Brett Halliday - Six Seconds to Kill

“Right down-”

He stopped, and his eyebrows drew together. After an instant’s pause he said, “Excuse me. You’re some kind of fuzz, aren’t you? My daddy gave me a piece of advice when I shipped out. He told me to stay out of other people’s messes.”

“When you see your daddy again,” Shayne said, “tell him he gave you some bad advice.” He picked the boy up under the armpits and held him against a wall. “Do you want to reconsider?”

“Down the hall, down the hall,” the boy said. “They went in a cabin.”

“Which cabin?”

The boy gestured. “Further down on this side. Let me go, will you? They were spies, pantry-boys. You may not realize it, but that hurts.”

Shayne lowered him and he scuttled away. Shayne moved on warily. He passed the crew’s dining room, which was empty. Hearing a low thump behind him, he came back. A woman’s voice said something in Spanish. It was cut off.

Shayne checked his watch. He still had twenty minutes. He put out his cigarette.

Returning to a cross corridor, he picked a five-gallon fire extinguisher off the wall. A fire-ax was set in a recessed case with a glass cover, from which a little metal hammer dangled. Ignoring the hammer, Shayne smashed the glass with the extinguisher. A door opened and the youth in the chef’s hat looked out.

“Now’s the time to do what your daddy told you,” Shayne said. “Shut the door.”

The face retreated. Shayne took the ax and the extinguisher back to the cabin in which he had heard the girl’s voice. Setting the extinguisher on the deck, he raised the ax and chopped hard at the door above the handle. The wood splintered and the door swung open.

He picked up the extinguisher and waited.

He heard a choked sob. The door had jammed. He saw part of a narrow bunk and a washbasin. Time was moving at the same speed on both sides of the door, but Shayne had more experience at this kind of thing. After a long silent moment the door was pulled back violently and a man jumped at him.

He was short and dark, with tattooed forearms. Shayne had seen him last slicing cucumbers. Shayne tilted the extinguisher, and foam gushed out of the nozzle. The other staggered back, clawing at his eyes. Shayne stepped forward and kicked the door. This time it stayed open. Adele, against the opposite bulkhead, was twisting in the hands of a large Negro. Shayne advanced, holding the foam steady, and then clubbed his adversary with the extinguisher. He dropped away.

The Negro tried to get something out of his pocket, and Adele was able to pull out of his hands. Turning, she brought her knee up into his groin and dodged past Shayne and out of the cabin as Shayne swung the jet of foam, catching the Negro squarely and knocking him backward.

There was a sparkle of light from a knife-blade. Shayne lunged, swinging the extinguisher. The knife clattered against metal. Shayne changed the arc of his blow and hit the Negro’s wrist so hard he probably broke it.

The nozzle was whipping around, out of control. The other man had fallen across the bunk, and he now had a gun in his hand. Shayne threw the extinguisher with both hands.

There was movement behind him. but before he could whirl to deal with the new threat, his head seemed to explode, and the cabin walls closed in on him.

CHAPTER 5

The altercation still wasn’t over. Far in the distance, Shayne heard a gong. Perhaps it was time for visitors to say their final good-byes and go ashore. He considered, and decided to stay where he was. If he moved his head, he was afraid it would divide into two halves, like a cut melon. He had thought at first that he had been hit with the ax, but probably his assailant had simply used the handle.

The gong sounded again. He had fallen on the hose, and he could feel it struggling beneath him.

Somebody in the cabin was giving orders in Spanish. Shayne remained inert, and allowed himself to be flopped over. He was breathing heavily. He heard the sound of cloth being torn. Opening his eyes slightly, he saw the cucumber-slicer ripping up a sheet he had pulled from the bunk. That was to tie him up, Shayne supposed, so he couldn’t reach the gangway before the ship sailed.

He sent a message to one of his feet and felt it respond. The gong banged again. As the man with the torn sheet stooped over his ankles, Shayne flexed one knee slightly and kicked out hard. It made contact, but didn’t do much damage. The man sat down again.

Shayne looked around for the Negro. In pain, he lay beneath the washbasin, one arm useless. He was hitching himself slowly toward Shayne. They were all three in a bad way. Shayne rolled and came up on one elbow. The extinguisher hose whipped around and shot a last burst of foam at the Negro before expiring.

Shayne saw the gun on the carpet. It was an equal distance from them all. Shaking his head, the Negro tried to crawl. Shayne reached out. It was a dream movement, slow-motion in its most exaggerated form.

Then a voice spoke from the doorway. “You cats are going to get this whole ship in trouble. You know that, don’t you?”

The youth in the chef’s hat, whose daddy had warned him against getting involved, stepped into the cabin and gathered up the gun.

“I mean when it comes to chopping down doors-”

Shayne came to one knee and moved his head. It stayed together. A moment later he found that he could stand.

“You hold the gun,” the boy said. “I’ll go get the captain.”

Shayne grunted and started for the doorway. The youth backed into the corridor ahead of him, holding out the gun butt-first.

“Take it. Here. I sure as hell don’t want it.”

Shayne lurched toward the nearest stairway, keeping from falling by running a hand along the wall. The ship appeared to be heeling violently. On the first step he failed to raise his foot high enough, and fell forward on his hands.

The boy was dancing beside him, trying to get him to take the gun. “You mean this isn’t a bust? You aren’t going to bust those guys?”

“Give me a hand.”

“I certainly will not! I thought you were FBI, at the least. I held a gun on those characters, and now I’ve got to ship with them?”

Shayne forced himself up the steps. He made it halfway, with the help of the banister. There he stopped again. An endless stretch of steps rose ahead. The ship swung gently.

The boy grabbed his arm. “I’ll help, if nobody sees me. But I can’t do it all. Come on.”

He tugged at Shayne. The Mozambique reared. When it came back down Shayne took advantage of the momentum and let it carry him up the stairs. The boy pushed, and when the momentum faded he ran ahead and pulled. They reeled out on deck.

“For the last time, will you take this or won’t you?” the boy said, holding out the gun.

“Hold the gangway.”

“Jesus! I just wish somebody would tell me what this is all about!”

He ran ahead. The band was playing with real desperation, it seemed to Shayne. Streamers flew. A woman in a clown’s hat tried to embrace him, and she got him moving. He picked up an empty champagne bottle. Waving this, he headed toward the gangway. He heard laughter around him, ironic applause. People cleared out of his way.

“Really smashed,” somebody said. “Disgusting.”

“No, why? He’s feeling no pain.”

That was hardly true. Ahead, the youth gestured with the gun. Two seamen waited at the head of the gangway. Shayne held the bottle over the side and dropped it in the bay. His heel caught, and he went down much too fast, ending on the dock with a jolt. The passengers along the rail waved.

The gangplank was drawn in and the ship’s horn hooted. There was a flicker of white, and Adele Galvez threw her arms around him.