cute idea when we thought of it, but it was hard as hell to sustain. You’ve probably guessed that I’m a Treasury Department field agent.”

“Is that why they gave me the runaround in Washington last month? Because you already had the operation covered?”

“Hell, Mike,” Ward said apologetically, “everybody knows you’re not an easy man to control. You have every reason to be mad, but I’ll just remind you that if I hadn’t followed you up here-”

Shayne cut him short. “I keep telling people I can get along without that kind of help. Two people are dead, and I don’t know a Goddamn thing more than I did before.”

“If you’ll simmer down, Mike,” Ward said more sharply, “I may be able to tell you a few things you don’t know. The reason I didn’t identify myself is because Washington ordered me not to. They didn’t tell me to use my own judgment. I called in the minute we landed in St. Albans. They said to stick to the clergyman story and find out how much you knew. They’re great believers in making the standard moves. And you must have crossed swords with the Assistant Director at some point, because he doesn’t seem to like you. Just the same, orders or no orders, I didn’t want you to get in too much trouble. You may have noticed that I’ve been dogging you around.”

“So you could knock them off when I drew them out in the open for you.”

“It’s a legitimate technique,” Ward said. “You’ve used it yourself. And there’s another angle. You won’t like this one, but I might as well tell you. The Department’s under budget pressure. We’ve been criticized for the amounts we’ve been paying in informers’ fees.”

Shayne made a gesture of suppressed fury.

“Mike, will you cork it? Ten percent of this deal would wipe out the budget item. I’m on salary. If I could wrap it up without any outside help, I’d save the Department money. But I repeat: It wasn’t my idea! I only work there. Obviously it was a mistake. If you and I had put our heads together in the beginning, this wouldn’t have happened tonight. OK. It’s water under the bridge. It’s time to adjust our sights and start over.”

“Did you know I was approached by Jules LeFevre?”

“LeFevre! Of Interpol? To do what?”

Shayne told him briefly about LeFevre’s proposition and what had happened afterward.

Ward fitted a cigarette carefully into a holder, lit it, and smoked for a time in silence.

“He was a double agent,” he said, reaching a decision. “He was working for both sides, and both sides knew it. That’s not the healthiest occupation in the world. I wonder-well, never mind for now. Mike, the Paladin is Adam’s yacht. It’s a big diesel-powered eighty-five footer, usually based in the Mediterranean. I don’t understand what it’s doing around here. Why would Adam want to have anything to do with the gold directly?”

“Mary Ocain heard talk about a ship called the Mansfield City in La Guaira.”

“The Mansfield City,” Ward said slowly. “That sounds more like it. But if they’re going to use the Paladin-”

He came to his feet. “What if this isn’t a simple change of plans? What if there are two sets of people involved? Don’t say anything for a minute. Let me work this out.”

Unable to contain himself, he took several steps, wheeled, and came back, running his fingers through his hair. “By God, if I’m right, we’re going to have the coup of the decade. Did LeFevre tell you about Adam’s big loss last summer?”

“He mentioned it.”

“All right. What if that wasn’t an accident? What if LeFevre himself-Mike, I’ll tell it to you fast. I want to get back to a phone and wake up a few people in Washington. We’ve computed that Adam has been netting over two million a year from the gold trade for the last ten years. A very low rate of loss, mostly from pilfering by his own people. Last summer he lost an entire shipment, worth a million and a half. One of his dhows went down in a storm on the Indian Ocean. A three-man crew-no survivors. They carried a good ship-to-shore radio, but they didn’t succeed in sending out any distress signals. Certainly Adam has the resources to absorb the loss, but he pulled out of the Mideast gold trade directly afterward and all at once a question occurs to me. What if that gold isn’t really at the bottom of the Indian Ocean?”

“You mean it’s in somebody else’s bank account?”

“Yes, that’s just what I mean. It would almost certainly have to be someone quite high up in his own organization. I understand LeFevre was about to retire. French police pensions are notoriously inadequate. He knew the ins and outs of the operation-”

Shayne interrupted. “Are you guessing here, Ward, or do you know something?”

“Guessing, of course. With Adam, that’s all any of us can ever do. But it’s a guess that seems to fit the facts. If it was LeFevre, he’d be careful. He had an excellent motive for carefulness. If Adam found out about it, he wouldn’t live very long.”

“He didn’t live very long,” Shayne pointed out

“True.” Ward pondered for a moment. “If I’d been doing it, I would have duplicated the shipping crates, filling the dummy crates with lead, which has roughly the weight and density of gold. The substitution could be made at any point after the gold left the vaults. And what if one of the substitute crates contained a time bomb powerful enough to blow the dhow out of the water? There would be confusion about what had happened, a chance that the theft had taken place at sea. Or perhaps the crew had been bribed to sail to the wrong place and scuttle the boat after unloading. They couldn’t count on the storm. That was a piece of luck. If Adam accepted bad weather as an explanation, or if he seemed to accept it, the thieves might be tempted to hang around and possibly try again.”

Shayne was scraping his chin, checking this new view of LeFevre against the man as he had seemed in the Miami Beach hotel room.

“Not that any of this is conclusive,” Ward went on, “but there’s a way we can find out. Adam wouldn’t be on the scene himself unless he thought he could expose the traitors and perhaps locate the missing million and a half. We can stand aside and let them cut up each other, then step in and arrest anyone who’s left. Hold on a minute. What if they didn’t grab Mary Ocain because she’s a threat to them, but to decoy you out of the hotel and make sure you wouldn’t be on the plane tomorrow? Let’s fool them. Don’t go back to the hotel. Get on the plane early and hide in the men’s room. My cover’s intact. We can give George to the St. Albans cops and have them take care of him until we’re ready to come back for him. We can stay on top of the situation all the way.”

“What if somebody wants to use the men’s room?”

Ward laughed. “There has to be some place to hide on a plane.”

Shayne said abruptly, “Are you carrying credentials?”

Ward stopped laughing. He produced a worn leather folder, which Shayne examined carefully before handing it back.

“Do you have any authority to talk about money?”

“You know I don’t, Mike. I can make a recommendation, and in view of the facts, I’m fairly sure they’ll accept it.”

“That’s not good enough.”

“Mike, I don’t understand. I was told there was some kind of personal thing between you and Adam-”

“There is. I also want the full tenth. When you talk to Washington, tell them that.”

“I can tell them,” Ward said doubtfully. “I don’t know how much good it’ll do. I take it you don’t think much of my men’s-room idea. What do you suggest instead?”

“I think we ought to stop the tour right here. Put armed guards on the plane. Then work backward from George. The Mary Ocain kidnapping gives us a handle. That’s a bad rap down here-he’ll talk.”

“But I really wonder how much he knows. You’re right-that would be one way to do it. I wouldn’t have said it was your way.”

“Four people have died so far,” Shayne said. “I want Adam as much as you do, but this whole thing has the wrong smell. We squeaked through tonight. But barely, Ward. If George hadn’t been throwing up, we wouldn’t have made it. Somebody’s pulling the strings, and before I go any farther, I want to find out who.”

Ward gave him a straight, measuring look. “You can’t hold the plane unless I’m willing to bring the Consulate in on it. You have no official status. Not only that. You’re wanted for questioning about a Miami Beach murder, and the local people have probably had a notification on that by now. Only one thing will happen-you’ll miss the plane yourself. I intend to go ahead in any case, with you or without you. I’d like my forty-five back.”

Shayne pulled the gun out of his waistband and handed it to him.

“I don’t know what’s bothering you,” Ward said. “Adam’s clever, I grant you. There’s a division of opinion on the subject in the Unit, but I’m one of those who believe he may be one of the cleverest operators around. The man fascinates me, and I know I probably think about him far too much. But how can there be one single intelligence behind everything that’s happened so far, Mike? The attack on you at the Miami stadium, LeFevre’s murder, the smuggling, that abortive business at the casino, the kidnapping-it’s too much. How are you going to get any of it explained by calling a time-out at this stage?”

“It would work if you backed me up,” Shayne insisted stubbornly.

“I’m going for the big prize,” Ward snapped. “I don’t want to settle for George Savage and a few other small fry. It wouldn’t satisfy me. Stay or go. It’s up to you.”

Shayne hesitated, then said slowly, “What the hell. I remember hearing about a stowaway who jammed himself into the tail cone of a DC-8. I don’t know how big it is.”

“Good, Mike,” Ward said briskly. “I didn’t think you were the kind of guy who’d want to play things safe.”

CHAPTER 14

Back in St. Albans, Shayne let Ward dispose of George Savage while he made a phone call.

Christa answered in their room.

“Mike! I’ve been worried half to death! Are you all right?”

“I’ve had better moments.”

“Mary Ocain called. She sounded almost hysterical. Drunk, possibly. She’s had some sort of an adventure, and she wanted to tell you she took care of it all by herself. Finally she got some good out of all her aikido lessons, whatever that means.”

“I know what it means. How about Tim Rourke?”

“He’s right here. And Mike, why didn’t you tell me? He’s a very sweet man.”

“So I’ve been told,” Shayne said drily. “Put him on.”

“Darling, will you be back soon?”

“I don’t know yet.”

A moment later Rourke was on the phone.

“Mike, if you want to know why I’m always so willing to help out, it’s because of the grade of woman you attract. I never seem to meet chicks like this except when I’m traveling with you. But one thing bothers me. What are we going to do about the sleeping arrangements?”

Shayne heard Christa’s low giggle. He grinned.

“I’ve got a couple of errands for you, Tim. You may not get much sleep. I’ve been pounded around a bit and my watch has stopped. What time do you have?”

“Four minutes to two.”

Shayne shook his watch to get it started and adjusted the hands. Ward came out of the police station and approached the booth. Shayne opened the door.

“Wait in the car, OK?”

Ward shrugged and went to the Checker. Shayne returned to Rourke.

“What’s the news from Miami?”

“Petey Painter’s very excited, but you knew that. His mustache keeps jerking. I wouldn’t be surprised if it flies off before morning. He knows you’re somewhere in Latin America, but he still isn’t sure where. He had a couple of boys tailing me, on the theory that I know more than I told him, but I left them watching a floor show while I went out through the kitchen.”

Becoming serious, he began ticking off points Shayne had asked him to check, displaying the precision and economy that made him such a good reporter.

“We were seen leaving the Sans Souci, and they have an exact time. That’s bad, because the M.E. says LeFevre died about two hours earlier. There are jimmy marks on the door but only one set, and you know who put them there-I did. The big new thing is that LeFevre wasn’t unconscious when he was slugged. There was blood in several different places. They think he was sapped a couple of times before he started to fight. They found skin under his fingernails. I know Petey wants to find out if anybody’s scratched you lately.”

“They have. They’ve also been hitting me with two-by-fours.”

“Foolish of them,” Rourke said without much sympathy. “You wanted to know about the hotel safe. There was nothing in it in LeFevre’s name-no dossier or photographs. I don’t mean somebody took them out later. LeFevre didn’t put them in. George Savage. No police record, but a girl at the paper has come up with something. Apparently he was working the Dead Sea Scrolls con in the Middle East last summer. You’ve heard of that-the mark buys some tightly rolled scrolls that an Arab has found in a cave. And, of course, when they’re unrolled, they turn out to be a map of downtown Tel Aviv. Now the captain, Joe Lassiter. Women, horses, liquor. But everybody says Pan Am gave him a wrong deal. Jimmy Moss. This boy is a red-hot. A pilot. He’s flown all over, including the Congo. He ferried planes to the Algerians. And this is interesting. It’s just a whiff, but one of my raffish friends says Jimmy may have had something to do with the big gold theft in LaGuardia Airport in New York last year. For that do you raise my salary?”

“I’ll double it. Here’s what I want now, Tim. I saw George Savage having supper by himself in the Calypso Room. I think it’s still open. He’s been through here a number of times so the girls would know him by name. Find out who served him and what he ate, and if anybody was with him at any time. He’s being sick to his stomach, and it doesn’t seem to be a simple case of too much booze. I’d like to find out if anybody fed him anything. After that, charter a small plane so you can get to Caracas ahead of us. We’re leaving at eight. You’d better be on your way by five. Alert the airport people down there. Don’t say anything about gold, but it’s all right to drop a few hints. Can you do that?”

“Easily,” Rourke said bitterly. “Five o’clock is three hours from now. By the time I talk to waitresses and persuade the charter people that my credit is good, I won’t have any time to make friends with Christa. Good planning, Mike. She wants to talk to you again.”

“Mike?” Shayne heard her say. “Shouldn’t I know what’s going on? When will I see you?”

Shayne hung up gently without answering.

“Take these,” Ward said when he dropped him. “You may need them.”

He slid the forty-five and a tiny pencil flashlight into Shayne’s hand. Shayne stuck the weapon inside his belt and stepped out of the cab.

“Thanks.”

But at this point he trusted nobody, and after Ward had driven off, he took out the gun and checked the clip. There were four rounds in it, as well as one more in the chamber.

The taillights of the Checker disappeared. Shayne was in the shopping district in the old part of town. He waited exactly fifteen minutes, then pulled a fire alarm.

A siren blew at once. The engine came careening along the high-crowned cobblestone street less than six minutes later, good time for what must have been a volunteer company. The engine was a big LaFrance pumper, probably a castoff from some fire department in the States. It was beautifully painted and polished.

Shayne leaped on the running board. “The airfield!”

The airfield was on flat ground two miles east of town. In a moment they could see the flames. Ward had started a blaze against the outer wall of a small-plane hangar, and it was burning nicely. The fire truck shot through the main gate, its bell clanging. Arriving at the fire, Shayne helped himself to one of the rubber coats and helmets on the side of the truck, picked a fire ax out of the rack, and, leaving the firemen to look after the fire, set off at a run toward the main hangar area.

Passing a guard, he shouted, “Telephone!”

The chartered DC-8 had been taxied into the first of the big hangars. Shayne found a padlocked side door and broke off the padlock with the fire ax. Inside, using the pencil flash, he found a tool closet and ditched his fireman’s gear.

Then he picked his way across the oil-spotted floor to the big plane. He maneuvered a mobile flight of stairs into place and entered by the forward door.

The tail cone was at the rear of the galley, entered through a sliding panel beneath the ovens. The space looked small and uncomfortable. Shayne crawled inside and found that he was able to slide the door shut after him. There was nothing between him and the skin of the airplane but a double layer of control wires in their fiber sheaves. Having proved that the cone would hold him, he wriggled back out to the galley. He found two or three pillows in the stewardess’s closet and stuffed them into the cone to make the ride easier. Then he opened a midget bottle of cognac, which he carried to the last seat in the passenger cabin. In a matter of minutes after finishing his drink, he had fallen asleep.

He was awakened by the sound of the hangar door opening.

He checked his watch. Unless it had stopped again, the time was 4:25. Looking down, he saw a thin flashlight beam moving toward the plane.

He dropped his empty glass into the drying rack in the galley and slid feet first into the cone, leaving the sliding door open a half inch. A moment later someone climbed the steps and entered the plane. Putting his eye to the crack, he saw the moving flashlight, behind it a pair of woman’s legs. The skirt seemed to be part of the light blue stewardess uniform. She seemed to be looking for something in the aisle. Stooping with her back to Shayne, she stripped back a section of carpet and pulled up a hatch cover. It blocked her from view.

Shayne hesitated. He could hear metallic noises in the plane’s belly. He opened the door all the way. But before he could make up his mind to move, the woman climbed out.

Startled by something, she turned off her light. The hatch cover dropped back in place. Shayne began to work his way out into the galley. A dark shadow was moving up the aisle away from him. Then high heels rang on the metal steps. He reached a window in time to see the flashlight glide across the hangar to the outer door.

He waited several minutes to be sure he was alone. Then he found the break in the carpet and lifted the aisle hatch.

The thin pencil of light showed a narrow luggage compartment running the width of the airplane. He stepped onto the top of a long metal container. It shifted beneath his weight. Apparently it rested on rollers. He lifted the hinged lid and pulled up one of the bags, a heavy fabric two-suiter. He forced the lock.

Inside, carefully swaddled in cotton waste, he found a standard four-hundred-ounce gold bar.

After thinking about it for a moment, he handed it up to the cabin and relocked the bag. Then he set to work. Twenty minutes later all the gold had been removed from the luggage and was stacked neatly in the aisle. He closed the luggage container, lowered the hatch, and replaced the carpet. There were twenty-five golden loaves. He arranged them in stacks in the tail cone.

The work had made him hungry. He had an early breakfast of croissants and cognac in the galley and then slid into the cone, arranging himself carefully amid the stacks of gold.

He was very tired. With the help of the strategically placed pillows, he was soon asleep.

CHAPTER 15

The big front doors of the hangar went up with a clang, awakening Shayne. A thin sliver of daylight came into the dark cone through the crack in the door. When he heard movement aboard the plane, he closed the door the rest of the way and rearranged his cramped body so it wouldn’t interfere with the free movement of the control wires. If the plane kept to schedule, it would be leaving in ninety minutes.

A tractor hooked onto the plane’s nose and towed it out onto the field. Shayne heard the fuel tanks being filled. The stewardesses entered the galley and began talking in confidential tones about the party in the hotel the night before. Joe Lassiter, the pilot, had drunk gallons, and he was suffering from the usual morning-after symptoms now.

“But he doesn’t frighten me half as much as some of the ice cubes I’ve flown with on scheduled runs,” one of the stewardesses commented. “He makes his mistakes on the ground.”

Time went by, the plane filled, and eight o’clock came and went. The stewardesses were kept busy. At 8:20, with the engines still warming up, both girls were in the galley at the same time, stealing a few quick gulps of coffee.

“Three passengers still missing,” one girl said. “Samuel Thompson-I don’t even remember what he looked like, do you?”

“Definitely. I had a tentative date with him at eleven o’clock last night and he never showed up. Just as well. He was sort of a creep.”

“A hell of a time for Georgie-boy to take off. Who’s going to look after the baggage?”

“You and me, naturally. Funny about Mike Shayne. I wonder what happened to him.”

The first girl made a shivering sound. “Now there’s one of the sexiest creatures God ever made.”

Shayne grinned in the darkness. The other girl said scornfully, “Sue, don’t let your glands run away with you. He scares me. I wouldn’t mind partying with him, but-”

A buzzer sounded.

“Yes, Mr. Moss. No, Mr. Moss. Let him wait. That man has a mean pair of eyes. What was the Hochberg woman telling you about Shayne?”

“He expects to catch up to us in Caracas. I don’t know if I’m imagining things, but I don’t think she was this tense yesterday. What a kooky bunch. I just hope Shayne-well, you have to admit that was weird in the casino last night.”

“I’ll tell you one thing about that stud. He can take care of himself.”

Shayne, in the tail cone, hoped she was right.

Presently the noise of the motors rose to an excited whine. The plane began to move. The jets cut loose and blew them into the air.

The pilot completed a long climbing turn and leveled off. The wires on both sides of Shayne moved imperceptibly, responding to small changes made in the cockpit. The only sound was that of air whispering along the fuselage.

The next time the stewardesses were both in the galley they were talking about a new passenger who had come aboard at St. Albans. Again, something out of the ordinary had happened, for passengers rarely joined a tour a day after it was underway. And this passenger, too, was anything but ordinary: a swarthy, handsome Brazilian with jumpy eyes. He had asked for a double Scotch and drunk it like medicine.

Suddenly the plane was shaken by a sharp explosion.

A glass shattered a few inches from Shayne’s head. After a long moment’s silence, he heard one of the girls whisper, “My God, Sue. What was that?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know.”

The buzzers were clamoring. Shayne pulled the pillows out of his way. His fingertips were on the edge of the sliding panel. As far as he could tell, the plane was flying normally, with no unusual vibration. One of the passengers in the rear of the cabin called back, demanding to know what had happened.

“Better check with Lassiter,” one of the girls said in a low voice.

“Here he comes.”

Shayne got a better foothold, ready to push off. Lassiter’s voice, easygoing and unexcited: “Did you kids hear a bang?”

“Did we!”

“Now stop shaking, dear. Nothing’s wrong with the engines. Nothing shows on the instruments. We’re on full power and everything’s answering. Where did it seem to come from?”

“Right underneath, Joe. I thought it was in one of the luggage compartments.”

Lassiter considered for a moment. “I wonder if we’re getting any tail-cone vibration.”

Apparently he squatted, ready to pull the sliding panel. His next words came from that level. Shayne’s teeth came back from his lips.

“Hell with it,” Lassiter said, and stood up. “If we’ve got one of those insurance nuts who bring in time bombs in their luggage, we’d better get back to St. Albans and check it out.”

All the buzzers were sounding now. Shayne heard Lassiter’s departing footsteps.

He pulled the door open far enough to look out. The stewardesses had begun moving up the aisle, flashing professional smiles. After Lassiter passed, a man rose and followed him into the cockpit.

The plane banked. Then it rocked and began to turn back in the opposite direction. The first stewardess swung around to look at her friend.

Almost immediately a voice came over the public address. “Ladies and-”

It was Moss’s voice. It broke off abruptly, to resume again an instant later.

“Ladies and gentlemen. This is not your captain speaking. Kind of hectic up here for a minute. Everything under control. Jaime, they’ve got a stupid idea about turning back to St. Albans, so let’s us spring into action.”

Another man went to the front of the cabin. When he turned, he was seen to be wearing a grotesque monster mask.

“This is a robbery, folks,” the public address said. “We hope nobody’s going to get hurt. This airplane has been taken over by the Venezuelan Armed Forces for National Liberation.”

A delayed scream sounded from the rear of the cabin.

“I could give you a little political lecture,” Moss was saying, “but I’m afraid it wouldn’t stay with you. So we’re passing out pamphlets, one for each passenger. Read it at your leisure. My colleague at the front of the cabin is named Jaime Sanchez. He’s a professional revolutionary. The reason he’s wearing that horrible mask is so you won’t be able to describe him to the police. Some of you probably saw him when he came aboard, but you’ve forgotten what he looks like, haven’t you? I don’t want you to remember that he has a scar over his left eye, pockmarks, and a missing lower tooth in front.”

He gave a high, happy laugh, which made the loudspeaker vibrate. “I’m holding a pistol to your captain’s head, and he intends to do exactly what I tell him. If he tries any funny stuff and I have to spatter his brains over the windshield, don’t be alarmed. You may hear the gun but don’t give it a thought. I’m a qualified pilot. I’ve logged twenty thousand miles in DC-8s. And the boys up here will be glad to help me with advice and assistance, I feel sure. Jaime, get to work.”

The masked bandit at the front of the cabin called, “Money and jewelry, passports. Watches, travelers checks, credit cards. Drop in the bag.”

He shook out a canvas U.S. mail sack and offered it to the passengers in the front seats. Moss came back on the public address.

“Don’t hold out, any of you people. When you read those pamphlets, you’ll understand the reason we need money, to overthrow a corrupt and inefficient and murdering government. And don’t forget it’s deductible. You’re really making a political contribution, but this way you can tell the Internal Revenue Service you’ve been robbed. Did you follow that?”

After each passenger contributed, Jaime gave him a pamphlet. Suddenly he reached out and cuffed somebody. Dropping the sack, he pulled a woman into the aisle. She was one of the tour’s single women; Shayne had seen her with Mary Ocain. The robber held her erect and ripped her dress to the waist. She huddled her arms together.

The voice on the public address said, “I keep thinking of things to tell you. Some of you are going to think you can get away with slipping a couple of bills in your shoe. Don’t. Jaime’s a kind of fanatic. He wants your cooperation. He doesn’t want to feel he’s forcing you to contribute against your will. Now this would be a foolhardy thing to pull with just the two of us, wouldn’t it? We have friends and sympathizers scattered throughout the plane. They’re watching you. Viva the Front of National Liberation!”

Jaime had punctuated this speech with slaps and blows. Shayne snicked back the slide of the forty-five and moved the door another inch. The robber broke the straps of the woman’s bra and turned it inside out. A small ring skittered into the aisle. He pounced on it and held it up for everyone to see.

Crane Ward finally came to his feet. “You’ve made your point. Let the woman alone.”

Jaime’s mask had huge pop eyes, a bad scar or a burn, a craggy underslung jaw. Lowering his head, he caught Ward by the front of his clerical vest and yanked him around.

“Because she hide something, I give her a kick in the pants. If a man tries to hide something, I give a crack with the gun on the side of the cheek. That way everybody knows to give me all their money.”

He walked Ward back to his seat and sat him down hard. He ground his fist deliberately against Ward’s nose and laughed.

“I spit on priests.”

He spat through the mouth hole, then wrenched the half-undressed woman around and did as he had promised-gave her a powerful kick which lifted her off the floor.

“Anyone else?” he shouted. “All of you, give everything you have and I promise we will use it for guns and ammunition to overturn the Yanqui puppets.”

His sack filled rapidly. Deciding arbitrarily that one of the old men was holding out on him, he pulled him into the aisle to be searched. Finding nothing, he apologized, gave him a pamphlet and moved on.

He bowed elaborately to the two stewardesses, in the last seat in the cabin.

“Such pretty girls. Maybe you would like to join us in the mountains? We need women to cook and mend clothes and sleep with us.”

“Thanks very much,” one of the girls said drily. “We appreciate the thought, we really do.”

Reaching down, he touched her face gently. “So pretty. Keep your money.”

He continued into the galley and bawled out loudly, “Everybody straight ahead. Look around once and I promise you-”

He dropped the sack and dried his hand on his pants. Gradually he lowered the gun until it was pointing at the floor. Shayne slid the panel open, seized the bandit’s gun hand in both his own and dragged down hard.

For that first instant, he used his full strength. The hard jerk got the movement started, and then Shayne was able to apply leverage to twist the arm. He completed the pull by releasing the wrist and delivering a short, punishing blow to the unprotected skull behind the right ear. The bandit sagged to the floor.

Moss, on the public address, was denouncing American imperialism. As far as Shayne could tell, the little flurry of movement in the galley had gone unnoticed. He ripped off the rubber mask and pulled it over his own head. Freeing the mail bag, he pulled it around to cover the Brazilian’s head and shoulders. He stood up with the forty-five.

“Got everything, Jaime?” the voice on the public address said. “You must have by now. We’ll be over Aruba in a minute. Can’t you find the buzzer? I’m worrying up here. The captain’s worrying.”

Shayne found a button labeled Cockpit and pushed it quickly. But apparently the hijackers had arranged a more elaborate signal. Moss backed into view through the curtain at the end of the passageway to the cockpit. Shayne, in his monster mask, gave him the OK signal with thumb and forefinger. Moss nodded and disappeared.

Going down the aisle, Shayne tapped Ward on the shoulder. The Negro started violently. Shayne took him back to the galley. Here he pressed the Brazilian’s thirty-eight into his hand, made a quick silencing motion, and started back up the aisle.

As he was passing Mary Ocain’s seat, the plane seemed to crash into a wall. Everything not strapped down went flying, including Mary and Shayne. He landed painfully. Mary caromed off the back of the seat in front of her and ended in the aisle beside him. She had a twenty-two automatic in one fist. He clamped his big hand over it and whispered, “Cut it out. I’m Shayne.”

“Oh, God. I was going to-”

Moss’s voice called, “Nothing to worry about. Ran into a little turbulence. Jaime, let the stews take orders for drinks. The captain wants Scotch, I’m certain. I think I’ll have the same.”

Shayne picked his way along the aisle, which was littered with bags and glasses and boxes of Kleenex. He entered the cockpit.

Moss, as he had announced, was holding a gun to the back of Lassiter’s neck. The co-pilot and flight engineer, both looking pale and scared, glanced at Shayne, then turned their heads quickly.

Moss saw the reflected mask in the windshield. “It’s OK. It’s OK. No sweat. Do you know what this madman tried to do? Kick us downstairs. I saw it coming, and luckily there’s nothing wrong with my reflexes. Get back there and tell the girls to hustle up with the Scotch.”

Shayne touched the nape of Moss’s neck with the forty-five. “Drop the gun.”

Moss’s head jerked around, then held steady. “Is that you, Shayne? Where the hell did you fall from, you son of a bitch?”

Shayne said patiently. “Open your hand and let it go.”

Moss shook his head. “Too many charges against me. Don’t be in such a hurry!” he said sharply as Shayne’s hand came up to take the gun. “I’ve got a bad rap waiting in the Congo, and I’ll be damned if I go back there quietly. You’ll do me a favor by shooting me. I’ll kill Joe to make you shoot. Shoot first if you want to, I’ll get him with the twitch.”

“We’ve got a co-pilot,” Shayne said. “He can take the plane down.”

“Mike!” Lassiter protested, his hands frozen on the controls. “Listen to what you’re saying, for God’s sake.”

Moss said hurriedly, “Make a deal, Shayne. No tricks. You’ve got your airplane back. Let me parachute over the oilfields. It’s only a fifty-fifty chance, but I generally do OK at even money-Stay where you are!” he told the copilot, who had slipped out of his seat. “Whatever you do, don’t slug me. That’s a sure bullet in Joe’s head.”

“Clancy,” Lassiter said pleadingly. “We don’t want to be vindictive with this guy. Hell, it’s politics, and who cares?”

“You don’t believe that,” Moss said with a white, crooked grin. “I never heard of the National Liberation Front before yesterday.”

“Did you take that gold at LaGuardia, Moss?” Shayne said.

“Don’t talk about gold. We’re talking about life and death.”

Clancy, the co-pilot reached around Shayne and touched Moss lightly on the neck. Moss jerked away.

“What was that?” he said sharply. “What are you trying to pull? Clancy, break out a chute. Fair’s fair. Nobody lost anything. They’ll all have a good story to tell when they get back home.”

Clancy said, “I think he’s got us by the short hairs, Joe. Why don’t we let him jump? The chances are they’ll pick him up before he can get out of the country. And the big thing is, you’ll be alive.”

“Something in that,” Lassiter agreed.

All at once, Moss’s shoulders lost their tension. He lowered the gun, turned around and smiled at Shayne.

“Mike Shayne. You look great in that mask, baby. It does something for you.”

Shayne picked the gun out of his fingers. Lassiter breathed out in relief.

“You won’t give us any more trouble now, will you, Jimmy? You’re going to put your hands out for the handcuffs.”

“Absolutely,” Moss agreed. “But it was a good try. We lost a man last night, and to tell you the truth, I didn’t think we could make it with just the two.” He leaned back against the wall. “Somebody say something about a drink?”

Shayne sent the co-pilot a questioning glance.

“A tranquilizer,” Clancy explained. He showed Shayne a small disposable syringe. “When somebody went out of his head in the old days, he could break up the plane. Now you hit him with a needle and he starts agreeing with you.”

“You’re so right,” Moss said pleasantly. “Why shorten your life by fighting and hustling? Look at that.”

He waved out the window. They were flying above the cloud deck, and the fleecy cumulus beneath them was piled up in fantastic storybook formations. They passed a break in the clouds and saw the sea far below.

“Lovely,” Moss said. “But after the first couple of years in the business, we never look at it, do we, Joe?”

CHAPTER 16

Shayne tried questioning Moss about who had organized the hijacking, but Moss turned the questions with a vague smile.

“It’s not like a truth drug,” the co-pilot explained. “It just takes off their edge.”

“Sit down, Moss,” Shayne said.

Smiling engagingly, Moss slipped down the wall to a sitting position on the floor.

“It seems to work,” Shayne said dubiously. “How long until it wears off?”

Clancy shrugged. “Couldn’t tell you. I only had to use it once, and the guy was still behaving himself an hour later. We hit Maiquetia in fifteen minutes, which gives us plenty of leeway.”

“Get me a couple more of those syringes. I’ve got another problem out in the cabin.”

Clancy stepped into the crew compartment. Shayne turned back to Lassiter.

“Joe, remember the girl you had drinks with last night?”

“Vaguely. Why?”

“Who made the first move? Her roommate had visitors later. They knew they’d find her alone.”

Lassiter’s shoulders lifted. “I believe in mixing with the passengers. It’s not part of the charter, but I do what I can to make the trip memorable. I’m a slob that way-after a given amount of Scotch, they all look like Elizabeth Taylor. Last night there was quite a bit of coming and going.” Sue Cornelius, the stewardess, entered nervously with a silver tray. She shied back from Shayne in his grotesque mask and looked in surprise at Jimmy Moss relaxing on the floor.

Moss grinned up at her. “Honey, from this angle you’ve got the nicest pair of stilts on this airline. Is one of those drinks for me?”

“No,” Shayne said.

He emptied the two bottles over the ice and handed a glass to Lassiter.

“Captain, are you sure you ought to-” the stewardess began.

“I’ve had a lunatic holding a gun to the back of my neck for the last ten minutes,” Lassiter said, “and I’m vibrating more than the Goddamned airplane.” He drained the glass in one long swallow. “Which is vibrating more than usual, it seems to me. What’s it like in the galley? Are you feeling a kind of drag?”

“I didn’t notice anything.”

“A sort of downward yank to the left.” He took a quarter turn on the stabilizer. “There it is again.”

Clancy, returning to the cockpit, handed Shayne two syringes. “Captain, shouldn’t we take another look through the drift meter? If one of those baggage hatches has sprung open-”

Lassiter set the autopilot button. The drift meter was a periscope-like device which snapped into position between the seats when a catch was released. Lassiter brought the eyepiece up into position and squinted into it. He grunted.

“Open?” Clancy said quickly.

“Ease back on the throttles. More. A bit more. The Goddamned pod is three-quarters out of the compartment. I’m going to try something.”

He snapped off the auto pilot, peering out the windshield, down and to the right. During the last few minutes the clouds had thinned into ragged ribbons of mist. Shayne saw a low-lying coastline and the mouth of a big river.

He tore off his mask. Crouching, he applied his eye to the drift meter. The long coffin-shaped container protruding from the plane’s belly was the one that had held the gold.

“Why not dump it, Joe?” the co-pilot said. “The insurance will cover. If it kicks out over land we may kill somebody.”

“No, there’s something funny about this. I mean that explosion back there. Tell me what happens, Mike.”

He gave the engines a sudden goose, kicked the pedals, and banked sharply. But the pod had already moved to its exact point of balance, and the sudden twist, instead of sending it back safely into the plane, shot it out and away.

Shayne watched it fall, tumbling end over end until it splashed into the water some fifty yards offshore.

“Lost it,” he said, lifting his head. “Clancy, I want a fix on where it went in, as close as you can get it.”

“That’s like seventy-five or a hundred feet of water,” Lassiter said. “Do you really want to bother?”

“I really do,” Shayne said.

The stewardess breathed, “Mike Shayne!”

“Don’t spread it around.” He pulled the mask over his head. “Didn’t somebody tell me you think I’m sexy?”

“Not in that,” the girl retorted, and left the cockpit.

Shayne leaned past Lassiter to look down as the dense tropical foliage of northern Venezuela ran past beneath them.

“Where did he tell you to land?”

“An airstrip in the oilfields,” Lassiter told him, “but I know that strip. It wasn’t built for this big a plane. I see the way your mind is working, but let’s not, huh? I’ll put down at Maiquetia, where they expect us, and we can tell our story. Much safer. Much better all around.”

“Clancy, get another couple of Scotches up here for Joe. We’re going to land on that airstrip.”

“Like hell we are,” Lassiter said. “I’m captain of this airplane, and we’re landing in comfort and safety at a modern airfield with up-to-date radar and good communications. I’m not that interested in rounding up a few guerrillas. If it comes to that, I sympathize with them. This government’s Godawful.”

Shayne broke off the plastic tip of one of the syringes. “Jimmy Moss is no guerrilla.”

“I am, in a way,” Moss said from the floor. “But I’ve got my own methods.”

Darting the needle at the side of Lassiter’s neck, Shayne depressed the plunger. Lassiter started up.

“I know what you’re trying to do! But you won’t get away with it!”

The anger drained out of his face and he concluded, sitting back, “Well, it’s going to be a tight landing, but just as you say, Mike.”

“Can you raise the Maiquetia tower?” Shayne said to Clancy. “Tell them we’re making an emergency landing and to get a company of infantry up here as fast as they can because we’ve been hijacked by the National Liberation Front. Then break off and don’t answer any questions.”

They passed over a huddle of derricks on the bank of a river. Lassiter put the plane into a slow bank to the left.

“See that little ribbon of Scotch tape down there?” he said happily. “It’s a real challenge.”

Picking up the PA microphone, he called, “Going in for a landing. You’re about to see a picturesque portion of Venezuela that’s not on the regular tour. We are now in oil country. Never mind fastening your seat belts, because, if we don’t make it on the first pass, we won’t make it at all. But we’ll make it. If I can keep from hitting those derricks, I think we’ll be fine.” Clicking off the mike, he told Clancy, “Drop the gear. Then give me the flaps. Gradually.”

“We’ll still be going one-seventy, Skipper-”

“So we’ll lose a few doors. You said a very deep thing a couple of minutes ago-let the insurance company worry.”

Shayne left the cockpit. The passengers seemed rigid with fear. When he passed Naomi Savage, she said bitterly, “You know you’ll be shot for this.”

He didn’t reply. The Brazilian in the galley was conscious, leaning on his elbows staring up balefully at Ward.

The Negro said quietly, “Are we in control of the plane, or are they?”

“I still don’t know,” Shayne said, stripping the plastic guard from the syringe. “We’ll find out when we land.”

The Brazilian, seeing what was coming, tried to shield his face from the needle, and Shayne injected him in the back of the wrist.

“We’re all friends,” Shayne told him. “Follow me and don’t say anything. Do as I tell you. Ten minutes from now we’ll be having a drink to celebrate.”

The Brazilian asked a puzzled question in Portuguese. Shayne repeated his instructions, but the man still didn’t understand. One effect of the drug had been to knock all the English language out of his head.

“Send Christa back here,” Shayne told Ward. “Then, for God’s sake, get rid of that clerical collar.”

Christa hurried down the aisle.

“Do you speak Portuguese?” Shayne demanded without preliminary.

“Mike!” she exclaimed. “You know-I wondered when I saw those shoulders. Portuguese, yes. Well enough.”

“Tell this guy I want him to do exactly what I say. To stick close to me and keep his mouth shut. When I want him to do something, I’ll use sign language.”

She nodded. “But I don’t want to make any mistakes. I’d better understand what you’re doing.”

“Making it up as I go along, as usual,” he said abrasively. “We’re being met. I want to find out where they take us. He’s tranquilized, but I want him to understand that I’m the boss. And ask him if he has another mask. He must have brought one for Thompson.”

She nodded again, thought for a moment, and broke into a stream of Portuguese. The Brazilian, looking up at Shayne, beamed with pleasure. “Sim, sim.” He pulled another monster mask out of his pocket. “Thompson. Pois sim.”

Shayne tossed it to Ward when he came back, wearing a black turtleneck.

“Hang on, boys and girls!” Lassiter yelled over the public address.

Shayne saw Naomi Savage watching him, her eyes narrowed. The plane touched down, bounced high in the air, and came down again. Shayne gestured to the Brazilian, who leaped to his feet, eager to start cooperating. Shayne took a loop in the neck of the mail bag and brought it with him.

The plane skidded the last fifty feet with locked wheels, slewing around and coming to a stop less than half a length from the end of the asphalt. Lassiter met Shayne at the head of the aisle.

“You may not know it, but that was a pretty piece of flying.”

“Not bad at all,” Moss agreed, behind him.

Shayne pushed the door open. A battered pickup was racing down the strip.

“Moss,” Shayne said crisply. “Everything’s going to go just the way you planned it. Who’s in charge of the truck?”

“Guy named Nikko. A Greek. And talk about wild men.”

The truck skidded under the wing and pulled up below the open door. Three men burst out of the front seat. All three were dressed in splotched green-and-brown coveralls, with full beards and wraparound dark glasses. One of them began unloading a ladder.

“Viva the NLF!” one of the others yelled, waving his submachine gun, a battered German Schmeisser.

Ward said in a low voice, “That’s a lot of fire power there, Mike. I think we ought to stop it.”

“Too late,” Shayne said as the ladder dropped into place.

He motioned to Moss. After an instant’s hesitation, Ward followed Moss out the door. Naomi Savage, running up the aisle, stumbled against Shayne before there was room for him on the ladder. As he thrust her off, she pressed a crumpled piece of paper into his hand.

Two of the bearded men were unloading luggage containers while the third, a big, smelly man with a broad chest and powerful bare forearms, hurried them along with sweeps of his submachine gun. Shayne threw the mail sack into the back of the truck.”

“That you, Nikko?” he said. “We had a little trouble. I think they got off a radio message before I smashed the set.”

“Christ,” Nikko said hoarsely. “Then we hurry, eh?”

Shayne’s men, Ward and the two tranquilized hijackers, jumped in the back of the truck to load the pods as they came out of the plane. One of the guerrillas yelled something in a language Shayne didn’t understand, certainly not Spanish.

“Only two containers?” Nikko said. “There were to be three.”

“I don’t know about that,” Shayne said. “I do know we’d better get the hell out of here.”

Nikko signaled and the men mounted.

“In front, Thompson,” he told Shayne.

CHAPTER 17

Two cars were parked beside a bulk-gas pump in front of a long wooden shed. As the truck careened onto an unpaved road running at right angles to the strip, Shayne saw two bound and gagged figures lying in the dust in front of the shed.

“I’m not Thompson,” he said. “Thompson had an accident in St. Albans and he missed the plane. They brought me in at the last minute and nobody explained anything. What’s this Liberation Front crap?”

Nikko laughed. “To throw pepper in their eyes, you understand? Where does she want us to land you?”

Shayne hesitated a fraction of an instant. “So long as it’s near a commercial airport.”

“That will be easy. Is there something the matter with Moss? He has a strange look.”

“The sauce head-he’s been hitting the booze all morning. We came down just in time. Half an hour more and he wouldn’t be able to navigate.”

“A crazy, that one. He steals gold. Sells it at seventeen dollars an ounce. Then steals it again. For the last time, I hope!”

The driver had been told to hurry, and he was doing sixty on the rough road. Bulldozed through the jungle by an American oil company, it ran as straight as a rule. When they reached the coast they passed rapidly through a fishing village and started west. Minutes later Shayne saw a modern hydrofoil launch drawn up on the sand between the road and the water. The driver swung off the road and kept going until he mired down in the sand.

In a moment the mail bag and the two luggage pods were loaded. Heaving together, they ran the hydrofoil down the hard sand into the water.

Ward pulled at Shayne’s arm as the motor started. “Now!” he said urgently.

Shayne counted heads. Moss and Sanchez, the Brazilian, had dropped onto the padded seats to enjoy the feeling of the wind in their face. They would be neutral. The three make-believe guerrillas still wore their tommy guns. Nikko, on the stern bench smoking a small brown cigarette, held his gun cradled easily in his arms, one hand stroking the trigger assembly.

When Ward gestured again, Shayne shook his head.

They were traveling very fast on their cushion of air. It was a smooth ride but a noisy one. Nikko pointed ahead after a time, and Shayne saw a big yacht, riding easily in the long swell. The gap between the boats closed rapidly. Soon Shayne was able to read the legend on the stern: the yacht was the Paladin, out of Monte Carlo.

Two sailors in striped jerseys waited at the rail, ready to drop the yoke as soon as the hydrofoil coasted alongside. After an exchange of signals, the smaller boat was hoisted aboard.

Nikko leaped down lightly. “It worked like a clock! Smooth. Easy.”

He yelled a command. Shayne ripped off his mask and tossed it overboard. Ward’s came off more slowly. The Greek’s smile faded as he noticed the Negro. He looked indignantly at Shayne.

“Nobody told me I would have a Neg-”

“You’ll have to bear up,” Shayne told him. “It’s in a good cause-money. Let’s have a drink.”

Nikko called to one of the sailors, who ran for a bottle and glasses. The sea anchor had been drawn in smartly and the yacht was heading east. The guerrillas peeled off their beards and jungle camouflage, emerging in the same striped jerseys and white shorts worn by the rest of the crew. Counting the unseen sailor at the wheel, the Paladin carried a crew of six.

Ward edged behind one of the men with the tommy guns and looked at Shayne. Again Shayne shook his head.

Nikko, without the beard and the dark glasses, proved to be a man of about thirty, with bronzed skin and dark, curly hair. In a jovial mood, he filled the glasses with a colorless liquor and handed them around, making a point of skipping Ward. They toasted each other and drank.

While the crewmen began manhandling the luggage containers out of the hydrofoil, Shayne moved to a spot where he wouldn’t be observed and smoothed out the slip of paper Naomi Savage had pressed into his hand.

It said: “Mike, she told Sanchez to kill you.”

Shayne wadded it up and flipped it into the sea. Again there was a swift reshuffling of friends and enemies. Christa had given Sanchez his orders in Portuguese. But could Shayne be sure that Naomi was telling the truth?

Nikko shouted angrily. His men had opened several suitcases pulled at random from each luggage container. Shayne lumbered toward him, loosening his shoulders. “Anything wrong?”

“Indeed something is wrong. Where are the gold bars?”

“How should I know, for Christ’s sake? I thought it was some nutty political thing, the way everybody was shouting and giving away pamphlets. Don’t look at me! I’m getting a thousand bucks and some free transportation. I needed the transportation more than the cash.”

“Moss,” Nikko said.

“Hey? What’s bothering you, buddy?”

“Wait a minute,” Shayne said suddenly. “Where was this gold? In one of these luggage things?”

One of the sailors pulled out another piece of luggage and ripped it open with a knife. Plunging both hands into the gash, he pulled out a double handful of women’s underclothing and scattered it about the deck.

“Nothing.”

Shayne went on, “There was an explosion in one of the luggage compartments right after we left. Remember that, Moss? And then later they did some tricky flying when they came in over the coast. They rocked the plane-back and forth. And I’ll be damned if I don’t think-look out!”

Jaime Sanchez, the Brazilian, snatched up the knife the sailor had put down and took two dancing steps across the deck, screaming in Portuguese. But he was confused about his orders. Instead of going for Shayne, who had his forty-five out and was ready for him, he drove his knife at Ward’s stomach.

Shayne shot him in the head.

The knife passed under the Negro’s arm. Momentum carried Sanchez another step. He struck the rail and went overboard.

The action was over in an instant. Shayne came around with the recoil, but Nikko was equally fast. His tommy gun was already up, covering Shayne. Another tommy gun was pointed at Shayne from behind.

“Goofed up on something,” Shayne said in disgust. “I thought so. Now, is anybody going to tell me what this is all about?”

Nikko stepped closer and took the forty-five. Another sailor disarmed Ward. “Get inside,” Nikko said.

Moss said amiably, “Anything I can do for anybody?”

“Get inside,” Nikko repeated. “All of you.”

Herded by tommy guns, the three men from the plane were driven into the salon.

Ward remarked casually, “Any of those needles left, Mike?”

Nikko snapped, “No talking! I want three separate stories.”

He gave quick orders. Moss was locked in the head. Ward, with an armed sailor, was put in a bedroom. Shayne remained in the main salon with Nikko and another of his men. The room was furnished like a movie set, with a white llama-skin carpet, a Picasso, a well-stocked bar.

Slinging his tommy gun, Nikko touched Shayne in several places until he located his wallet. He flipped through the identification cards. He muttered under his breath and slammed the wallet down on a glass-topped table.

“Private detective. Private detective! And now I want to know what happened on the plane. No lies! No lies, Mr. Shayne!”

Breathing hard, he filled a small cup with coffee from a silver urn.

“No lies,” he repeated. “Tell me the truth about the gold and we may not kill you.”

“I’ve already told you I don’t know a Goddamn thing,” Shayne said, dropping onto the arm of an upholstered chair. “I had a fight with Thompson outside the St. Albans casino. He lost. In fact, he’s dead. That left the operation one man short. I didn’t want to hang around and stand trial for manslaughter. The lady asked me if I could use a thousand bucks.”

“What lady?”

“Let’s not quibble about things you already know,” Shayne said impatiently. “You’ll want to know why I was in St. Albans. I was tailing Moss. I picked up a tip that he was involved in that gold job at LaGuardia. That puts me at the wrong end of the gun, I realize, but don’t tell your boy to blast me yet. There really was an explosion on the plane. You’ll want to check that with your own people, or maybe you won’t, I don’t know. Somebody’s trying to pull a switch here. Until you find out who it is, it might be a good idea to watch your step. The plan was-am I going too fast for you?”

“Go faster. The plan was-”

“To blow the door, then tip the airplane and dump the container where they could find it later. So I have something to sell you. I know exactly where it went in, give or take a couple of hundred yards. It’s between a wooded point and the mouth of a river. In a certain light, you might be able to spot it from the air.”

Nikko muddled his coffee vigorously with a little spoon. “Who was flying the plane?”

“Joe Lassiter. Pan American fired him for drinking and gambling and getting in trouble with too many women. All he had to do was heel over hard at a certain time. He’d do it for whiskey money, without asking questions.”

Nikko considered, his handsome dark face screwed up uncomfortably. Suddenly he cocked his head.

“Helicopter!”

He snapped a command to the sailor and ran on deck. The other sailors collected quickly and began pulling the luggage containers undercover. When the helicopter came over, the deck was empty.

Shayne, in the salon, indicated by gestures that he wanted a drink. The sailor warned him away from the bar with a shake of his head. Shayne waited a moment. Without asking permission, he helped himself to coffee.

The helicopter went over, hesitated, and came back. It was possible, though not likely, that Tim Rourke, at Maiquetia airport, had persuaded the Venezuelan police to send this helicopter, but Rourke had no way of knowing about Adam’s yacht or that it had anything to do with the DC-8’s unscheduled landing in the oilfields. And yet it was clear that the people in the helicopter were curious about the Paladin. As the yacht changed course, the helicopter followed, hanging several hundred feet above the stern, sometimes on one side, sometimes on the other.

Shayne began wandering about the room, trying to think of some way to call attention to the fact that the Paladin had prisoners aboard. Seeing his wallet on the table where Nikko had dropped it, an idea hit him. Ward’s remark about the needles had been picking at the edge of his consciousness, but Clancy had given him only two and he had used them both. As he arranged the identification cards that Nikko had scattered, his mind jumped back thirty-six hours.

Two nights before, an unknown person had planted a square of blotting paper in LeFevre’s wallet, with the obvious aim of implicating Shayne in a hallucination murder. To complete the picture, to make it totally convincing to the police, there also ought to be-

He ruffled quickly through the cards without finding anything. He checked the other compartments in the wallet: nothing. Finally, ready to conclude that the idea was more wishful then realistic, he pulled his Florida driver’s license out of its transparent plastic cover. A scrap of blotting paper fluttered to the floor.

The sailor with the tommy gun was watching closely, frowning. He was a strong young boy, with heavy eyebrows and deep-set eyes. Shayne grinned at him. He returned the wallet to his hip pocket, buttoning it in, and picked up the blotting paper.

Tasting the thick, bitter coffee, he made a face.

“Cold.”

Shielding the movement with his body, he dropped the blotting paper into the cup. Again without asking permission, he poured the coffee back and turned up the heat beneath the urn.

After another moment, he refilled his cup, filled another for the sailor and took it across to him.

“Hell, let’s be friends,” he said cordially. “When this is over, we’ll all be rich.”

The sailor looked at him suspiciously, thought about it, and finally accepted the cup. Shayne gave him an encouraging wink.

“Nothing like coffee. I know we’re all worried about that chopper, but they’ll go away in a minute. Everything’s going to turn out all right.”

The sailor stirred in sugar and took a noisy sip, still without taking his eyes off Shayne.

“Greece,” Shayne said. “It must be a great place. I admit I don’t like the liquor much, and I can’t say much for the coffee, but drink up, will you? We don’t have a hell of a lot of time.”

He motioned with his cup and put it to his lips. The boy went on drinking, his eyes alive with suspicion. With LeFevre, Shayne remembered, a vague, foolish look had spread over his face when the drug took hold. It had happened suddenly, as though a switch had been thrown. The boy sipped his way through the coffee and tipped the cup to get the dregs at the bottom. Overhead, the helicopter fell away and came back.

Shayne was on the point of deciding that the blotting paper hadn’t been in the urn long enough to affect the coffee.

Suddenly the boy rose several inches in his chair. The look on his face was a duplicate of the one Shayne had seen on LeFevre’s. He drew a deep breath, and as he breathed out, all his tension left him.

“Nice gun,” Shayne said, pantomiming taking an imaginary tommy gun off his shoulder. “Let’s have a look.”

He held out his hand. Without hesitation, the boy closed the safety and handed him the weapon.

Shayne snapped out the clip and cleared the chamber. He shucked the forty-five rounds into a drawer in the table, returned the empty clip to the gun, and clowned with it for a moment, wiping out imaginary enemies. He opened the coffee urn and stirred the coffee with the barrel, to the boy’s amusement. Shayne gave the gun back, dripping coffee.

The helicopter dropped away behind them, but Shayne could still hear the rotor thumping steadily in the distance. The sailor was still laughing when Nikko came in.

“You can’t laugh your way out of this, please believe me,” Nikko told Shayne. “You think you’re safe because of so many witnesses. Put it out of your mind. I take only relatives and fellow townsmen as members of my crew. This is my nephew Chris. If I say the word, he will shoot you like a rabbit and drop you over the side with weights fastened to your ankles. I am not talking big, just telling you the facts.”

Glaring at Shayne, he drew a cup of coffee.

CHAPTER 18

He stirred in two spoonfuls of sugar and began to drink without sitting down.

“Who is responsible for this helicopter?”

“Adam, naturally. You know that.”

Nikko’s eyebrows came down. “I see. Are you working for him?”

“I’m a free agent. But I’m always looking for this kind of situation. After the fighting stops, there’s usually something left over for me.”

“So the other story, about following Moss to St. Albans, that was a lie. I told you not to tell lies. You’ll regret it. What do you know about Adam?”

“Not enough,” Shayne said curtly. “But you couldn’t bring the Paladin across the Atlantic on your own responsibility. He must be somewhere around. His original idea was to transfer the gold to a helicopter and fly it down to La Guaira. That was before everybody started thinking up variations. We radioed Maiquetia before we landed. His obvious move as soon as he heard about the hijacking was to get the chopper in the air and come looking for us. Of course, he’d recognize his own boat.”

Nikko wet his lips. His eyes were worried.

“You’ve got a choice now,” Shayne continued. “You can throw the luggage overboard and head back to wherever you’re supposed to meet him, and pretend you were just out for a sail. Or you can cut back up the coast and dive for the gold in the morning. But you’re fooling with a dangerous man. A powerful man. Why not be satisfied with the million and a half you took him for last summer?”

Nikko sipped his coffee, examining Shayne. He didn’t react, so perhaps the drug was beginning to reach him.

Shayne went on, “You’ve been out of touch. Did anybody tell you that LeFevre’s dead?”

“Oh? I’m sorry to hear that. How did he die?”

“Murdered,” Shayne said. “I think your best bet might be to throw in with us and see if we can nail your boss for conspiracy. As far as I can see, that’s your only real out. I don’t think you can talk your way out of this. He probably suspects you already. I think he wanted to throw a little temptation in your way, to see how long it would take you to give in to it.”

Nikko sat down and said politely, “An interesting idea. You may very well be right.”

“I think so. Let’s kick it around and decide what to do next. I need a drink. Do you want anything, or are you going to stick with coffee?”

“I’ll stick with coffee.”

Shayne poured himself a cognac. “You were lucky last summer, weren’t you?”

“Because of the storm-I agree, very lucky. Otherwise, luck had no part in it. I was at Alexandria with the Paladin. I slipped down and picked up the gold and returned to Alexandria. It was arranged by LeFevre so no mention of the Paladin appeared in the Suez records. So why should this stupid Englishman think I had anything to do with the affair at all?”

“I see you don’t know him very well.”

“Quite true,” Nikko conceded. “He sends guests to the Paladin. He seldom comes himself. He’s too busy making money! Once, in eighteen months. And then only from Friday to Monday. To have a boat like this and never use it-insane.”

“Where have you been since summer?”

“In the Mediterranean. The Greek Islands, the Adriatic.”

The boy with the tommy gun leaped to his feet. He unslung his gun and gave it to Shayne. Then, in absolute silence, he began a violent mountain dance, leaping, whirling, slapping his ankles. Nikko ignored him.

Shayne opened the mail bag containing the loot from the plane and began sorting out passports.

“Nikko,” he said. “Nikko!”

The Greek looked up from his cup, which he was holding delicately in both hands.

“If we’re going to be on the same side,” Shayne said, “I don’t want to put my head out the door and have somebody take a shot at me. How about asking the boys in for a drink or a cup of coffee?”

“My sailors are not allowed to drink at sea,” Nikko said. “That is an absolute rule. Coffee-yes. Excellent. I will brew more.”

“I just looked. There’s enough for now.”

Nikko yelled at the sailor and made him stop dancing. The boy, told what to do, nodded and went out.

Shayne continued, “It’s always seemed to me that the hardest thing about a job like yours must be the women. How do you cope with them? They have nothing to do all day but lie around in bikinis, drinking and smoking pot and thinking about sex-”

He passed Naomi Savage’s passport picture in front of the Greek. “How’s this one in bed?”

Nikko shook his head dreamily. “I don’t think I know her.”

Shayne tried Christa, and again Nikko shook his head. Next was Mary Ocain.

“I didn’t think it would be possible, you know,” Nikko said. “I have always had beautiful women. A little stupid often, but who objects to stupidity in a young beautiful girl? With this one I had to grind my teeth. Then she went out of her head with joy! It was extraordinary. It changed my views about the ugly ones.”

“Was it LeFevre’s idea?”

“Oh, yes. I carry out the plans other men make for me. I have had a limited education.”

“Where’s the gold now?”

“Ah-” Nikko began giggling. “Who would guess?”

Three sailors trooped in. Nikko greeted them in rapid Greek and hugged Shayne demonstratively to show how matters had changed. Shayne supplied each man with coffee.

“There’s still the kid in the window,” Shayne said. “Do you want me to call him in?”

“No, let the black man sweat.”

“Nikko,” Shayne persisted, “you were about to tell me what you did with the gold.”

“Gold. People worry and worry and kill each other for it. Why? What pleasures does Geoffrey Adam get from all his money? He will invite a famous actress to come on a cruise among the islands, and then he sends a telegram. ‘I am delayed. Business.’ And the actress must content herself with Nikko Pappadotos. I have forgotten why I was angry with you, my dear friend. LeFevre is dead. We will all die. He was never satisfied. He wanted more victories. An intelligent, educated man. Dead, as you say.”

He rushed to the record player. “Music.”

He dropped several records before succeeding in fumbling one onto the turntable. It was American jazz, dating back to the big-band days of the 1930s. The sailors watched in wonder. He flung around the room wildly. Then he halted, a thoughtful look on his face, and subsided onto the white rug.

Shayne, the empty submachine gun over his shoulder, opened the door to the bedroom and stepped in. The guard whirled.

“I don’t suppose he speaks English,” Shayne said to Ward.

“Not a word.”

“Then we may have to jump him.”

Ward had been lying on one of the twin beds with his hands behind his head. He came to his feet casually. Shayne moved out of the doorway so the boy could look into the next room, where the loaded coffee was beginning to take effect. He was as young as the boy who had been guarding Shayne, but he was sullen-looking, his face pocked and pitted.

Shayne kept his voice pleasant. “I suppose those are friends of yours in the helicopter.”

“I think so,” Ward answered. “I told them we might have trouble. They don’t seem to know what to look for, do they?”

The sailor stared at the scene in the salon. Nikko lay on his back, helping Tommy Dorsey conduct the orchestra. One of the sailors chased another out on deck. The third had begun to exercise with whiskey bottles.

Ward took a step forward, but the boy went into a tense crouch and snapped out a command.

“You may have to kill him,” Ward said.

“I hope not. I’m already over my limit.”

Turning back into the salon, Shayne picked two bottles off the shelf behind the bar and began swinging them like Indian clubs. The other sailor, who was doing the same thing, hesitated and lost his rhythm. His bottles met and shattered. He gave a shout of delight.

He and Shayne embraced warmly. Shayne turned it into a clumsy dance, steering him into the bedroom. The Greek guarding Ward retreated. He yelled to Nikko for help as Shayne whirled his partner around and pushed the two Greeks together.

The boy with the gun floundered, trying to throw his friend off. Shayne freed his right hand and chopped it at the exposed side of the boy’s face. He went backward, his mouth beginning to open. Shayne closed it with a powerful left and the boy went down.

The drug working inside the other Greek now changed direction. He bellowed with rage and slashed at Shayne’s face with the broken bottle. As Shayne dodged backward, he lost control of the Schmeisser. It clattered to the floor. The sailor struck twice more, out of time to the music.

Shayne feinted. The murderous bottle neck returned the feint, a tick slow. The boy darted at him, missed with an upward swipe, and raked Shayne’s arm, from the elbow to the wrist. Shayne slammed his left fist into the boy’s abdomen, all but breaking him in two. At almost that exact second, Ward swung the Schmeisser like a hatchet; Shayne pulled out of the boy’s way as he fell.

There was an instant’s silence as the record completed one track and moved to the next.

Ward had snatched up the Schmeisser Shayne had dropped, and now he had them both, which wasn’t the way Shayne had wanted the argument to end. Shayne went into the salon and turned off the record player. When Nikko started to come to his feet, Shayne dragged him into the bedroom. Moving the key to the outside of the lock, he closed the door and locked it. The Negro, between Shayne and the door to the deck, watched with a slight smile.

“What do you do now?” Shayne said. “Shoot me, or do you want to gloat a little first?”

CHAPTER 19

“Oh, have a drink,” Ward said. “I take it you know who I am?”

Shayne went to the bar. “I’d say you’re probably Sir Geoffrey Adam, in blackface. How did you persuade anybody to give you a title?”

“I bought it. Can’t I ever surprise you? I expected you to stagger in amazement.”

Shayne poured a drink. “Sanchez ripped your shirt just before I shot him. You didn’t bother with body makeup.”

“I didn’t expect to get involved in knife fights, either. You amaze me, Shayne, and I’m almost sorry I have to kill you. But that’s been the whole object, and how can I change my plans this late in the day?”

Shayne wrapped the bar towel around the gash on his arm, and sat down on the white sofa. He swirled the cognac and drank.

“I still think I’m going to take you in,” he said evenly. “LeFevre told me some interesting things about you, and they all seem to be true. He said you don’t go after a money deal unless there’s some kind of excitement connected with it. He said you like to be in on the finish yourself. I’ve been waiting for you to turn up. I thought you might be one of the guerrillas. I know you won’t get any pleasure out of killing me without telling me about it, so go ahead. Take as long as you like. Who knows? Something else may happen.”

Adam pulled a straight chair around and sat down, bringing one of the two guns to bear on Shayne. The other stayed on his left shoulder. One of the two submachine guns was loaded, one was empty. They were identical German Schmeissers, the standard Wehrmacht burp gun from World War II, and which one was pointed at Shayne now, the full one or the empty one, Shayne didn’t know. There would be a considerable difference in weight, but Adam had already shown his unfamiliarity with hand guns, and there was a chance he might not wonder why one was heavier than the other.

Adam smiled. “I admit to a fondness for tidy endings. But do sit still, Shayne, or I’ll have to deprive myself of the pleasure of telling you what a fool you’ve been.”

He closed the flap of the Schmeisser. “Now the safety is on. Correct?” Pointing the gun at Shayne, he attempted to press the trigger. “Correct.” He opened the flap again. “And now, as you observe, the safety is off. Think twice before you make a move in my direction.”

“Why don’t we let Moss out of the head?” Shayne suggested. “He’ll want to hear this.”

“No. No more rabbits out of the hat, Shayne. This is between you and me. I’ve had enough excitement to last me for a while. I didn’t expect to end up aboard the Paladin. If Nikko had recognized me, he would have killed me without a moment’s thought. But all he saw was my color, the idiot. Shayne, do you realize now who your client has been for the last two days?”

“You?”

“Quite right. I needed to find out who stole a million and a half dollars from me last summer, and who has been betraying me to Interpol. You found out for me.”

“Is that why you had LeFevre killed?”

“Did I do that? I don’t want to take the credit for everything. Let’s just say that I succeeded, by whatever means, in getting you out of Miami and aboard the plane. And I must say you lived up to my expectations, in every way but one. You didn’t locate the gold.”

“It’s somewhere on this boat.”

Adam repeated flatly, “Somewhere on this boat. The gold from last summer?”

“Yeah. In the bilge, probably. You didn’t hear what Nikko was telling me. LeFevre made the arrangements and supplied the props. Mary Ocain and George Savage were the ones who handled the actual switch and Nikko took care of the transportation.”

“Did you say Mary Ocain?”

“That’s right. She’s like you, she’s tired of living in the ordinary way. I just checked her passport. It has visas for all the Eastern Mediterranean countries. Nobody’s more invisible in Europe or the Middle East in the summer than an American schoolteacher with a camera. They’re part of the scenery.”

“Do you know for a fact that the Paladin-”

“I suppose you checked the canal records. LeFevre invested some money and took care of that. Since then, the boat’s been stuck in the Mediterranean. But they were in no hurry to get rid of the gold. They’d have to feed it into the market a little at a time.”

“I’ve been watching for it, and it hasn’t showed up. But this is really a bit nervy! Using my own yacht! So you’ve carried out your full assignment, after all. Magnificent. It’s been a pleasure watching you work. I can say that now that it’s over. I’m nearly fifty, you know. A little excitement, properly controlled, slows down the aging process. And now,” he said, his voice hardening, “we come to the question of your fee.”

Shayne said quickly, “The excitement isn’t over yet. Look out the window.”

The boat swerved, overcorrected, and came back too far. The helicopter, clacking loudly, had overtaken them again and was hovering directly overhead. One of the sailors yelled exuberantly. The Paladin was moving at maximum speed, executing maneuvers that would have been excessive in a twenty-foot speedboat.

Holding Shayne’s eyes, Adam came slowly to his feet. Shayne was studying his face. Under the artificial pigment, he could see the added age lines. The cheeks had been padded.

Adam raised the gun. “I think I’ll say goodbye now, Shayne.”

Shayne dived, flipping the cognac glass with a quick underhand snap. The gun was silent. Adam swore viciously. But he adjusted quickly, and as Shayne came to his feet, charging, he was met with a hard slap of the gun barrel.

That delayed him long enough for Adam to switch guns. He flipped open the safety flap and backed away, his face working.

The boat swerved violently, nearly sending him off his feet. He fired a quick burst. Through the big portside window, Shayne saw that they were heading at full speed for a crowded bathing beach.

Another sailor dashed past the window, waving his arms like a happy madman. The helmsman threw the wheel over hard and the bottom of the boat scraped on sand.

In the salon, bottles crashed from the shelves and Adam made a complete pivot and slammed back against the wall. Shayne was on one knee, surrounded by records that had cascaded out of the cabinet below the record player. He scooped up several of these and sailed them at Adam. If the boat held steady on its course for only a few seconds, he knew that a burst from the submachine gun would catch him at the door. He kept throwing, bottles, records, a small chair.

The Paladin was now headed for a long jetty at the entrance to a small harbor. The helicopter noise was overpowering.

Something crashed through the big window behind Adam. It gave Shayne another instant. The drawer had shot out of the big table. Loose forty-five rounds were rolling about the floor. Shayne skidded and fell. A hammering burst from Adam’s gun went into the wall. Shayne lunged for the empty submachine gun. He had never moved faster. Snatching it up, he slammed a round into the chamber and fired.

The bullet went into Adam’s left shoulder. The helmsman, after a series of crazy swings, finally brought the hallucination to an end by smashing the Paladin into the jetty at full speed.

There was an explosion. Shayne, deafened, reeling, saw Adam fly backward. Then a beam came down. Shayne blacked out briefly.

His return to consciousness was slow and painful, a difficult climb up a steep slope in total darkness. He smelled smoke. The helicopter rotor seemed to be flailing at him. The facing wall was gone. Uniformed men with rifles were running along the jetty. He saw Adam crawl along the littered deck, his left arm hanging limp. Something was wrong with one leg.

A man swarmed down a cable dangling from the helicopter. He slung Adam onto a T bar. Adam yelled, pointing at Shayne in the wreckage of the deckhouse.

“Kill him!”

Shayne was pinned to the white rug by the heavy beam. One of the soldiers leaped aboard, unslinging his rifle. Adam’s man picked up a submachine gun, checked quickly with Adam, and took careful aim at Shayne. Nothing happened, and after working the slide desperately, he threw the gun down.

Now there were a half dozen Venezuelans on board. Adam tried to get off the T bar, but at that moment the helicopter swooped up and away.

The soldier with the rifle was too confused to fire. Shayne’s last glimpse of Adam was a blackened face contorted with fury. Then the winch in the helicopter whined insanely and the two men were hoisted aboard.

CHAPTER 20

No one thought of lifting the beam until Tim Rourke and the others arrived from Maiquetia. By that time Shayne was unconscious again.

A bright light burned through his eyelids. When he opened his eyes, the light dispersed and changed into the white walls of a hospital room. His head and left arm were bandaged. A tube connected his right arm with a bottle hanging beside the bed.

Rourke swam into view. “I tried to persuade them to add cognac to the mixture, Mike, but it’s against the rules.”

“What about the chopper?” Shayne said weakly.

“Far, far away. You know you hit about twenty-five yards from a gendarmerie barracks? Let’s say everybody was a little taken aback, in Spanish. By the time I heard about the helicopter, it was too late to do anything. We’ve alerted the main airfields, but nobody thinks there’s much chance. Do you feel well enough to talk? Painter’s here.”

“If Painter’s here, I don’t feel well enough to talk.”

“I thought you might say that. There’s also a Treasury guy named Carmody. What do I tell him? That you’ll give him a buzz as soon as you feel better?”

Shayne hitched up in bed.

“Easy,” Rourke said.

“Do they have a guard on the yacht?”

“All taken care of. It went down in five feet of water, but the tide’s out now so it’s just sitting there. If you’re thinking about the gold that was under the floorboards-”

“That’s the gold I’m thinking about.”

“The hull split open and it spilled out. When the water went down, there it was, giving off a nice soft glow.”

“Get the doctor in here. I want this thing out of my arm.”

Ten minutes later, a hard-eyed Michael Shayne was sitting up in bed, supported by three pillows, confronting a tough little Irishman named Hugh Carmody. Shayne had insisted on calling a man he knew in Washington to verify Carmody’s credentials. Painter, too, was present. The dapper little chief of Miami Beach detectives gave Shayne a hostile look when he came in.

“You’re breathing,” he said. “I knew this wouldn’t turn out to be my lucky day.”

“What are you doing down here, Petey? You ought to be back home finding out who killed Jules LeFevre.”

“I already have a pretty shrewd idea who killed Jules LeFevre. You. I’m hoping you’ll tell me why.”

The passengers and crew of the grounded DC-8 had been brought to Puerto Sao Luis by truck. Shayne gave Rourke the names of the ones he wanted to see, all of them women. While Rourke was rounding them up, Shayne and Carmody did some hard bargaining. The gold from the Persian Gulf theft was already in Treasury hands, but Carmody still didn’t know what had happened to the shipment that had left Miami on the DC-8. Finally he agreed to pay five percent of the combined seizures, and Shayne made him put it in writing.

Christa exclaimed when she saw Shayne, and hurried to the side of the bed. “Thank God you’re all right.”

Naomi Savage, looking frightened, refused Rourke’s offer of a chair. Mary Ocain came last. She raised her camera and a flashbulb went off.

“Tim Rourke’s idea,” she said. “It’s a big story. Everybody’s going to want pictures.”

“All right, baby,” Shayne said wearily. “I’ll take you first. Pay attention, Petey. I don’t want to go through this twice.”

Mary, flushed and defiant, looked almost pretty. Shayne looked at her for a moment in silence.

“I had a long talk with Nikko,” he said. “I was surprised. I heard you tell somebody you’re a virgin.”

A muscle flicked in her face. “That was-a slight exaggeration.”

“Why did you tell me Naomi offered you a bribe to forget you’d seen some extra luggage?”

Mary looked quickly at Naomi, whose eyes remained fixed on Shayne’s face. “I suppose she denies it?”

“Tim,” Shayne said.

“What’s the question, Mike? Why was George sick to his stomach last night? I’m in a position to explain that.” He grinned. “Mrs. Savage told the waitress George hasn’t been doing very well in bed, and she wanted to slip an aphrodisiac in his chili. The girl was glad to help. Only I guess it wasn’t an aphrodisiac. It was a drugstore emetic.”

Naomi murmured faintly.

Painter said, “Will you bear in mind that I don’t know who any of these people are, Shayne? They’re just names to me.”

“Keep listening,” Shayne said. “George is Naomi’s husband. He’s a big good-looking guy, but I think she realizes now that he’s essentially a jerk. Still, she’s married to him, and she wanted to keep him out of trouble, if possible, especially after she realized that the way they had it set up, if anything went wrong, no one would believe she hadn’t been in on it all the way. She fed him something to make him too sick to take part in the action. And it worked. A man named Thompson died. A man named Jaime Sanchez died. Two Japanese gunmen died. But George lived through it. And then she set out to discover exactly what kind of razzle-dazzle this bunch of crooks was trying to pull. She decided she had to get rid of the extra luggage container. She couldn’t tuck it under her arm and walk out with it. Explain something to me, Naomi-where did you get the explosive?”

“From Al Luccio.”

“That’s what I thought, but how did you persuade Al Luccio-”

Her eyes rose to meet his. “I tried a half dozen different stories, and he didn’t believe any of them. Finally I told him”-she hesitated, swallowing-“well, I told him you’d rented a car and I wanted to wire something under the hood, and he said he’d be glad to cooperate.”

Shayne laughed.

Mary exclaimed, “She blew off the compartment door!”

“Yeah,” Shayne said. “A little lump of plastic explosive taped to the inside of the door over the lock. She borrowed a stewardess’s uniform so she could move around the airport without being noticed. She must have had a detonator at her seat. But something jammed, and the container didn’t slide out until later, as I’ve been telling Carmody. All right, all this indicates that Naomi had nothing to do with the smuggling, and Mary’s a liar.”

“But Mike,” Christa objected, “don’t you remember? We heard Naomi talking to George about changes in the plan.”

“We heard a woman’s voice. It wasn’t hers. You were in bed with me at the time, so it wasn’t you. It had to be Mary.”

Mary gave him a pitying smile. “If you couldn’t tell the difference between my voice and Naomi’s, you didn’t hear much, did you?”

Painter’s pencil was eating its way down a page of his notebook. It had barely begun, but Shayne was already tiring of the game. He forced himself to speak slowly and carefully. He was approaching the delicate point, and everything depended on balance and timing.

“It’s been a rough couple of days. Most of the people on the plane were pretending to be somebody else, and I’m still not sure I’ve got everybody checked out. Adam fooled me with a double story. He fooled me badly. He started off as a Negro clergyman. He didn’t do that one too well, but just when I was beginning to have doubts, he pulled out a forty-five and turned into a Treasury agent pretending to be a Negro clergyman. That explained the little mistakes. We had a bank inspector, a travel agent, a couple of phony guerrillas. But the funny thing about you, Mary, is that I think you’re what you claim to be. A schoolteacher, not a professional criminal masquerading as a schoolteacher.”

“Worse luck, you’re right. And, of course, I can prove it.”

“You’re homely and awkward,” Shayne went on bluntly. “You’re ill at ease with men-and with women, too, for all I know. Your hips are too big. You’ve probably never had many dates. You go to the movies, you watch television, you wish something would happen. Last summer in the Middle East, something did. But as you must know by now, that was all manipulated. Nikko only did what he’d been told to do.”

“That’s not true! He-”

Shayne made a rude noise. “I talked to him. You know how men talk when women aren’t around. It was pretty frank on both sides. He seduced you because they needed somebody who could move about without being seen. Needless to say, he didn’t get any enjoyment out of it. And the theft itself didn’t turn out to be very romantic, did it? Just a switch of a few crates. At least it took place in a glamorous setting and you had a cruise on a millionaire’s yacht as the temporary mistress of the handsome Greek captain. And after that, you went back to Milwaukee.”

“And I found it dull,” she said. “I found it very, very dull.”

“So when they made you another proposition, you jumped at it. And it’s been anything but dull, even though you’ve missed most of the real excitement, the bullets flying around, the dead bodies.” He reached for a cigarette. “I was very much in your way. The hijacking could only work with no armed opposition. You’d established yourself as an amateur busybody. I fell for that because it was so near to the truth. You fed me a few facts-what difference did it make if I knew about La Guaira? You didn’t intend to let the gold get that far. When you pretended to be kidnapped, naturally I raced off after you. You timed it all very well, the horn in the parking lot, the escape in the mountains. Adam wanted me dead, but not quite yet. He came after me. After the dust settled, I hid on the plane. One small thing-that twenty-two you pulled when I was wearing the monster mask. Why would you want to shoot your own monster? Sanchez told everybody to look straight ahead, but that wouldn’t apply to you, would it? You must have seen me slug him. Let’s see. Does that cover everything?”

Several voices began clamoring at once. Shayne held up his hand.

“Let’s make this brief. I’m beginning to-”

He waited until a haze of black whirling dots, which had appeared suddenly in front of his eyes, began to disperse. “I know, Carmody. The gold. I can give you a pretty good location, and you’ll probably want to send divers down to be sure, but you won’t find any gold in that luggage. I unpacked it last night and moved it into the tail-cone of the plane. Wait,” he said as Carmody came to his feet. “It won’t matter if it’s stolen. Adam knew the container fell out of the plane, but for some reason he wasn’t interested in finding out where. How do you explain that?”

“It wasn’t real gold!” Rourke exclaimed.

“Give the man a cigar. He set this whole thing up as an elaborate trap. He wanted three things-to expose the traitors in his organization, to find the gold he lost last summer, and to get me out of Miami so he could kill me. But what if something went wrong? He didn’t want to be burned twice. I think you’ll find that those bars are gold-plated.”

“Goddamn it, Mike,” Carmody said, “you swindled me into-”

“Into giving me a percentage I damn well earned. Don’t whine about it.”

Shayne leaned back against the pillows and his eyes closed.

“You don’t intend to charge me with anything, do you, Mike?” Mary said. “Do you? You know you can’t prove anything.”

“That’s probably true,” Shayne said wearily. “You were involved in a conspiracy to commit murder and to hijack an airplane, but most of the possible witnesses are dead. Petey may try to get an indictment, but that’s up to him. As far as I’m concerned, the hell with it.”

“Do you mean she gets off scot-free?” Christa said.

“I didn’t say that. If she wants my advice, she’ll start running right this minute, and keep running. It’ll be adventurous as hell.”

Mary stared at him.

“Because do you think Adam is going to let you off?” Shayne said gently. “He’s lost that million and a half for good this time. He’s lost a yacht worth a hundred thousand. He was holding a submachine gun on me at point-blank range, and he ended up with a bullet in his own shoulder. I doubt if he’s happy about any of this. I expect I’ll see him again. So will you. Think about it, Mary, and keep moving.”

“But I didn’t do anything! Not really! Even if I did have anything to do with that Persian Gulf business, which I certainly don’t intend to admit, the gold was illegal the minute it left that bank. I don’t see-”

“You killed three people, Mary.”

“I did not!”

“The Arab crew,” Shayne explained patiently. “You planted a bomb on their boat. They all drowned.”

“But they were only-”

She stopped short and looked around the room, the blood draining out of her face.

Painter said briskly, “Did she kill LeFevre, too? That’s the one I want explained.”

“Christa did that,” Shayne said.

Christa took a step backward. “Mike, you’re mad.”

“I’m a little mad,” he said. “Not crazy-angry. LeFevre was killed by a woman. That’s the one thing I know. He let her into the room himself. He liked women. He was hoping to hit a few striptease places later that night. He was carrying contraceptives. If he’d opened the door to Mary, he would have closed it in her face. But you, dear-”

“You don’t mean this, Mike.”

He raised himself on his elbows and said harshly, “You’re one of Adam’s people. Your assignment was to share a room with me until I’d done what he wanted me to do, and then kill me. Petey’s going to prove you were in LeFevre’s room. Leave him to himself and he goes yapping off in ten different directions, but point him right and he’s really not a bad cop.”

Painter flicked at his mustache.

“Thanks for nothing,” he snapped. “I don’t consider this case closed, by any manner of means. He shut the door in somebody else’s face. That’s the flimsiest basis for a murder accusation I ever heard in my life.”

“He wanted a woman,” Shayne said. “He wasn’t thinking about gold, but about sex. He opened the door, and Mary was standing there. As I remember the line, it was, ‘You look lovely.’ For God’s sake-look at her.”

Mary said, “You’re horrible. You’re a horrible man. He didn’t slam the door in my face! He let me in and I-”

“No, he didn’t, Mary.”

“You’re so wrong! You don’t know a thing about him or about me, either! I’ve had more sexual experiences than you can even imagine!”

“Get her out of here before she confesses,” Shayne said to Painter.

“I have!” she screamed. “Do you think men like to go to bed with Vogue models? Real men? You’re mistaken! Jules told me I was one of the best bed partners he ever had, and so did Nikko! Do you know how much they paid me for what I did last summer? Zero! Not a penny. What a sell. They thought I’d be satisfied with a little tumble. You’re so wrong about everything. That night in Miami Beach he was still putting me off. Sex, yes. Money, no.”

“Where did you get the drugs?” Shayne said quietly.

“I had them! I keep telling you-you don’t know a thing about me. I go to Chicago on weekends. During summer vacations, believe me, I really swing. I decided to give him one more chance. I loaded the pate. I didn’t know you were going to be there-that’s what’s called ‘serendipity.’ And all the old goat wanted to do was go to bed and make love. I was high as a kite myself by that time, and the obvious solution to all my problems was right there staring me in the face. What did I need Jules for? I didn’t. And then you phoned from the lobby, and I saw exactly how I could do it.”

She whirled on Painter. “And if you think you can get a conviction on that kind of evidence, try it! I take it all back. I don’t have a lawyer yet, do I, so it doesn’t really count.” She laughed. “And as for the sinister Sir Geoffrey Adam, he’d better not fool around with me! I’m ready for him.”

There was more, but by that time Shayne had fallen asleep.

He heard Christa say, “That was brilliant, Mike. The way you accused me and trapped her into confessing-”

Shayne made a final effort. “Naomi knows Portuguese.”

“What?” Christa said blankly.

“She heard the orders you gave Sanchez. And now that we all understand each other, will you get the hell out?”

After a moment Christa said lightly, “I didn’t really expect it to work. I thought it was worth trying.”

Then Shayne was alone with Naomi.

“Mike, I know you want to sleep, but can I stay with you? You were right about my marriage. It was finished after a week. I was foolish to think I could patch it up. I’ll be quiet. Can I stay with you?”

“Yes,” Shayne said as the light faded.

Content

Brett Halliday
Violence Is Golden

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20