Brett Halliday: Murder Takes No Holiday

He shifted the revolver to his left hand. As he came up to Al he reached out slowly, moving with care, and took Al’s gun out of his hand. The tension went out of the bartender’s body all at once. He seemed sure of himself again. Shifting his weight, he hit Shayne on the side of the jaw.

Shayne rocked back on his heels. He grinned savagely, dropping the guns. Stepping back, he picked up a chair and whirled it at Al. It broke against Al’s upstretched arms. Shayne drove in behind it and nailed Al with a high right to the head. A left in the right spot now would have finished him, but the detective’s left arm was still dead.

He tried to drop back into hitting position; with only one arm in motion, Shayne was badly off-balance, and he fell forward, knocking Al into the folding door. Two sections of the door folded shut on him. As he freed himself, it banged open all the way. Slater and the Camel, Shayne saw, were rolling across the living-room rug.

Al came at Shayne, both hands up. Luckily he wasn’t a body-puncher. He threw a right and a left at Shayne’s head. Shayne slipped them both, and at that instant he had a sensation as though something had torn in his shoulder, and his left arm came up. He still couldn’t hit with it, but it put him back in balance and he could shield his ribs. Al caught him with a straight overhand. It helped Shayne set himself. He saw another punch starting, and he beat it in. Al’s punch landed, but with nothing behind it. Shayne hit him twice more. This was crude slugging, with no attempt at style. If either punch had missed, the redhead would have been wide open. But they didn’t miss. Al was already on the way down when Shayne hit him in the same spot a second time, with his weight behind it. One of Al’s arms, swinging, swept the cards off the table. He was unconscious before he hit the floor.

Shayne staggered. He felt the corner of the table against his hip.

Paul Slater had Alvarez by the throat and was knocking his head repeatedly against the floor. Slater was no longer the handsome, somewhat spoiled-looking young man Shayne had glimpsed from the terrace; his face was suffused with blood, his eyes protruded, and he was out of control. Alvarez flopped around helplessly, clawing at Slater’s wrists. A curious sound came from deep in his throat. Shayne knew that unless he did something to stop it, in another thirty seconds or less Alvarez would be dead. But a terrible weariness had come over him. He couldn’t move.

Cecil Powys ran in from the terrace, a gun in his hand. He glanced at the struggling pair on the floor. Without an instant’s pause he chopped at Slater’s wrists with the gun. Slater cried out. Powys hit him again, and his fingers opened. Alvarez fell away from him, clutching his throat.

“On your feet, Paul,” Powys said. “Your wife is still here.”

“Oh, my God,” Slater said thickly.

Alvarez croaked something and plunged upward at Slater, butting him in the chest.

“Gentlemen,” Powys said impatiently.

He dropped the gun into his side pocket. He pulled the Camel around with one hand and hit him with the other. It had been a long time since Shayne had seen anyone punch like that. The blow was delivered seemingly without effort, but Alvarez pitched forward as though he had been hit with a hammer.

Slater scrambled to his feet. “Where is she?”

A bell rang loudly in another part of the house. The strange lethargy fell away from Shayne. He whipped around. The bell went on ringing, a harsh and urgent summons. Someone must have opened the gate at the foot of the drive. He shouted to Powys and headed back through the dining room.

Jose was in the kitchen, standing confusedly with his face streaming with blood. He had made it this far, but he wasn’t going much farther. His eyes were glazed. He swayed forward and fell towards Shayne. He was holding a large carving knife in front of him.

“Watch it, Mike!” Powys cried behind him.

The redhead sidestepped, and Jose fell through the doorway. As he went down he pulled over a table and a lamp crashed to the floor. There was a sudden brilliant flash, and the house was plunged into darkness. The bell stopped ringing. The music was cut off abruptly in the middle of a note.

In the sudden silence, Shayne heard a car’s motor. He ran to the kitchen door.

“Martha!”

He heard Powys behind him: “Let’s get out of this place, Mike. That’s Sergeant Brannon or I miss my guess.”

Shayne groped his way outside. A moment later he was across the terrace and down the steps. He felt gravel beneath his feet, then grass. He could see the headlights now, coming fast. There were sounds of movement behind him. He called Martha’s name again. A shot was fired inside the house, then another.

“Off in the grass,” Powys called. “Keep together.”

Shayne could make out a blur of movement on the other side of the drive. Three more shots sounded. He heard a woman’s voice.

“Martha?”

“Yes, over here,” her voice answered.

“Is Slater with you?”

Hearing the American grunt in reply, Shayne concentrated on getting the little group as far as possible from the house before the car reached them.

“Now get down,” he snapped. “All of you. Down.”

They fell to the grass as the headlights swept by. Shayne saw that the driver was wearing a police uniform. When the car was past, they ran for the gate, keeping to the grass that bordered the gravel. At the gate Shayne looked back. The police car’s headlights illuminated one side of the house. There was another fusillade of shots.

The gate had been left open. Slater had apparently been hurt in the fight with the Camel. He lagged behind the others, his breath coming in great gasps. Outside the gate, he fell.

“Powys, go on ahead and get the car ready,” Shayne said. “Take it easy, Paul. Plenty of time.”

“I-” Slater gasped.

“Darling, it’s all right now,” Martha said beside him. “It’s going to be really all right.”

Shayne lifted him from one side, Martha from the other. For a moment the shooting had stopped, and Shayne heard a stentorian voice, unmistakably Sergeant Brannon’s, bellowing a command. More shots followed.

The Morris was cleared by the time they reached it.

“Give me a hand, Mike,” Powys said. “We can roll it out without starting the motor. Vivienne? Steer it for us, that’s a good girl.”

Shayne forced his way into the underbrush and gripped the rear bumper. Powys, on the other side, counted to three and they lifted and heaved forward. The little car hung for a moment, caught on a broken sapling, then rolled into the road.

“All right, everybody,” Powys said. “Pile in. Going to be a squeeze.”

Shayne tipped up the driver’s seat so Paul and Martha could get in back. He ducked his head to go in after them.

“Paul?” Vivienne said in a small voice.

“Hello, Vivienne.”

Martha looked from Paul to the girl and turned her head, biting her lip. Powys leaped in and released the emergency. The little car began to roll.

“Keep an eye out back, will you, Mike?” he said.

As soon as they passed around a bend, he turned on the parking lights. The car rolled more rapidly. He put it in second and turned on the ignition; the motor started smoothly.

“I didn’t introduce you people,” Shayne said. “That’s Cecil Powys at the wheel. Mrs. Slater, Miss Vivienne Larousse. I mean mademoiselle-or however the hell you pronounce it. You can thank Vivienne for getting us out here. We couldn’t have found the place without her.”

Martha hesitated. “We are grateful,” she said quietly.

“So much shooting!” Vivienne exclaimed. “When I heard that I was sure you would all be shot full of holes. Mon Dieu, how I suffered. Michael, were those policemen?”