Brett Halliday - Heads You Lose

Peterson’s long nose twitched. He complained, “Goddamn it, Mike, you know we had this job wished on us.”

“Yeh. I know,” Shayne said sympathetically. He took a sip of cognac, pushed the glass away and got up. “Want to match to see which one of you accompanies me to the can?”

Peterson’s face darkened and McNulty choked over his beer. “I’ll go,” said Peterson. “I’ll just see, by God, that there’s not a back door.”

Shayne waited politely while he got up and preceded him to a side door lettered MEN. Peterson went in and turned on the light, surveyed a four-by-six cubicle containing a stained lavatory and a toilet. Sunlight streamed through a cobwebbed skylight eight feet above the floor and there was no other exit.

Peterson went out muttering, “All right, smart guy. I’ll wait outside.”

Shayne closed and locked the door, got up on the lavatory and unlatched the steel-sashed skylight. With the toe of his shoe he pushed the toilet lever and flushed it, then pushed up on hinges that squeaked slightly from long disuse. He caught the edge and chinned his long body upward, wriggled through the opening and rolled out on a sloping roof, slid down to the edge and dropped off into an alley.

Running swiftly to the street he got in his car and drove to the post office. At the General Delivery window, he said, “Shayne, Michael.”

The clerk riffled through a batch of letters from the S pigeonhole and handed him an envelope. Shayne held it up and looked at it, went back to his car and got in. He didn’t look at the loiterers, didn’t try to guess who might be watching him.

The address on the envelope was typed. The postmark was 11 A.M. He tore it open and took out a folded sheet of 8? by 11 Hammond Bond. The brief message was typewritten:

“You are being watched every second. Drive straight to Tahiti Beach on the Coral Gables road. Take it slow all the way but don’t stop. We’ll know if any cops are following you.”

Replacing the note in the envelope, he started his motor. He took the most direct route to Coral Cables, driving slowly and watching through the rear-view mirror, but he was unable to spot any car which might be definitely following him. As he drove he got out a pen-knife and cut a slit in the upholstery of the back of the front seat, slid the envelope into the slit and smoothed it back.

Beyond Coral Cables he turned onto the winding road leading down through deserted hammocks and swampy land toward the edge of the bay where there was a now deserted resort which had once been a popular bathing beach and dancing casino. Gasoline rationing had ended, temporarily, the popularity of the picturesque spot.

There was not a car in sight behind him as he drove slowly between rows of straggly palms and wild palmettos. This was understandable. There was no side road once one turned from the main highway, and anyone following could stop and effectually prevent help reaching him.

Shayne swore softly at himself for having started on what would probably be a wild-goose chase, but he knew that it was important to follow every lead. He decided that the murderers were getting desperate to plan a meeting here in the jungle, and he hunched low under the wheel, keeping his foot on the accelerator.

A warm, stagnant dankness filled the air as he approached the dead-end at the bayshore. An occasional sandcrab scuttled across the road in front of his car, but they were the only living things to be seen.

The winding highway debouched suddenly into a clearing. The serene shimmer of the bay showed between gray trunks of royal palms, and there was a graveled parking space marked off in neat lanes, but empty now of cars. The palm-thatched dance pavilion and bath houses were deserted and silent.

Shayne turned into the parking lot and turned off his motor. He lit a cigarette and listened to the sluffing slap of waves on the wide sandy beach and to the faint whisper of palm fronds.

The air was warm, and the humid stench of the swamp was thick in his nostrils. A squirrel chattered angrily from a twisted mangrove beyond the silent pavilion, and a fish broke the calm waters of the bay with a loud splash.

For several minutes there was no other sound. Shayne finished his cigarette and spun the butt away. He wished he had that drink of cognac he had left as a decoy on the barroom table. His mouth twisted into a grin at the thought of Peterson and McNulty keeping watch on the empty men’s room.

He heard a sound as of someone moving stealthily in the palmetto thicket behind him. He stiffened with his hands tight on the steering wheel.

A voice, quite close to him, said, “Hold it like that and you won’t get hurt.” The tone was curiously thick, as if it came from a sore throat.

Shayne did not move. He said, “I’m holding it.”

He heard other movement behind him. The same voice spoke again, much closer. “Unlatch the door and get out slow. Keep your back turned this way.”

Shayne grumbled, “This is a hell of a way to talk things over.” He unlatched the door and slid from the car.

The voice gave a low order, “Go over him, Pat,” and foot-steps approached from behind.

“I’m not carrying anything,” Shayne told him. “Hell, I thought we were going to make a deal.”

“Maybe we will, but it’ll be our way.”

Shayne felt breath on the back of his neck, and a growl, “Git yore hands up.”

A pair of hairy paws came around patted his chest and sides all the way down to his waist, then slid around to feel across his hips and outer thighs. “He’s clean, I reckon,” the surly voice said. “You want I should slug him now, Gene?”

“Not yet.” Gene moved forward and faced Shayne. He was slender and dark-featured, wearing ragged corduroys and a canvas fishing jacket. His face was clean-shaven and of the unhealthy pallor of a grubworm. A. 45 Colt’s automatic hung carelessly from the long, lax fingers of his right hand. His expression was one of curiosity rather than of animosity.

Pat was a hulking man in overalls and a sweaty cotton shirt open at the throat. The sleeves were rolled up above his hairy forearms, and matted black hair showed in the open V of his shirt. He was bareheaded and had flat features characterized by a leer of animal cunning.

Shayne’s gaze flickered past the dull eyes of Pat to Gene. He said, “What’s the idea of all the hokus? I’m not pulling anything.”

“Sure you’re not,” Gene agreed. His voice sank to a sibilant purr. “Not never no more.”

Shayne’s lips drew back from his teeth. “The old double-cross, eh?”

“That’s right, chum. You’re through listening to telephones.” Gene glanced down at the automatic in his hand. “You want to break him in two, Pat?”

Pat bobbed his head and said, “Yup,” happily. Slaver wet the corners of his mouth. He doubled his fists and they were like picnic hams. Childlike anticipation glinted from his eyes as he took a step forward.

Shayne said, “Wait,” sharply. He scowled at Gene. “I’m not going to be tough to deal with.”

Gene laughed. “You’re not going to be tough, period. Not after Pat softens you up.”

“You’re making a mistake,” Shayne warned. “If I’m not back by dark Will Gentry gets a sealed envelope with everything Clem Wilson told me last night.”

“I figured you’d make that stall,” Gene said. “I’m taking a chance on it.” He then added softly, “Slug him, Pat.”

Shayne saw the fist coming but couldn’t get his head out of the way in time. It was like being clubbed with a baseball bat. He was lifted off his feet and rocketed backward.

Pat lunged forward and kicked viciously at his face. Shayne rolled aside, forcing his right hand down to his side pocket. Pat fell on top of him, slobbering happily. He clubbed Shayne with huge fists, then lifted his body high and thumped it down.