James Chase - This Way for a Shroud

The narrow path became full of flying fragments of glass. Covering her face with her arms, Frances blundered on down the path, running slower now, her breath coming in hard sobbing gasps.

Moe pulled up short as he reached the pile of broken glass. He knew time was running out. He had been told to kill this girl, and he knew if he failed his own life would be snuffed out. His small hard eyes looked along the path at the racing figure in the blue dress. He watched for a brief moment her slim flying legs and her black silky hair floating out behind her. He brought up the automatic and levelled the sight in the exact centre of her slim young shoulders. His finger curled around the trigger. He couldn’t miss now. She was running as straight as a foot rule, and the sun made her pale blue frock a dazzling target.

Then he felt a violent blow against his shoulder, and gunfire crashed in his ears. His gun hand jerked up as his gun went off. He staggered back and looked up.

Standing on one of the walls was the figure of a man, gun in hand. Moe recognized him immediately: the Special Investigator to the District Attorney’s office. He flung himself flat as Conrad shot at him again.

Blood was running down Moe’s sleeve and down his fingers. He felt a dull burning pain in his right shoulder. He looked along the path, but the girl had now vanished, and he drew back his lips in a snarl of fury.

Conrad was about fifteen yards from where Moe crouched. Two paths divided him from the path in which Moe was. He couldn’t see him now, but he knew he was still there. The wall was only six inches thick and it wasn’t easy to stand on it, let alone jump the six feet to the next wall.

Already a dozen police were climbing up on to the top of the walls and were spreading out slowly to surround the maze.

“He’s here,” Conrad shouted, and pointed to the path where Moe was crouching.

Moe straightened up and fired at Conrad, who felt the slug zip past his face. As he automatically ducked, he lost his balance and fell into one of the mirrored paths.

The police had called for planks and were crossing the paths by laying the planks across the tops of the walls, and then pulling the planks after them.

But by the time they reached the path where Moe had been, he had vanished, leaving only a smear of blood on one of the mirrors to show where he had been.

A police sergeant, squatting on the wall, looked down at Conrad.

“You all right, sir?”

“I’m okay,” Conrad said tersely. “I’ll stay here. See if you can spot him, then direct me on to him. If you see the girl, let me know at once. And watch out!”

The sergeant nodded and started off, bent double, along the narrow wall.

Moe in the next path watched him come, a savage gleam in his eyes. He lifted the automatic and shot the sergeant through the head.

The sergeant threw up his arms and fell heavily into the next path to the one Moe was in.

Gripping his wounded arm, Moe ran down the path, turned a corner and then paused to listen. He saw something blue reflected in one of the mirrors, and his lips came off his teeth in a grinning snarl.

The girl was standing at the next intersection, and as he watched her, he saw her edge into the path where he was, looking away from him.

Moe transferred his gun to his left hand. He lifted the gun and sighted it, aiming at the centre of her young full breasts. The gun sight wobbled as he fought against the increasing feeling of faintness, and he cursed under his breath.

Suddenly a voice sounded over a loudspeaker: a voice that rolled over the maze, amplified like the sound of thunder.

“Miss Coleman! Miss Coleman! Attention please! The police are looking for you. Will you shout so we can find you? Be on your guard. Keep looking to your right and your left. The gunman is still at large!”

Frances caught her breath in a gasp of relief and alarm. She hastily looked to her right, then her left, and her heart skipped a beat when she saw the black suited figure not more than thirty yards from her, the automatic pointing at her. She shut her eyes and screamed wildly. Gunfire crashed against her ear drums. She felt a scorching pain bite into her arm and she felt herself falling.

Moe watched her fall, his eyes alight with vicious triumph. He was aware of the sound of running feet, but he fired again at the still figure as it lay on the ground. The slug smashed the mirror an inch or two above Frances’s prostrate body, bringing a shower of glass down on top of her.

The running feet sounded very close now, and Moe swung around.

Conrad pulled up as he reached the corner of the path. He caught a fleeting glimpse of Moe, crouching, with his gun pushed forward, and beyond Moe, the body of a girl in a blue frock. He ducked back as Moe fired at him, the slug throwing a spray of glass splinters dangerously near his face.

Dropping flat, Conrad edged around the corner. Moe spotted him as Conrad lifted his gun and they both fired simultaneously.

Moe’s slug cut through the crown of Conrad’s hat. Conrad’s shot was more accurate. He saw Moe drop his gun, clutch his side and pitch forward on his face.

Two policemen arrived above Conrad and jumped down beside him.

“Watch him,” Conrad cautioned as he stepped into the path where Moe lay.

But Moe didn’t move when they reached him. One of the police turned him over on his back.

Moe’s white face was twisted into a snarl of pain and fear. His sightless eyes stared up at the blue sky. Blood soaked the front of his coat. Even as Conrad looked down at him, Moe’s jaw dropped and the last of his breath came through his open mouth in a tired, hissing sigh.

Naked, her body still rose-pink from the vigorous towelling she had given it, Dolores sat on a stool in one of the luxurious shower rooms in the Paradise Club and carefully dried between her toes with a piece of cotton wool.

She had just come in from a swim, and following her usual practice, she had taken a shower to wash the salt water from her skin.

Her expression was thoughtful and her almond-shaped eyes had lost their usual alive gleam and were cloudy with angry anxiety.

An hour ago Jack Maurer had abruptly told her he was going on a fishing trip; destination unknown, and he would be away probably for three weeks to a month. Even now as she glanced out of the window that overlooked the ocean she could still see the yacht as a minute speck in the horizon.

She had guessed Maurer had gone on Abe’s advice, and because of June Arnot.

She had known about June ever since the affair had started. She had watched the affair progress, and had felt her own power over Maurer weaken as the months passed. She knew her throne was tottering. It gave her no satisfaction that June was dead. If it wasn’t June, then it would be someone else. She knew that Gloria Lyle, a second-rate movie actress with a bust like a pouter pigeon’s and the morals of an alley cat, had gone aboard the yacht, ten minutes before Maurer had left the club for the harbour.

June’s murder had shocked Dolores. To her it was the writing on the wall. When Maurer came back, she was sure that her reign would end. The odds were that he wouldn’t bother to divorce her; he would get rid of her as brutally as he had got rid of June.

Dolores had no illusions about Maurer. She knew he thought no more of taking a life than he thought of drinking a Scotch and soda.

She had been his wife now for four years, and the wonder was she had lasted so long. It was only because she had never given him a chance to complain, never looked at any other man, that she had lasted. She knew he was growing impatient for his freedom. He wouldn’t dare divorce her. She knew too much about his business affairs to risk her being free from his watchful influence. She was sure that before long, probably when he returned, he would tell one of his hoods what to do, and she would the. She would have a car smash or a shooting accident; she might get carried out to sea when she was bathing. There were many convenient ways in which she could the: convenient for Maurer, of course.