Brett Halliday - Six Seconds to Kill

“All right, Mr. Crowther.”

The group moved out of the elevator. Crowther reached past the nearest Secret Service man to shake a hand. Everybody here except the media people and the police had paid $6.50 for the privilege of having lunch with him, and they wanted him to realize that in spite of the newspaper attacks, they were behind him. He was exhilarated by the welcome. He saw local friends, and shouldered past the Secret Service men to return their hugs and handshakes, and to kiss their women. The group moved slowly.

The night before, Shayne had stepped out a circle at the end of the corridor, inside which Camilla would have to stand to make the bullet holes in the opposite wall seem plausible. The television platform had been brought forward, contracting the circle slightly. All three cameras were in action. He looked into the blaze of light.

Crowther worked slowly forward, approaching the table where ticket-holders had their names checked off and were given lapel badges. The three women who presided at this table were standing, to get a view of Crowther. Like everybody else, they were screaming happily. Shayne was jostled from behind, and a red-faced man tried to knock him out of the way so he could touch Crowther’s hand. Shayne moved him aside.

One of the women at the table turned gracefully, and the movement reminded Shayne briefly of Camilla Steele. But she was too old. Her face was swollen, and oddly mottled. Shayne was concentrating on his imaginary circle, shading his eyes against the glare of the TV lights. He still saw no one there who looked like Camilla. Crowther, a few feet behind Shayne, was giving his hands-over-his-head gesture, turning completely around. The Secret Service men struggled to keep him moving. Berger swung his elbows, swearing.

Again something pulled Shayne’s eyes to one side. The woman he had noticed had stepped backward toward the elevators. Her shoulders were tense. Shayne pulled around sharply. But it was impossible. If she fired from there the bullet holes wouldn’t line up. Nonetheless, she raised a scarf she was holding, brought both hands together, and fired through the scarf.

The scarf flared out and fell away, exposing an automatic pistol equipped with a silencer. Shayne, looking directly at her, saw the recoil, but no one else seemed to notice the shot. She fired twice more, smiling. Then she felt behind her and opened the elevator door, which had been blocked with something to keep it from closing.

For an instant, alone in the lighted car with the door open, she was vulnerable. Abe Berger had seen her. He had his gun out, his left hand shielding his eyes. Shayne slapped at the gun-barrel. In the same quick motion, almost a reflex, he brought his right fist up hard. Berger was wide open, coming forward. The punch exploded at the hinge of his jaw. His head snapped around. He was unconscious before he hit the floor.

Crowther watched the elevator door slide shut, an expression of disbelief on his handsome face. He clutched his neck, as though choking. He tried to move forward, clawing out in front of him with one hand. As he turned, Shayne saw that part of his face was shot away.

He lurched forward and collapsed on top of Berger.

Shayne scooped up Berger’s gun, lying on the carpet a few inches from his outstretched hand. As he went backward he worked the slide. The nearest Secret Service man reached inside his coat, but the expression on Shayne’s face froze him in place.

The disturbance had been confined to one tiny section of the corridor, but ripples of shock and alarm were already radiating outward. Somebody screamed. One of the TV cameras toppled over. The elevator which Crowther and the others had used was still at that floor, with a Secret Service man in the doorway. Shayne stepped in and showed him Berger’s gun.

“Out. Out.”

The man looked toward the ballroom.

Shayne hit him with the gun, gave him a hard push and stabbed the Down button. Tim Rourke, a few feet away, was staring at him.

“Real bullets. Man, that’s trouble.”

“Yeah,” Shayne said as the door closed.

He dropped the gun in his pocket, his face hard and dangerous. He had been fooled, and there was only one person who could tell him how it had been done. That was Camilla Steele. Trouble was a mild word to describe the situation. Berger had had a good shot at Camilla while the elevator’s electronic brain was deciding to close the door. Shayne had interfered. As soon as Berger was conscious again, it would be clear to everybody that Shayne and Camilla, old allies, had planned the shooting together. Camilla had fired the shots and Shayne had made her escape possible.

No one had rung for the elevator on the lower floors, and it descended directly to the lobby. Shayne stepped out. The lobby seemed normal-more crowded than usual, but as yet no one knew what had happened on the eighth floor.

Shayne moved quickly, his hand in his pocket. He needed some fast transportation. Outside, the approach to the helicopter was still clear.

The crowd on Collins Avenue was chanting rhythmically. Here everything was serene; Shayne was two or three minutes ahead of the hue and cry. He headed for the helicopter that had brought him from the airport. As he pulled himself in, the pilot, a young man with fanlike ears and hair redder than Shayne’s own, looked around from his controls.

“Yeah, want something?”

Shayne shut the door and said briskly, “Back to the airport.”

The pilot had seen Shayne as part of the security detail surrounding Crowther. Responding automatically to the note of command in Shayne’s voice, he switched on his engine. The overhead rotors began to revolve.

“Just by yourself?”

“Let’s go,” Shayne snapped. “The bastard left his dispatch case on the Jet-Star.”

“Oh.”

The beginnings of doubt faded out of the pilot’s face. As the helicopter rose Shayne watched the front entrance of the hotel. The scene was still peaceful. A hundred feet from the ground, the pilot changed the tilt of the blades, hesitated and turned toward Shayne.

“I don’t want to be chintzy, but I think for my own protection I’d better get the captain to authorize this. They’ve been tightening up lately. I mean, you’re a civilian, right?”

He reached for the control yoke, and Shayne, stepping forward, hit him with the flat of the pistol, just hard enough to jar him. He fell sideward, his hand going to his head. The helicopter stayed where it was, drifting almost imperceptibly toward the ocean.

“Let’s get going,” Shayne said quietly.

“What did you do that for?” He came out of his seat slowly. “Put that gun down, mister, or I’ll be forced to take it away from you.”

Shayne’s expression hardened, and he brought the gun up between them. “Stop where you are.” The pilot stopped. “Don’t be a damn fool. Sit down and let’s travel.”

“I warn you,” the pilot said, going into a crouch. “I’m getting my Irish up. You wouldn’t shoot me. You need me to fly the helicopter.”

“Hold still,” Shayne said in a voice that stopped him again as he started to move forward. “I don’t know how accurate this gun is.”

He fired. The pilot looked amazed and clapped his hand to his ear. When he looked at his hand he saw blood.

“The next one goes in your shoulder,” Shayne told him coldly. “After that, we’ll see.”

Blood was streaming from the lobe of the other’s ear. Twisting, he collapsed into his seat, and in a moment the helicopter was roaring in the direction of the mainland. Glancing down through the paint-spattered side window, Shayne saw two Secret Service men burst out of the hotel. “What’s your name?”

“Hank McSorley,” the man muttered.