Brett Halliday - Murder Takes No Holiday

“I’ll make it up to you, Michael,” Martha called. “I’m-”

It ended in a moan. She was hurried away. The flashlight disappeared around the building, and Shayne was left alone in the dark. Car doors slammed. One motor roared, then the other, and the little cavalcade moved away very fast. He tried to determine which way they turned at the corner, but from where he lay it was impossible to tell.

In a moment Shayne’s eyes had adjusted to the absence of artificial light. The night was clear, without a moon. He seemed to be lying at the foot of a gently sloping concrete ramp. He could probably succeed in wriggling to the top, but even if he could roll in among the low palms before the cops arrived, they would have no trouble finding him. His one chance was to make enough noise so he could wake up somebody in the hotel and get them to untie him.

He jack-knifed about, struggling into a sitting position. Hitching sideward, first moving his legs, then leaning backward so he could support his weight on his clenched fists, he reached the doorway. He backed through into the blackness.

He tried to remember the arrangement of the laundry facilities, as he had seen them briefly in the feeble glow of the paper match. There were stationary tubs along one wall, a bench off to the left, an indoors clothesline, shaped like the ribs of a huge umbrella. Somewhere on the floor near the bench he thought he had glimpsed a squat, two-handled utensil, a wash basin of some kind. He hitched painfully across the rough concrete in what he hoped was the right direction.

The line was cutting his wrists cruelly. Each time he moved he had to use more effort than the time before. Lying full length, he tried rolling. He rolled twice, splashing through a puddle of brackish water. Twisting around, he lashed out with both legs. His shins struck something sharp, and the bench went over with a crash and a ring of metal. Shayne kicked the bench out of his way and tried to find the basin. He reached it after a moment’s floundering. One heel struck against it with a resounding clang.

He rested for a moment, breathing hard. But time was passing. He maneuvered into a position where he could raise his legs and swing them against the basin. The noise seemed very loud, echoing back and forth between the cinder-block walls. With each kick the basin moved a few inches and he had to shift position. From time to time he stopped to listen, but except for the sound of his own panting breath he could hear nothing. If he had succeeded in awakening the desk clerk, the old man was afraid to come down to the basement to see what was going on.

Shayne kicked at the basin twice more. The second kick sent it spinning out of reach. He hitched himself after it, and knocked over the pole holding the inside clothesline. The whole awkward contraption came down on top of him. The heavy pole missed him narrowly, but the web of ropes was all around him. He tried again to reach the basin, and the ropes tightened. As he backed away, trying to work free, he cut the back of one hand against the bottom of the pole. He felt the stab of pain and swore deep in his throat. Then, realizing in a flash what had happened, he maneuvered cautiously backward to bring his wrists against the sharp edge. The metal binding around the base of the pole had been knocked loose, exposing a jagged corner of metal a quarter of an inch across. The little spur of metal raked the back of his hand again. He worked it very carefully between his wrists and began rocking backward and forward.

Then he heard the car.

It came around the corner, tires screaming. The driver shifted into high only an instant before he had to slam down hard on his brakes. He came to a noisy stop in front of the hotel. Biting down hard on the gag in his mouth, Shayne continued to saw away at the jagged piece of metal. But Alvarez had told them exactly where they could find him. He heard running footsteps on the concrete ramp. The line broke as two cops with flashlights burst in through the back door.

There was nothing Shayne could do now but lie still. The circles of light played rapidly around the room until they found him. A voice warned him not to move, or he would be shot. One of the flashlights held steady on him while the other stabbed here and there until it picked out the light switch. A third man came past the other two. All three, Shayne saw, had pistols showing. A naked 150-watt bulb flooded the room with light.

The two cops with the flashlights were natives, wearing their full dress-up uniform, blue and red, with white Sam Browne belt and white helmet. The only thing they had dispensed with was the gloves. The third was an Englishman in a simpler uniform. Shayne noticed upside-down chevrons on his arm. He was short and red-faced, with a full mustache. His collar seemed too tight.

He strode across to Shayne and looked down. “That’s the man,” he said with satisfaction.

Shayne made a small sound. He brought his hands out in front of him and tried to untie the gag. The only way he could get out of this was to talk his way out, which was impossible so long as he had a handkerchief in his mouth.

The native cops put away their flashlights, but their guns were still out. The sergeant kicked the basin out of his way.

“Well, you bastard,” he said in an unexpectedly deep voice, “you’ve kept us all up after our regular bedtime, and don’t expect us to be friendly. You’re under arrest. I’ll omit the warning because you won’t be charged in my jurisdiction. You really got yourself tangled up, didn’t you?” He motioned to one of his men and said, “Cut him loose.”

The cop produced a pen-knife. Wielding it delicately, he cut the fishing line that bound Shayne’s ankles. After that he cut the line around his mouth. The redhead spat out the handkerchief, but picked it up again to wrap around his cut wrist. The cop helped him free himself from the clothesline, and quickly went over him to see if he was carrying a gun.

“Get up,” the sergeant said, “and don’t give us any trouble.”

Shayne did as he was told. He stamped one foot to get the circulation going. When he tried to speak, he only succeeded in bringing forth an unintelligible croak. He cleared his throat and tried again. This time the muscles worked.

“Do you want to know who murdered Albert Watts?”

For a moment the sergeant looked at him in silence. Then he said, “Don’t tell me you did.”

“He turned in a customs tip on an American named Paul Slater before he was killed. Slater was caught and fined, and came back to St. Albans. So maybe Watts wasn’t killed by a native, after all. Does any of this interest you?”

“Right now,” the sergeant said, “whether I’m interested or not is neither here nor there. If you want to buy your way out of this with information, you’re talking to the wrong man. You can take it up with the inspector in the morning.”

“It won’t be worth anything in the morning,” Shayne said. “There’s a large-scale smuggling operation underway on this island, as I think you know. If you move fast you can break it up while the inspector’s still asleep. And while you’re doing that you can find out who murdered Watts.”

“You are feeling talkative, aren’t you?” the sergeant said. “But let’s wait and have a stenographer take it all down.”

“I just said it can’t wait,” Shayne told him impatiently. “By the time everything’s signed and witnessed and all the documents have been filled out in triplicate, Alvarez will be in some other country.”

“Who did you say?” the sergeant said, pushing his head forward.

“You heard me. Luis Alvarez. Use a little imagination and you can put him out of business for good. Law enforcement around here will be easier when that son of a bitch is behind bars.”