Brett Halliday - Violence Is Golden

Nikko shook his head dreamily. “I don’t think I know her.”

Shayne tried Christa, and again Nikko shook his head. Next was Mary Ocain.

“I didn’t think it would be possible, you know,” Nikko said. “I have always had beautiful women. A little stupid often, but who objects to stupidity in a young beautiful girl? With this one I had to grind my teeth. Then she went out of her head with joy! It was extraordinary. It changed my views about the ugly ones.”

“Was it LeFevre’s idea?”

“Oh, yes. I carry out the plans other men make for me. I have had a limited education.”

“Where’s the gold now?”

“Ah-” Nikko began giggling. “Who would guess?”

Three sailors trooped in. Nikko greeted them in rapid Greek and hugged Shayne demonstratively to show how matters had changed. Shayne supplied each man with coffee.

“There’s still the kid in the window,” Shayne said. “Do you want me to call him in?”

“No, let the black man sweat.”

“Nikko,” Shayne persisted, “you were about to tell me what you did with the gold.”

“Gold. People worry and worry and kill each other for it. Why? What pleasures does Geoffrey Adam get from all his money? He will invite a famous actress to come on a cruise among the islands, and then he sends a telegram. ‘I am delayed. Business.’ And the actress must content herself with Nikko Pappadotos. I have forgotten why I was angry with you, my dear friend. LeFevre is dead. We will all die. He was never satisfied. He wanted more victories. An intelligent, educated man. Dead, as you say.”

He rushed to the record player. “Music.”

He dropped several records before succeeding in fumbling one onto the turntable. It was American jazz, dating back to the big-band days of the 1930s. The sailors watched in wonder. He flung around the room wildly. Then he halted, a thoughtful look on his face, and subsided onto the white rug.

Shayne, the empty submachine gun over his shoulder, opened the door to the bedroom and stepped in. The guard whirled.

“I don’t suppose he speaks English,” Shayne said to Ward.

“Not a word.”

“Then we may have to jump him.”

Ward had been lying on one of the twin beds with his hands behind his head. He came to his feet casually. Shayne moved out of the doorway so the boy could look into the next room, where the loaded coffee was beginning to take effect. He was as young as the boy who had been guarding Shayne, but he was sullen-looking, his face pocked and pitted.

Shayne kept his voice pleasant. “I suppose those are friends of yours in the helicopter.”

“I think so,” Ward answered. “I told them we might have trouble. They don’t seem to know what to look for, do they?”

The sailor stared at the scene in the salon. Nikko lay on his back, helping Tommy Dorsey conduct the orchestra. One of the sailors chased another out on deck. The third had begun to exercise with whiskey bottles.

Ward took a step forward, but the boy went into a tense crouch and snapped out a command.

“You may have to kill him,” Ward said.

“I hope not. I’m already over my limit.”

Turning back into the salon, Shayne picked two bottles off the shelf behind the bar and began swinging them like Indian clubs. The other sailor, who was doing the same thing, hesitated and lost his rhythm. His bottles met and shattered. He gave a shout of delight.

He and Shayne embraced warmly. Shayne turned it into a clumsy dance, steering him into the bedroom. The Greek guarding Ward retreated. He yelled to Nikko for help as Shayne whirled his partner around and pushed the two Greeks together.

The boy with the gun floundered, trying to throw his friend off. Shayne freed his right hand and chopped it at the exposed side of the boy’s face. He went backward, his mouth beginning to open. Shayne closed it with a powerful left and the boy went down.

The drug working inside the other Greek now changed direction. He bellowed with rage and slashed at Shayne’s face with the broken bottle. As Shayne dodged backward, he lost control of the Schmeisser. It clattered to the floor. The sailor struck twice more, out of time to the music.

Shayne feinted. The murderous bottle neck returned the feint, a tick slow. The boy darted at him, missed with an upward swipe, and raked Shayne’s arm, from the elbow to the wrist. Shayne slammed his left fist into the boy’s abdomen, all but breaking him in two. At almost that exact second, Ward swung the Schmeisser like a hatchet; Shayne pulled out of the boy’s way as he fell.

There was an instant’s silence as the record completed one track and moved to the next.

Ward had snatched up the Schmeisser Shayne had dropped, and now he had them both, which wasn’t the way Shayne had wanted the argument to end. Shayne went into the salon and turned off the record player. When Nikko started to come to his feet, Shayne dragged him into the bedroom. Moving the key to the outside of the lock, he closed the door and locked it. The Negro, between Shayne and the door to the deck, watched with a slight smile.

“What do you do now?” Shayne said. “Shoot me, or do you want to gloat a little first?”

“Oh, have a drink,” Ward said. “I take it you know who I am?”

Shayne went to the bar. “I’d say you’re probably Sir Geoffrey Adam, in blackface. How did you persuade anybody to give you a title?”

“I bought it. Can’t I ever surprise you? I expected you to stagger in amazement.”

Shayne poured a drink. “Sanchez ripped your shirt just before I shot him. You didn’t bother with body makeup.”

“I didn’t expect to get involved in knife fights, either. You amaze me, Shayne, and I’m almost sorry I have to kill you. But that’s been the whole object, and how can I change my plans this late in the day?”

Shayne wrapped the bar towel around the gash on his arm, and sat down on the white sofa. He swirled the cognac and drank.

“I still think I’m going to take you in,” he said evenly. “LeFevre told me some interesting things about you, and they all seem to be true. He said you don’t go after a money deal unless there’s some kind of excitement connected with it. He said you like to be in on the finish yourself. I’ve been waiting for you to turn up. I thought you might be one of the guerrillas. I know you won’t get any pleasure out of killing me without telling me about it, so go ahead. Take as long as you like. Who knows? Something else may happen.”

Adam pulled a straight chair around and sat down, bringing one of the two guns to bear on Shayne. The other stayed on his left shoulder. One of the two submachine guns was loaded, one was empty. They were identical German Schmeissers, the standard Wehrmacht burp gun from World War II, and which one was pointed at Shayne now, the full one or the empty one, Shayne didn’t know. There would be a considerable difference in weight, but Adam had already shown his unfamiliarity with hand guns, and there was a chance he might not wonder why one was heavier than the other.

Adam smiled. “I admit to a fondness for tidy endings. But do sit still, Shayne, or I’ll have to deprive myself of the pleasure of telling you what a fool you’ve been.”

He closed the flap of the Schmeisser. “Now the safety is on. Correct?” Pointing the gun at Shayne, he attempted to press the trigger. “Correct.” He opened the flap again. “And now, as you observe, the safety is off. Think twice before you make a move in my direction.”

“Why don’t we let Moss out of the head?” Shayne suggested. “He’ll want to hear this.”

“No. No more rabbits out of the hat, Shayne. This is between you and me. I’ve had enough excitement to last me for a while. I didn’t expect to end up aboard the Paladin. If Nikko had recognized me, he would have killed me without a moment’s thought. But all he saw was my color, the idiot. Shayne, do you realize now who your client has been for the last two days?”