Бретт Холлидей - Count Backwards to Zero

“May 1949, 1063. You don’t want to give me a small hint about what’s happening out there in the Atlantic?”

“Not now. I hope you can arrange your social schedule so you can meet the boat. One other thing, Tim. Have a full tank of gas.”

“That’s the Mike Shayne I’ve come to know. Curt. Concise. Uninformative. Have a nice day. I wish I was out on the water instead of having to sit inside staring at this goddamn electric typewriter. It doesn’t want to perform for me today.”

After paying for the call, Shayne went up to the bridge, where Captain Stackpole greeted him cordially, making no reference to their middle-of-the-night conversation. Shayne wanted to know about the procedures for unloading passengers’ cars. This was a lengthy process, he was told. No one who had brought a car with him could hope to be free in much less than an hour.

Shayne had another piece of unfinished business. He checked the passenger list for Jerry Diamond’s cabin number. Finding the door he wanted after some searching, he knocked.

No one answered. He picked the lock and went in.

Diamond was already partially packed. He traveled simply, with a single two-suiter suitcase. Apparently he had left England in a hurry; he had brought no underwear except whatever he was wearing at the moment. There were drops of dried blood in the bathroom, and several blood-stained tissues in the wastebasket.

Shayne sat down to wait. Two cigarettes later, Diamond came in.

He seemed tired. Seeing Shayne, he stopped short in the doorway, his eyes widening. That look fled instantly and he flashed a smile.

“Mike! Hey! What did I do, leave the door unlocked? That was a great poker game, I seem to remember. I’m ashamed to say I had a few too many drinks.”

He was wearing a long-sleeved shirt with the cuffs buttoned. The edge of a bandage protruded below the left cuff.

“What happened to your arm?” Shayne asked. “You haven’t been getting into knife fights, have you?”

“That,” Diamond said. “Too many boozies, I guess. I thought I’d have a nightcap and take a shower, but I shouldn’t have tried to do both at the same time. I slipped and the glass broke. It’s an easy trick. Anybody who tries hard enough can do it.”

“Let me see your passport, Jerry.”

Diamond frowned and said in a suddenly ugly voice, “What’s this private-detective business all of a sudden, Shayne?”

“I want to see what countries you’ve been in lately. Just passing time.”

“Do you know what you can do, detective? You can beat your meat somewhere else.”

Shayne exploded upward and stood towering over the smaller man. Diamond checked himself after an involuntary step backward. After a moment’s hesitation he snaked out his passport and gave it to Shayne, who checked the visas. Before coming to England, Diamond had been in Egypt and Syria.

Tossing the passport onto the bureau, Shayne took the front of Diamond’s shirt and walked him back against the wall. Diamond’s breath came out in a warm puff. Shayne went over him for weapons and then checked his wallet. He was carrying three $1,000 bills, but nothing else of interest except a credit card in another name.

“Somebody tried to beat me up last night,” he said. “I don’t know why. Maybe they got the wrong man. That doesn’t make me like it any better.”

His knife came out. The blade snicked open and Diamond cringed away, raising an arm.

“Shayne, for God’s sake, will you think about what you’re doing?”

Shayne flipped open Diamond’s passport and began cutting out the picture.

“The same thing happened to mine last night, and it’s a cute idea. Unless you’re carrying a spare, you’ll have trouble getting through Immigration. I’ll shoot this up to Washington and see if you’re wanted for anything important. If the answer is yes, I’d advise you to move fast and stay out of everybody’s way.”

“I’ll stay out of your way, believe me,” Diamond said fervently. “I never like to tangle with psychopaths. Believe me, Shayne, you’re the one who’s making a mistake. I’ve never beaten up anybody in my life. It’s one of the things I don’t happen to do.”

“In that case I’m wrong,” Shayne said, “but I’ll hold the apology for now.”

The Queen Elizabeth moved regally up the Cut as the sun was setting behind the Miami skyline. To the north, Miami Beach was beginning to light up for the night. The fire ships were out, spouting a welcome. Tugs warped the big ship into place with special care. A large welcoming crowd waved from the dock.

Captain Stackpole had assigned an officer to sponsor Shayne, and in spite of his damaged passport, the detective was one of the first to leave the ship. He was wearing his freshly cleaned suit and carrying his shipboard purchases in a shopping bag.

He immediately became the center of a swarm of reporters and television people. In the back of this crowd, Shayne saw his friend Tim Rourke, his usual half-smoked cigarette stuck to his lower lip. His fists were buried in his hip pockets. He was a thin, disjointed, carelessly dressed man, whose offhand style concealed a stubbornness and a probing mind that had made him one of the best investigative reporters in a fiercely competitive business. He didn’t approach Shayne, or indicate that they had talked by radio-telephone earlier. Shayne had loosened his necktie and unfastened the top button of his shirt, a signal he had adopted long ago to inform Rourke that they were being watched or monitored.

The reporters followed Shayne to Biscayne Boulevard, pressing him for further information on the Bermuda affair. Rourke had left Shayne’s Buick in a no-parking slot with a police card stuck in the wiper. Shayne removed the card, found the keys under the corner of the floor mat, and gunned the motor getting away, almost clipping one of the persistent TV people.

He made a quick U-turn at the corner of 13th and came back with the southbound traffic. He swung into 11th Street and double-parked, parallel to a Ford sedan occupying a curbside space from which he would be able to watch the disembarking passengers. In a quick series of actions, he fished for the Ford’s front-door latch and forced it open, unlatched the hood, used a wire bridge to jump the ignition, and moved the Ford around the corner where he parked it illegally in front of a hydrant.

Returning to the Buick, he moved into the space the Ford had vacated and cut his lights.

He found a note in the glove compartment in Rourke’s handwriting: “No. 1063 of Public Laws of 1949, To Establish a Cash Award for Information Relating to Smuggling of Atomic Material into U.S. Now what the hell did you want to know that for?”

Shayne unlocked an equipment box and took out a pair of high-powered binoculars. He had an unobstructed view of the lighted pier. He used the squirter to clean the windshield, and settled down with the glasses to his eyes, his elbows on the steering wheel.

His car phone rang. Rourke’s newspaper had recently installed a phone in the reporter’s car so he could phone in on the move. He and Shayne shared the same operator. He was two blocks away, on 11th Terrace.

“For Christ’s sake, man,” Rourke said. “Somebody’s trying to smuggle in an atom bomb and you think you can handle it by yourself?”

“Hang on. I’ll explain in a minute.”

He had picked up Anne Blagden in the glasses and was following her down the gangplank. Quentin Little was a step behind, and he seemed in poor shape. His nose was peeling. His long hair was blowing, and under the sunburn his skin had a greenish tinge. He looked sick and unhappy. Arriving at the bottom, he swayed and nearly lost his balance.

Drawing him aside, Anne spoke to him urgently. He nodded. While she talked, his head kept swiveling around. Coming in against him, she kissed him hard.