Brett Halliday - Violence Is Golden

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!”