Brett Halliday - Six Seconds to Kill

“Probably not.”

“Then perhaps-” She returned to the phone. After another breakneck exchange she hung up and told Shayne excitedly, “She’s there now!”

“Let’s go.”

“In this car?”

“Yeah. Fast.”

The motor caught with a roar. He telescoped the antenna and stowed the phone unit under the front seat. “What part of town?”

“Fourth Avenue, near Riverside Park.”

He swung over into the back seat and was out of sight on the floor by the time she passed through the gates and turned onto 8th Street.

“Slow down now,” he said. “You’re going to have to leave me the car. You can pick up a cab on Flagler. Who were you talking to? Don’t turn your head. Talk to the steering wheel.”

“She lives across the street. She was supposed to watch the house while Gil was there, to make sure everything was all right. I don’t want to get her in trouble.”

“I’ll get her a citation. What was all that chatter, Adele? Put it in English.”

She slowed for a turn. “God, the cops are thick around here. Keep down, Mike.”

“I’m down.”

“Last night she went to bed early. She knew Gil was going to be somewhere else. This morning there was a car in the driveway with Alabama plates. She’s been worrying about it, because she didn’t think anybody was supposed to be using the house. Then a woman came out and drove off. If the time’s important, it was between ten and eleven. Crowther’s plane got in when? About eleven fifteen? She came back about an hour later, turned too soon and hit the hedge. She managed the second time, but she did everything very slowly. Then she just sat there. Finally my friend went over and asked if she needed help. The woman couldn’t understand Spanish. Her face was very red, and she looked sick. She said she was fine and went in the house. The car’s still there.”

“OK. You’ve earned the thousand bucks.”

“Mike,” she said after a moment, “will you tell my uncle I’m-”

When she didn’t go on, Shayne said dryly, “I’ll give him the message.”

“What a lot has happened,” she said, still addressing the steering wheel. “I met you. We made love. I took part in my first battle. I don’t know, maybe my last. All of a sudden I feel much, much older. But all I can think about is how sleepy I am.”

She made the final turn and Shayne gathered himself. “It’s on the second floor,” she said, braking. “There’s a car coming… all right, I think everything’s OK. Can I send you a postcard from Mexico?”

“Better not.”

He had the thousand dollars ready, the same thousand Dr. Galvez had given him when they had thought he would have to buy Lorenzo Vega. He passed it to her, jackknifed forward and opened the back door. The Alabama car, parked at a slant across the driveway, was a Pontiac convertible with a patched top. Shayne cut across a poorly maintained lawn to the house.

Adele, too, was out of the car. She walked away without looking back.

Shayne made no attempt to be quiet. He opened a downstairs door and went up. The door at the top of the stairs was unlocked.

There was no furniture in the front room except a phone on the floor under the windows, nothing in the bedroom except a mattress and some scattered clothing. The kitchen had been used by someone who had been living on dry cereal, cold cuts and coffee. He found Camilla in the bathroom, sitting on the closed toilet seat.

She was wearing a black shoulder-length wig, slightly askew, and nothing else except a torn half-slip. She looked blankly at him, without recognition.

“There you are,” he said. “What kind of medicine have you been taking?”

“Medicine.”

“Fine. We’re communicating.”

He went down on one knee, and caught her shoulders as she began to tilt. He shook her and made her look at him. Her pupils were huge. To the drugged brain beyond those eyes, he must have seemed dim and shifting. He dug his fingernails into her shoulders. Her breasts swayed.

“Look at me. I’m Mike Shayne. We’re both in bad trouble, but if you can stay awake for a few minutes maybe we can do something about it.”

“I know,” she said wearily.

The words were distinct, but they came out heavily, as though she was using her last strength to move them past her lips. He held her erect, but her head rolled.

“What did you take? Barbiturates?”

“Adrenalin,” she said after a moment.

“Like hell you took Adrenalin. You mean you gave yourself a shot?”

Without letting her go he looked for the hypodermic. It had rolled behind the toilet. Supporting her body with one hand, Shayne retrieved it. There were a few drops of liquid left in the barrel. He sniffed the needle, then touched it to his tongue. It tasted faintly salty.

“’Drenalin,” she said again, not getting the whole word. “Need it to…”

“Maybe you thought it was Adrenalin,” he said roughly, “but somebody put something else in the needle. Did you hear me? This was a downer. If you fall asleep now, it’s for good.”

“Don’t care.”

“Well, I care, goddamn it.”

He pulled her to her feet. For the first moment he supported her full weight. He continued to hurt her with his fingernails until she took some of it herself.

“We’re going to walk,” Shayne said. “Nobody important knows we’re here, so we’ve got plenty of time “

With one arm around her, he walked her out to the bare living room.

“But you have to want to come out of it. Camilla, listen. Last night they changed the plan so you could get out of the hotel. Instead of looking for the burn in the carpet, you blocked an elevator door and used the table. You surprised everybody. They gave you a stolen car. You were supposed to come back here and change, and take a shot of something to keep you moving until you were out of town. But they conned you! It was a heavy sedative, strong enough to kill you. That’s murder, baby.”

She shook her head.

“Understand this one thing,” he said. “They tried to kill you. You did everything exactly right. You shot Crowther and they double-crossed you. The place has been rented for a month. By the time you were found you’d make a very smelly corpse.”

He was moving her back and forth across the room while he talked. He began to think she was steadier, but each time he stopped to give her a chance to stand alone, she folded. He picked the phone off the floor as he passed. To dial was impossible. He managed to raise the operator on the third try. Continuing back and forth to the limit of the telephone cord, he told her he was having trouble reaching a Miami Beach number, and asked her to dial it for him. A moment later he was talking to the St. Albans switchboard. He asked for Room 703.

Rourke answered.

“Dr. Miller,” Shayne said.

“Right here, Mike. Do I get to know what’s happening?”

“Later. Put him on.”

Miller’s voice said, “Shayne?”

“I’ve got her,” Shayne said abruptly, and had to change hands as she slipped. “She’s just about under. Some kind of sedative in a hypodermic. Get over here right away.”

He started to give the address, but Miller cut him short. “Two detectives are following me around. You don’t want police at this point.”

“Damn right I don’t.”

“How’s her breathing?”

“Very hard and slow.”

“Then it could be morphine. Keep her reacting. Insult her. Try coffee if you have it. If she goes to sleep, be sure she doesn’t suffocate-watch her tongue. There’s a private clinic in North Miami. I’ll send an ambulance. And Mike!” he added. “Bring the syringe so we can see what we’re up against.”