Алистер Маклин - Dead Halt

“OK, let’s say for argument’s sake that you are Pasconi. How did you know about Milne?”

Paluzzi’s mind was racing. He had to make up a believable story. But what? He wasn’t quick enough. Killen nodded to Tom who stepped forward and brought the butt of the Mini-Uzi down hard onto Paluzzi’s shoulder, knocking him off the chair. He landed inches away from where Billy lay. Killen kicked him savagely in the stomach, catching him agonizingly in the kidneys.

Killen looked down at Paluzzi. “Now, let’s try that again. How did you know about Milne?”

“Go to hell,” Paluzzi hissed through gritted teeth.

Killen grabbed Paluzzi’s hair, jerked back his head then placed the Beretta’s barrel in the center of his forehead. “Next wrong answer and I pull the trigger.”

Paluzzi stared in horror at Killen.

“How did you know about Milne?”

“I have a contact in Noraid,” Paluzzi replied quickly.

“Name,” Killen said.

“I don’t know his name,” Paluzzi replied.

“Wrong answer–”

“Wait!” Paluzzi yelled in desperation. “I only know him by a codename. That’s how it’s been for the last five years.”

“Five years?” Killen spat angrily. “What’s his codename?”

“Havana,” Paluzzi said, using the first word that came to mind. Havana? Why had he thought of that? He’d never been there in his life.

“Why Havana?” Killen asked suspiciously.

“How should I know? It was his choice, not mine,” Paluzzi shot back.

“Where’s he from?”

“New York as far as I know. That’s where I contact him.”

“You’ve seen him?”

“No, we use a locker at the Grand Central. We each have a key. I put the money there and when he collects it he leaves an envelope in its place. He knew Milne was on board the Ventura but he didn’t know who was behind the arms shipment. That’s why I came here, looking for a story.”

“You’ve just found one,” Killen replied then turned the Beretta on Billy and shot him through the head.

Paluzzi wiped a fleck of blood off his cheek then stared at Killen in disbelief. “You’re mad. You’re all mad.”

“On the contrary,” Killen replied with a smile. “We’re actually very clever. Billy’s dead. Your gun was used. It has your fingerprints on it, not mine. So, if the cops do ever find your bodies, they’ll deduce that you shot Billy over an argument about the money. He was behind the wheel of his car at the time which then careered off the edge of the pier and you were drowned when it sank. The perfect scenario.”

“And what about the state of Billy’s face? And the fact that he’s got no tongue? The police aren’t going to turn a blind eye to that, are they?”

“He could have bitten through his tongue when the car hit the water. And the bruises, hell, he could have hit his face on the windscreen. But it doesn’t matter what the cops make of it. The main thing is that there’s nothing to link the three of us to any of this. And that’s the beauty of it.”

Paluzzi made a desperate grab for the Beretta in Killen’s hand. Then everything went black

Tom, who had knocked Paluzzi out, shouldered his Mini-Uzi and glanced at his watch. “Pete should be here by now with Billy’s car. Christ, it was only parked a couple of hundred yards away.”

“Relax,” Killen told him, then took his cigarettes from his pocket and lit one.

The bell rang and Randy opened the door. “What kept you, Pete?”

“Someone stopped at the gate to ask for directions just as I was about to fetch the car.”

Randy took the keys from the guard.

“OK, put them in the car,” Killen ordered.

Billy’s body was bundled into the front of the battered Ford Cadillac and Paluzzi was stretched out on the backseat. Killen dropped the Beretta onto the seat beside Paluzzi and Randy tossed the holdall onto the passenger seat. Satisfied, Killen slammed the back door shut then nodded to Tom who climbed behind the wheel and started the engine. It spluttered and died. He tried again. The same result. Cursing angrily, Killen moved around to the driver’s side and peered through the window. Tom shrugged helplessly as he continued to turn the key in the ignition.

“Nothing,” Tom snapped, banging his fist angrily on the dashboard.

“We’ll have to push it off here,” Killen said, beckoning Randy toward the car.

“Here?” Tom asked anxiously, looking up at Killen. “I thought we were going to sink it further down the pier.”

“So did I,” Killen retorted sarcastically. “Now get out and push.”

Tom released the handbrake then climbed out. Slowly they eased the car toward the edge of the wharf. It toppled, bonnet-first, over the side and began to sink slowly into the murky water. The water bubbled angrily as the tail section finally disappeared under the water. Randy unhooked a flashlight from his belt and began to play it across the water.

Killen waited a couple of minutes then patted Randy on the shoulder. “He’s dead. Come on, let’s go back to the warehouse. We never did finish that hand of poker we were playing, did we?”

Randy switched off the flashlight then followed Killen and Tom back to the warehouse, closing the door behind him.

Paluzzi had regained consciousness as the water flooded through the open windows. It was pitch-black. And the water was freezing cold. He forced himself not to panic. That would be fatal. He fumbled for the door handle. Where was it? Billy’s hand brushed across his face. Then his arm. Paluzzi lashed out in the darkness, frantically trying to keep the body away from him. Don’t panic, he said to himself. He had to stay calm, conserve the air in his lungs. He reached out his hand again, this time feeling for the door. If he could find that, he could locate the handle. After what seemed an eternity his fingers finally touched the door’s wooden panel. Feeling his way across the panel, he finally reached the metal handle. He jerked hard on it then pushed on the door with his feet, desperately trying to force it open. How much longer could he last underwater? The door inched open slowly. Forcing himself feet first through the opening, he propelled himself upward. As he neared the surface he saw the beam of light playing across the water. They were still there, waiting. His lungs were bursting. His only chance was to make for the pier. If he could get underneath it then he would be safe. He swam until he felt himself getting dizzy from lack of oxygen. But had he reached the safety of the pier? He couldn’t see the light on the surface of the water anymore. He had to chance it and go up for air. He pushed himself upward and silently broke the surface of the water. He’d made it. He clung on to one of the wooden beams under the pier as he struggled to catch his breath. He had a splitting headache and when he touched the back of his head he could feel the blood on his fingers. He remained where he was until they returned to the warehouse then made his way cautiously to a metal ladder and climbed up onto the wharf. He paused again to make sure he was alone then ran, doubled-over, to a row of metal drums twenty yards away from the ladder and, slumping down behind them, exhaled deeply. What now? He was supposed to be dead and had no intention of letting Killen and his cronies think otherwise. Which meant he couldn’t use his car again. He had to get to a payphone and call UNACO headquarters. They would send a car down for him. He’d probably have caught pneumonia by then, but what else could he do?

He was about to discard his jacket when a pair of headlights swept across the wharf. He ducked down quickly but the black Mercedes stopped before the headlights reached the drums. The driver dimmed the lights then climbed out and opened the back door. Paluzzi squinted through an aperture between the drums to see the face of the man who got out. It was too dark. Then, suddenly, the warehouse door opened, illuminating the face. Paluzzi had never seen him before: mid-thirties, collar-length black hair, deep-set eyes. He was wearing a brown suit and a cream shirt open at the neck.