Brett Halliday - So Lush, So Deadly

“Maybe Mike knows more about it than you do, Dad,” Sally said.

“Do you think so?” Lyon said stiffly. “I’m inclined to doubt it.”

The sky was lighter in the east. Shayne looked at his watch and cut the lights. In a few more minutes they were approaching the Cut. They went under the highway bridge without slackening speed. Sally called out, pointing to the big Sikorsky helicopter coming up last behind them, white with a bright orange stripe.

“That didn’t take long.”

Shayne called Opa Locka. “He’s overhead now. Can I talk to him?”

“No, you have to relay through me. He’ll search to the south first. You’d better head due east. He’s computed a half-hour cruising radius for a fast boat. After he checks the north-south line he’ll come back along the arc and intersect you. Visibility’s good. We’re sending another helicopter on a line over North Miami Beach. Do you want the cutters alerted?”

“No, they couldn’t get here in time. Tell him not to bother about the Keys. These people are heading for deep water.”

Shayne hung the mike on its hook and took out his pint of cognac. “I don’t know about anybody else. I’m going to have a drink.”

“I’ll have a small one, thanks,” Sally said promptly.

“You will not,” her father said. “Not before breakfast.” He accepted the bottle when Shayne held it out to him. Shayne drank and put it away.

“How much did you see of Mrs. De Rham?”

“Just glimpses,” Lyon admitted, “but I do know a drunk when I see one. That was no act.”

But he already sounded less certain. He rubbed his mouth doubtfully. “I suppose if they had some reason-”

“Do you think they’re imposters, Mike?” Sally said. “That they’re only pretending to be Mrs. De Rham and Brady?”

“Somebody’s pretending,” he said briefly. “How are we for gas?”

“Right up snug.”

Shayne asked for binoculars, and when Sally supplied a pair he began combing the horizon. The air was still, with a light haze over the water. The sun was almost up.

“Mike thinks we might get our pictures in the papers,” Lyon said.

She looked at Shayne and laughed. “That explains the transformation. How did you know he was a publicity hound?”

“Publicity hound? I have to protest that,” Lyon said. “I’m thinking about the store. That kind of publicity translates into dollars and cents.”

The helicopter, gaining altitude, passed out of sight to the south. Suddenly the sun burst over the horizon, huge and orange, the static cut out abruptly and the Coast Guardsman called, “He’s spotted them, Shayne.”

Shayne pulled the wheel down and the boat swung.

The voice continued, “A mile off Government Cut. A bit over a mile. They’re circling-They’re on fire! They’re on fire!”

Shayne’s eyes narrowed.

“They’re heading north. Wheelhouse seems to be empty.”

Holding the wheel steady with his chest, Shayne raked the binoculars back and forth in a long arc. He picked up something that might be a smudge of smoke. He corrected his course slightly.

“I see the chopper,” Lyon said excitedly. “I’ll take the wheel, Shayne. Head for the smoke, right?”

The Coast Guardsman, after his brief loss of composure, was speaking again in his unemotional professional voice. “Nefertiti still proceeding north under full power. The fire’s out of control. No one at the wheel. I say again: No one at the wheel.”

His next words were lost in an electronic babble. Shayne brought the dial up a hair and picked up a raucous taxi dispatcher, probably somewhere in Miami Beach. The Coast Guardsman for the moment was lost.

Sally, her youthful face alive with excitement, prowled behind him, her eyes going from the smoke to the helicopter and back to Shayne.

“Why don’t they jump?”

The Panther roared through the water, at maximum speed. A black dot took shape at the base of the column of smoke, and grew rapidly larger. The helicopter was slightly ahead of the Nefertiti, a hundred feet above the water. Its hatch was open.

The gap between the two boats closed rapidly. Shayne was holding the binoculars on the burning boat. Details showed up clearly. The entire after section was hidden. The smoke shifted as the boat swung, and he saw the flames.

“But what the hell are you going to do?” Lyon said. “You don’t think you can board her, do you?”

Suddenly the Nefertiti veered sharply. Through the binoculars Shayne saw two figures, a man and a woman, struggling on the forward sun deck. The man staggered and struck the low rail. The woman fell away into the water. He looked around in confusion, waved toward the helicopter and dived after her.

Shayne handed the binoculars to Sally. “There are two people in the water,” he said quietly. “Never mind the man, I want the woman. Don’t run her down, but get as close to her as you can.”

“Right, Mike,” Lyon said.

Shayne ran out on deck, shedding clothes. The helicopter was hanging above the rapidly moving boat, which had begun to swing in a long arc to the east. The sun was directly in Shayne’s eyes. He signaled with both hands and saw an answering wave from the open hatch.

The helicopter began to turn to come back. Shading his eyes, Shayne picked up two black dots in the water. They were together, and floundering. They disappeared briefly. Then he saw a splash, a frantically waving arm.

He motioned to Lyon in the wheelhouse, and waited tensely. As the wheel came down Shayne dived, slicing into the water cleanly. He drove powerfully toward where he had seen the heads. When he rose to the surface Brady appeared to be alone and in trouble. Fifteen yards separated them. Shayne ate up the distance in a smooth crawl. Ignoring Brady, he filled his lungs, snapped his body forward and dived.

He had only one chance. He was down ten feet when he saw her, slanting rapidly downward. He stroked hard, feeling the beat behind his eyes. With flippers and an air tank he could have reached her, but she was falling too fast.

Her body turned in the water. Shayne took two more strokes, his lungs bursting, and his fingers closed on her hair.

It came loose in his hand, a wig. The little contact changed the angle of her descent. Stabbing out desperately, Shayne managed to clutch her short cotton jacket. Her face had been terribly burned; it was only a charred mask.

She spun away, her arms rising against the pull. He yanked hard, kicking upward. She slid away, leaving the jacket in his hand.

He shot to the surface, gulping in air the instant he broke water.

The helicopter hovered above him, its rotors beating the water around him into froth. A life preserver attached by a line to the hatch lay on the water between Shayne and Brady.

Brady was thrashing convulsively, making no effort to reach the life preserver. Shayne swam to him. His face was blackened, almost unrecognizable. Shayne yelled, and Brady twisted and swam toward the sound. Shayne guided him to the life preserver. He groped for it helplessly. His eyelids were torn and raw. Shayne realized then that he was unable to see.

He signaled. The helicopter put down a two-man lift. Shayne worked the straps under Brady’s arms and about his legs. Then he fastened himself in, waved to the Coast Guardsman and they were hoisted aboard.

Before the hatch closed Shayne leaned out and pointed to tell Sally and her father that the excitement was over and to go home. Brady was moaning on the floor. Shayne found that he had held onto the wig and the jacket. He threw them down.

A young Coast Guardsman was examining Brady’s face. “Funny kind of burn.”

Another Coast Guardsman entered the compartment. “Mike Shayne?”