Бретт Холлидей - Count Backwards to Zero

Her lips brushed his cheek.

The next thing he heard was the roar of the Ford’s motor. She turned at the next corner, heading for the unloading area at the rear of the warehouses, where Shayne had left his car.

Shayne rolled, kicking a weight off his legs. Hearing Dessau’s harsh breathing, he wriggled in that direction.

Light glowed suddenly as Anne, in the Ford, turned in through the broken gate. Shayne saw Dessau lying on his side. The big man’s neck was unnaturally twisted and his teeth were bloody.

Shayne rolled again, twisting, and jack-knifed himself over Dessau’s feet and back along his body until their hands touched. Shayne was making half-sounds through his gag. He thought he felt Dessau’s hand pull away slightly. Groping, he worked the knot in the stocking against Dessau’s fingers.

There were three more shots from the rear of the warehouse, then the sound of the Ford leaving. A moment later it passed on the street, moving fast. A horn tooted twice, derisively.

Dessau, of them all, had the most to gain by getting loose. Shayne willed his fingers to move. They were flaccid and unresponsive. Dessau’s breath was whistling feebly in his throat.

Shayne shifted position, aware that he had very little time. Now he thought he felt a faint answering pressure. He tightened his shoulders and began working his wrists back and forth. He had two of Dessau’s fingers in one hand, the thumb in the other, and for a moment he was able to work them almost as extensions of his own. He felt the stocking around his wrists begin to loosen.

Now he was able to pull at the knot in the cloth strip around Dessau’s wrists. Shayne had tied the knot himself, and in the end Anne had neglected to check it. After a moment’s tense fumbling he succeeded in picking it apart. Dessau rolled. Shayne felt hands at his wrists.

He held still and counted backwards from twenty-five. His hands were free before the count reached zero.

After that it was only a moment, and Shayne was up and running, tearing at the gag. He tripped on something and went sprawling, and felt a jagged piece of metal bite into his hand.

The Buick’s two front tires had been shot out. Fluid was leaking from a hole in the radiator. The phone had been ripped out by the roots and thrown away.

Nevertheless, when Shayne hit the switch, the motor caught instantly.

He came back fast through the open gate, running well enough on the rims as long as he moved in a straight line. But he barely cleared the side of the warehouse as he came about, heeling over, fighting the wheel.

He knew this part of town well. Plotting the straightest, shortest line to the nearest phone, he bounced over the railroad tracks and continued inland.

The red warning lights on the dashboard were on. The motor was hammering. Shayne kept the gas pedal all the way down even as he felt the car beginning to lose power. Steam swirled up across the windshield and up around his feet.

He was in a neighborhood of unoccupied buildings and vacant lots. Each new bump flattened the rims further and the ride became increasingly rough. The steering wheel seemed to be trying to tear itself out of his hands.

He saw lights ahead.

Waves of heat rolled back into the car. He saw an outside phone booth, and the Buick nearly reached it before the head gasket blew. Even then he kept going, bucking to a stop, smoking a few yards short of the booth.

He leaped out, feeling in his pockets for change. They were empty.

He uttered one single explosive epithet, swerved without breaking stride, and ran onto the porch of the nearest house. He kicked out a glass panel. Reaching in, he opened the front door. Before he could find a light switch, he had kicked over an umbrella stand and a chair. The phone was all the way through in the kitchen.

The Miami Police Headquarters had recently installed separate numbers for each extension. Shayne dialed Will Gentry’s number, and the police chief picked up the phone promptly.

“It’s Shayne. This has to be fast. Listen carefully. There’s a Lear Jet-Star at Opa-Locka, in front of the second hangar to the right in General Aviation. Buzz Yale can point it out to you. It absolutely can’t be allowed to take off. Call the tower. Tell them to hold up air clearance, and block the runway. Fake a collision — yeah. But I don’t want the people in that airplane to know they’ve been spotted. I’ll hold.”

There was a rustle in the doorway. A woman stepped into view, holding a shotgun in a businesslike manner. She was tall, wearing rumpled yellow pajamas, her dark hair in curlers, large horn-rimmed glasses halfway down her nose.

“What is—” she demanded hoarsely, then cleared her throat and started over. “Who are you and just what do you think you’re doing?”

Shayne held up his hand, palm out. “I’ll show you my credentials, but to do that I have to put this hand in my pocket. Don’t pull the trigger.”

He brought out his wallet and shook it open to show his detective’s license. She didn’t look away from his face.

“I’ve seen your picture,” she said. “You’re Michael Shayne. And I’d like to know how being a private detective entitles you to break into strange houses in the middle of the night.”

“I had to use your phone, and I didn’t have time to ring the doorbell and go through a long song and dance. I’ll see that everything’s fixed.”

She lowered the shotgun muzzle and pushed her glasses further up her nose. “All right, since you ask me so charmingly, feel free to use the phone.”

“Thanks.”

Gentry came back on. “That’s taken care of. They didn’t ask for an explanation, but I’m going to. That is, if you have a moment.”

“There’s one other thing we have to get out of the way, Will. Is the FBI still hanging over you?”

“Breathing heavily.”

“We’ve got some picking up to do, and I think we can let them help.”

He told Gentry where he could find Cecily Little and the three others. One of the three would be needing an ambulance.

“Now I have one more call while that’s getting underway,” Shayne said. “Keep this line open. I’ll get back to you.”

“Mike, make it a promise.”

Shayne sighed. “Unless the lady here decides to let me have it with a twenty-gauge shotgun, I promise I’ll call you.”

The shotgun, in fact, was leaning in a corner, and the lady had turned on the heat under a kettle on the stove and was casually taking out her curlers.

Shayne dialed the number of his mobile operator and identified himself.

“Has anybody named Jerry Diamond called me?”

“Yes, indeed, Mr. Shayne.”

Shayne’s grip tightened. He had been on first-name terms with this girl for months. Unknown to the telephone company, she worked for him as a kind of combined secretary and answering service. He took her to dinner occasionally, and had loaned her father money to open a liquor store.

He said carefully, “If I can’t get in touch with the guy I’ll have to let the cops have him. He won’t like that.”

Diamond’s voice broke in. “I’m on, bastard,” he said roughly. “That was quite a trick there, dumping Sam Geller to slow us down. Like throwing the baby to the wolves. I’ve been waiting for your number to light up. You know what’s going to happen if you don’t stop trying to finagle me? You’re going to end up dead.”

“I told you I have to do this my own way. If you want to waste time trading threats, go ahead. It’s supposed to be good to get things off your chest. What else is bothering you?”

Diamond hesitated. “You had something to tell me.”

“Do you want me to apologize for dumping Geller? That was a spur-of-the-moment idea. Those cars of yours stood out like fire engines, and I don’t like to be that conspicuous. You probably know that your man Dessau has been dealing for the gas tank with Little’s daughter. Has he asked you for your bid yet?”