Бретт Холлидей - Murder in Haste

He didn’t go all the way out, but he came close. He sank to his knees. The big man continued to work on his body with his right. Shayne heard the small man’s voice: “That’s all, Jack. That’s all. We don’t want to have to carry him.”

Shayne’s brain turned over weakly. “What was the last name? Klipstone?”

It came out in a kind of mumble, but they heard him.

“What’s that?” the small man said sharply.

Klipstone said, “The bastard’s too educated. I want to work him over some more when we get him aboard. I won’t make any noise.”

“Let’s not start shifting strategy at this date, for God’s sake,” his companion said. “Get him up.”

“How about Whizzer?”

“He can lie there till he can move by himself. He deserves some hard pavement for hanging his jaw out like that. Jesus! I thought for a minute Shayne was going to get away from us, and that would really be something, you know?”

Shayne could hear what they were saying, but he didn’t have much command over his arms and legs. Klipstone lifted him to the fender of the nearest car.

“Hold him there,” the small man said. He came close to Shayne. “You made your point. You’re a big tough man and how you trailed us here without dogs I’d like somebody to tell me sometime. You’re probably a pretty good detective. Congratulations. Are you hearing me?”

“I hear you,” Shayne mumbled through numb lips.

“Act intelligent and maybe you’ll live through this. Act dumb and I can tell you for sure — you get dropped in the bay. It’s that simple. We’ve got something big going here, and there’s too much involved to kid around. Now on your feet.”

Shayne swayed away from the fender. With Klipstone no longer holding him, he pitched forward, turning as he fell so he would land on his uninjured shoulder. Oddly, the shock cleared his mind and he was able to look at the question soberly; should he try to walk by himself, or make them carry him?

The small man solved it for him. Stooping down, he slapped Shayne with his gun, just hard enough to sting him. Shayne lurched to his feet. Klipstone let him lean on him as they crossed the street to the marina entrance. Shayne swung his head toward the office as they passed. The watchman’s head and shoulders lay on his desk, an uncorked bottle of Scotch beside him. They headed down the long dock between the boats. The small man took Shayne’s arm to hurry him along. The dizziness was passing off, but he continued to lean on Klipstone, for any advantage it might bring him later. As they approached the large white boat, Shayne saw the lettering on the broad stern change from a blur to “Panther, New Orleans.”

Another man, wearing nothing but a pair of tattered shorts, heavily-muscled and tattooed, came out of the shadows of the deck-house. He caught Shayne as he was thrust aboard.

“Take a good look, Mac,” the small man said, jumping down on the deck. “This is the well-known Michael Shayne. He tried to take all three of us, and he damn near did it, too. Put him below.”

“Okay, Mr. Gray. In the same cabin?”

“Why not? Shayne seems to know all our little secrets. How is he?”

“I’d say he’s starting to slobber.”

“Well, he’s got a bigger capacity than I gave him credit for. Glad to have you aboard; Shayne.”

Shayne gave him a piece of rude advice, and he raised his eyebrows, pretending to be shocked. “Such language.”

The tattooed man spun Shayne around and thrust him into a companionway. The stairs were very steep, and Shayne descended them carefully. He had taken enough falls for one night. At the bottom, a tattooed arm reached past his shoulder and unlocked a door. Shayne was pushed into a small cabin. A light was on, but the porthole on this side faced toward the bay, which was why he hadn’t seen it from the shore. He heard the door being locked behind him.

The cabin’s furniture consisted of a double bunk, a table and a chair. Someone lay in the lower bunk, and Shayne was not really surprised to see that it was Peter Painter. His usual dapper figure was a shambles. He still wore a necktie, cinched up tightly, but his shirt was open all the way down to the beltbuckle. A highball glass was balanced on his chest. He wore no shoes and only one sock, the garter flapping. His head turned and he looked at Shayne. “Hi, Mike,” he said amiably.

Then he came up off the bunk as though he had received an electric shock at the base of the spine. The highball spilled and he cracked his forehead on the underside of the upper bunk. He clapped his hand to the injured spot and swung his feet out.

“Shayne! I’ve been looking all over. Where have you been, you bastard? You’re under arrest!”

Painter pointed an accusing finger at Shayne and waved wildly with the other arm, as though calling up reserves. “I arrest you for breaking and entering and attempted manslaughter, and that’s only the start, by God! I’ve been waiting for this for years. Now I’ve got you where I want you, and I’m going to make you squeal!”

Shayne laughed. “Take it easy, Petey.” He picked up an article of women’s underclothing from a chair and dangled it in the air for a moment before letting it drop. “I see they’re taking good care of you. And to think we’ve been worrying.”

Painter’s mood changed abruptly. “I know all about it You and your hoodlum friends think you’re going to get me drunk, do you? I’m too smart for you.”

Shayne put one hip on the table and repeated skeptically, “You’re too smart for us.”

“Somebody comes in every half hour and pours me some more gin.” He chortled. “Only what they don’t know is that I don’t really drink it, I let it trickle down my chin. Clever?”

“You’re just pretending,” Shayne said.

“Oh, I take a sip now and then to make it look good, but I’m one jump ahead all the time. I know what you’re planning for the morning. You’re going to dump me in a motel, stinking of gin, with a lot of empties and some ladies’ underwear, you dirty-minded so-and-sos. Goodbye career. Out on a bat when I should be attending to business. It takes a real psycho to think of something like that, and I know whose idea it was, too. Yours — you sadist! But you didn’t expect me to outguess you, did you? You always underestimate my intelligence. I saw through the whole thing when I found those... those—”

“Pants,” Shayne said.

“Pants. Yes. But you never should have tangled with me, Shayne. I’m sold cone stober, that’s what give me my advantage.”

He let go of the railing to make a more emphatic gesture, and fell to the floor. Shayne picked him up.

Painter murmured, “Slippery wax.” He peered at Shayne. “Okay, now make a new plan, damn you. I’ll outfox you again. You had sense enough not to show your face all day, and it’s lucky for you, boy. Right now I happen to be a little tired, but wait till I get my strength back.”

“You’re not making much sense, Petey,” Shayne told him. “Is there any more gin?”

“May be a bottle round somewhere, but I’m not giving you any of it. I always knew you were low. But these aren’t just juvenile delinquents or something. They’re killers and big thieves, and I never figured you to throw in with an outfit like this for a few lousy bucks. I guess I’m an idealist, but I figured you for a few scruples. Not many, just a few. How’s Heinemann?”

“He was okay the last time I saw him,” Shayne said.

“And Gray? I suppose he’s okay, too?”

Shayne shrugged. “If you mean the little guy with the pockmarks, there were two others in the way and I didn’t get around to him.”

“Oh, no. You just opened his scalp to the bone, that’s all. I hope the ambulance got there in time — or do I? If he kicked off, I get you for murder in the second, and that’s more satisfying than manslaughter.”