Бретт Холлидей - Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 46, No. 9, September 1982

“If somebody managed to steal four tuna nets, they’d have nearly two million dollars worth,” Lansing concluded. “After they transported the nets from the coastal area, they’d run little risk by bringing them to Detroit. Who’d suspect a bunch of nets to be worth that kind of money?”

“But what could Carter do with them?” David asked. “He could hardly sell tuna nets on the street comer. Who’d be willing to pay millions for fish nets in Detroit?”

“What if the buyers aren’t in Detroit?” Lansing mused. “Everything makes sense now.”

“Not to me,” David confessed.

Lansing reached under the pillow and produced the holstered S&W. David gasped as he watched his brother slip on his belt to secure the revolver to his hip.

“Cliff, you can’t run around with a gun on!” the younger man exclaimed.

“I can’t let those bastards get away with murdering our father either,” the major replied, counting the extra .38 cartridges before putting them in his pocket.

“You don’t have a permit for that thing.”

“The hell with a permit,” Lansing said flatly.

“Call the police and let them handle it,” David urged.

“What will we tell them? We don’t know anything for certain. We don’t have any proof — yet.” The major donned his windbreaker. “And I suspect the evidence is going to disappear soon. There isn’t time to waste with department red tape and search warrants.”

“Will you at least explain this business to me on our way to where ever the hell we’re going?” David asked as he rose from his chair.

“What are you talking about?” Lansing frowned. “You aren’t trained to handle investigations or to tangle with criminals.”

“I’m going with you, Cliff,” his brother insisted. “They killed our father, remember?”

“All right,” the major agreed reluctantly. “But do exactly what I say and don’t take any foolish chances. These guys have already killed once and they won’t hesitate to do it again.”

The headlights of the tractor-trailer rig sliced through the fog that surrounded the Lexington Harbor that night. Clifford and David Lansing watched the truck U-turn to back into the pier loading section. Three figures waited for the vehicle.

“Carter’s truck,” the major told his brother as they hid behind the Octopus Inn near the lot. “And there’s Minton and his boys ready to meet it.”

Harrimon Carter and Mike Sumter emerged from the tractor and joined the other men at the rear of the truck. They opened it and all five hauled out an enormous bundle of netting from the trailer.

“You guessed right, Cliff,” David whispered. “Carter’s driver brought the nets from California, claiming they were hammocks. Now he’s brought them to Minton.”

“Yeah,” Lansing rasped. “Then Fred loads the nets on his garbage scow, cruises up Lake Huron to Canada and sells them to his connection up there.”

“That’s why Dad wanted to know if my company had a Canadian branch.”

The major nodded. “He hoped to get in touch with a Canadian insurance investigator. Minton and Carter plan to sell the nets to some shady operators with the Canadian fishing industry. The Maple Leaf boys will pay a bundle for the gear and still spend less than they would if they purchased it through a legitimate dealer.”

“Those nets are big, Cliff,” Dave remarked. “Real big. They couldn’t haul more that one of them in that truck.”

“That means they’ve either sold one or more to the Canadians or they have the others waiting for pick up with their confederates in California,” Lansing said. “Either way, they aren’t going to get away with their scheme. Find a telephone and call the police.”

“What are you going to do?” his brother demanded.

“I’ll make certain those bastards don’t leave before the cavalry arrives,” the major replied, drawing the .38 from its holster.

“Cliff...” David’s voice revealed his concern.

“I’ll be alright,” Lansing assured him. “Go on.”

Reluctantly, the younger man left.

Minton, Carter and their three henchmen loaded the net on the deck of the garbage scow. While the boat’s skipper showed Carter a map and explained the route they’d take to the Canadian coast, Sol and Jake walked to the warehouse.

“If nobody’s going to get wise to us hauling those nets up to Manitoulin Island,” Jake growled. “Why do we have to cover them up with dead fish and other crap?”

“No need in takin’ chances,” the bearded Sol shrugged. “A garbage scow full of garbage don’t look like much. So we’ll just...”

He didn’t complete the sentence as he stared at the warehouse. The heavy door had been pushed back.

“You didn’t open that sucker, did you?” Sol asked.

Jake shook his head. “It was closed before we went out to the truck. Maybe that black guy with Carter did it.”

“And maybe somebody else did,” Sol rasped, drawing a long bladed knife from a belt sheath.

“Yeah,” the other man agreed. He stared at the shadows within the warehouse as he knelt to pick up a stevedore’s hook.

His back was turned to Lansing when the major appeared from the corner of the building. His arm swung quickly and clubbed the walnut butt of the S&W revolver into the mastoid bone behind Jake’s ear. The big man fell with a grunt, his hook slipping from his grasp to skid across the floorboards within the warehouse.

Sol glimpsed the tall figure of Clifford Lansing a moment before the major snap-kicked him in the groin. The stevedore gasped in agony and doubled up. Lansing chopped the gun butt into the point of Sol’s bearded chin and knocked the man unconscious.

Suddenly, a large form sprang from the fog behind Lansing. He whirled as the heavy body collided into him. Both men stumbled across the threshold of the warehouse. A hard fist slammed into the side of Lansing’s head. Through a crimson blur, the major saw Mike Sumter’s white teeth grind together in concentration amid his ebony face. Sumter twisted the S&W out of the major’s grasp.

The gun fell and Sumter’s foot sent it sliding outside. Lansing’s left hand shot out, slamming the heel of his palm into his opponent’s mouth. He broke Sumter’s hold and swung a horizontal empi blow to the black thug’s jaw. The elbow smash knocked Sumter to the floor. One of his hands touched Jake’s discarded stevedore hook.

The heavy curved steel lashed out at the major’s legs. Lansing jumped out of range as Sumter scrambled to his feet. A murderous gleam filled the hood’s eyes. He slashed the hook at his adversary, narrowly missing the agile Major Lansing. When Sumter swung an overhead stroke, Lansing feinted with his hands and quickly launched a karate side-kick to the other man’s kneecap.

Cartilage crunched. Sumter screamed as his knee broke at the joint. Lansing grabbed the wrist behind the hook and twisted his opponent’s arm. Then he executed another side-kick, the edge of his foot striking the sensitive nerve center located in Sumter’s armpit. The thug trembled from the blow, then he slumped senseless to the floor.

Lansing sighed with relief. Three down, two to go. He stepped from the warehouse. A thickly built shadow stood amid the fog, arms raised, both hands holding a big, black revolver with a ribbed barrel.

The major threw himself forward as the gunman opened fire. Flame spat from the muzzle and the pistol roared. A high velocity bullet splintered wood from the doorframe of the warehouse. Lansing caught a glimpse of Fred Minton’s face as the ex-cop’s arms rose with the recoil of his revolver.

A .357 Magnum! Lansing thought, scrambling to the discarded .38 that lay between the unconscious forms of Jake and Sol. Minton swung his gun toward the major as Lansing’s hand scooped up the snub-nosed revolver.