Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 33, No. 3, August 1973

The Sitting Duck by Arthur Moore

It was a ship of brooding death, and every shadow could have framed the shape of my killer. Could I find him in time — and could I strike before he got me first.

“Relax, Arnie,” Johnny said. “Nutchy’ll never think of looking for you here.”

The kid had been saying that all morning, Arnie reflected.

“Turn it over,” he replied, “You played that side.”

“I mean it,” Johnny said, wrinkling his smooth young forehead. He got up as the all ashore gongs sounded. “Only a little while now.” He glanced out the river side porthole. “In a coupla weeks we’ll be in Rio. Nutchy’ll never—”

“All right, all right,” Arnie sighed. He was a tall man, gray hair, business looking if you didn’t county the ugly scar below his right ear, conservative clothes and a thin, rather hawk profile.

He was very pale. His first look at the sun in about three weeks had been that morning when Johnny had picked him up for the drive to the pier. As Johnny so tiresomely kept saying, Nutchy would never think of looking for him on a cruise ship.

Nutchy was turning the town upside down looking for him because Arnie had managed to divert a huge shipment of heroin from Nutchy to a guy in Chicago. The guy in Chicago had arranged for a satisfyingly large amount of money to be deposited to Arnie Warga’s account in Buenos Aires. It was all very neat and business-like except that Nutchy had been double-crossed, and Nutchy had always loathed that kind of thing.

So a contract had gone out on him, Arnie Warga.

Arnie had expected it. He had holed up like a beaver. He had waited till the arrangements had been made and now he was on the ship; and the ship would be sailing in a few minutes.

“I’m going out on deck and watch the send-off,” Johnny said. “You better stay in here.”

“Yeah,” Arnie said automatically. Picking up a cigarette, he heard the door to the suite slam. Johnny had never been on a ship before. The kid was just a bodyguard, hired for the cruise, and he’d been nervous and fussy all morning.

Arnie lit the cigarette and frowned. Why had Johnny said, ‘You better stay in here’?

He shook his head. He was getting jumpy too, picking up on any little thing. But it was a funny thing to say, especially since Johnny had been repeating all morning, ‘Nutchy’ll never find you here.’ Did Johnny know something?

Arnie dropped the cigarette into a tray and slipped out into the corridor. It was jammed with people, stewards with telegrams, a few porters pushing trolleys piled with luggage, visitors straggling to the gangways. He turned right, went up the stairs to the promenade deck and looked around for Johnny. The kid ought to be making sure their bags arrived promptly.

It was noisy. Hundreds of people were shouting, some crying, and most were tossing colorful paper streamers to those on shore. Arnie wedged himself into a place by the rail, drawn into the excitement of sailing despite himself. The hundreds of streamers seemed to tie the great ship to the pier. People were crowding the gangways; the ‘all ashore’ gongs sounded again. A band was playing Auld Lang Syne...

Arnie allowed himself a small thin smile. Nutchy’s boys had been watching the bus stations, the airports, the depots for several weeks, expecting him to make a break for it. And Nutchy probably had feelers in all the big towns to see where he, Arnie, showed up. But how would it occur to Nutchy that he’d buy a ticket on a cruise ship with a lot of fat tourists? Nutchy wouldn’t think that kind of a ship would be a getaway vehicle. He didn’t think that way. Nutchy was slick and very clever, but he’d expect Arnie to go by plane, maybe a private plane, but fast.

This cruise ship was slow as cold glue.

As Arnie watched, the last visitors shouted, waved and ran. The gangways were hoisted and swung outboard. He could hear the sirens, the booming, deep-toned blast of the ship’s salute. They were moving! He took a deep, relieved breath as the paper tape began to break and curl, much of it falling into the widening green water gap. People yelled and waved — and then he saw Johnny.

Arnie stiffened. Johnny was off the ship! He was standing in the shadow of the gray Customs shed, smiling at the crowds.

It took a second for the thought to percolate, and Arnie’s blood ran icy. Johnny was on shore — and the guy beside him was Nutchy! No doubt about it at all; he knew Nutchy from way back. As he stared, the two of them turned and disappeared inside the building.

The ship was a trap.

Arnie left the rail, his mind in a daze. Johnny had sold out to Nutchy! Damn the kid! Johnny had seen him on board, luggage and all, then had walked off with the last visitors. Now Arnie Warga was a sitting duck... because that meant there was a hit guy on board.

Some one of the passengers was a professional killer.

Otherwise Nutchy would never have let him sail. And now he couldn’t get off the ship until Bermuda, at least, a tiny little place. What he’d thought was a perfect getaway had turned into a trap. Arnie went across the ship and clung to the rail, dully watching the tugs nosing the liner into the stream. Come out of it, he told himself, you have often had shocks before.

But it was a terrible shock-seeing the kid, Johnny, there on the dock talking to his enemy. Johnny had come from out of town. How had Nutchy got to him? Nutchy was a slick one, all right. Well, he’d sweat it out, because Nutchy was forgetting one thing. He, Arnie, had once been a hit guy too. He could strike back.

Arnie went to his suite before the Statue of Liberty slid past. There was only one thing he could do. Get the killer before the guy got him. That was first. Of course he had to figure out which one, among all the passengers, was the one. He had a drink and thought about it. It shouldn’t be that hard to spot the guy. Most of the passengers, he had seen hundreds of them, were fat, middle-aged, hung with cameras, had fat wives or skinny wives and not one had the look. It took a special kind of guy to be a triggerman. He knew a lot of them and none were fat and dumpy middle-aged types.

He rang for Bates, the steward, requesting a passenger list and a run-down on all the names. He gave Bates a fifty and the steward smiled and disappeared.

The light was fading when the Sandy Hook light slid by and the ship’s motion began to change. They came round and headed southeast into the Atlantic. At the porthole, Arnie stared at the cold sea. He could make it very tough for Nutchy’s guy by staying in the cabin, having his meals there even — but it wouldn’t solve anything. The guy would stick to him like a poor relation because he wouldn’t get the rest of his dough till Arnie was planted.

Bates brought the passenger list and a handful of notes on_ the names. It wasn’t much help.

In the dining room that first evening, Arnie looked over the crowd. Many had stayed in their cabins, queasy. He saw no one who might be the guy. It wasn’t till the next day that he spotted a man who looked vaguely familiar. The man was chunky and dark, had black hair and a deep tan. He was immaculate in a silk suit with a vacuous blonde on his arm. He walked with a slight limp and carried a heavy cane.

Arnie’s eyes narrowed. He had a better than average memory for faces. He had seen this customer somewhere before, but where? And if he had noted him, the guy was probably in the rackets. Only not in the Big Town. Philly or Chicago maybe. He couldn’t place the circumstances, which was curious because he should remember a guy with a limp.

On the promenade deck that afternoone he asked Bates to put names to a half dozen couples, the man with the cane among them. The guy’s tag was Sandeman. It didn’t ring a bell. He looked up Sandeman on the passenger list. Sandeman, Walter, traveling with his wife, Cleo. They were from Allentown, according to the list, and Sandeman was in construction.

Constructing cemeteries, maybe, Arnie thought grimly. At dinner that evening he managed to sit where he could keep Sandeman in view.

Now and then Sandeman looked his way too. Was he a trifle top interested? He wasn’t much of an actor. A hit guy didn’t have to be an Academy Award winner, but Sandeman was overplaying his role. He ought to be cool and detached. Of course, Arnie reflected, he himself had been around a long time. Maybe the guy was a little nervous going up against an old hand. But Sandeman had mob written all over him, and his wife didn’t help. She was an ex-chorus cutie if Arnie had ever seen one. She looked as out of place in a cruise ship as a snapping turtle in a top hat.

Why had the guy picked a handle like Sandeman? Arnie paused, a soup spoon halfway to his lips. That was Nutchy’s little touch. Nutchy was noted for his pratt-fall type jokes; this was the kind of humor Nutchy was crazy about. Sandeman for sandman, the guy who puts you to sleep. Arnie could see Nutchy falling down laughing as he told the boys how he had put Arnie Warga to sleep with a sandman.

During the next days he surreptitiously studied and avoided Sandeman. What was in the cane, a sword? He was wary of the cane. Sandeman was never without it. If Sandeman was good with it, he could slug a guy, hook him with the curved end and have his victim over the side in a split second.

Arnie rubbed his chin reflectively. He had no weapon at all, hadn’t thought he’d need one on a cruise. But Sandeman didn’t know that. The guy would have to figure Arnie to be heeled.

Arnie studied all the passengers, just to be certain. But no one else on board fitted the bill. Bates told him there had been no change in ship’s personnel for months except for those people who could not get topside to mingle with the passengers.

He made his plan. He would take Sandeman unexpectedly; he would hit the guy on the boatdeck late at night, sap him and slide him to the sharks.

Sandeman and the overdressed blonde had fallen into shipboard habits, as many did. They took regular walks around the decks in the forenoon and played cards after lunch. Cleo was always close, Arnie noted. She was given to batting her long lashes at males, so Sandeman kept her on a tight leash.

Late at night the two of them went for more turns about the deck, sometimes talking, sometimes arguing.

When the ship called at Bermuda, Arnie went ashore and bought several small souvenir ashtrays, the kind that fitted over the arms of couches and are loaded with small lead pellets. In his cabin he slit them open, loaded a black sock with the pellets and gave the covers the deep nine. The sock made a perfect sap, easy to get rid of.

During the first few days all passengers had been introduced. Arnie had nodded to Sandeman and the cutie several times since. The day the ship left Bermuda he was standing at the rail near the Sandeman couple. The blonde was chattering about some trinket or other she had bought in one of the stores, and when Sandeman’s attention wandered, Arnie heard her say, “Mick, you’re not listenin’...”

She called him Mick. It seemed to catch in his memory, just beyond recall. Where had he seen this guy? It was frustrating that he couldn’t remember. It wasn’t till the next day that it came to him.

Sandeman was about to sit down in a deck chair. He slammed his shin into the hard wooden end of the chair and instead of reacting to pain, made no sign. The shinbone made a sound very unlike flesh.

Amie turned his head, smiling out to sea. Sandeman had a wooden leg below the knee! It all fell into place. He had seen the guy’s picture in the papers — five years ago. No wonder Nutchy was sure Sandeman’s cover was secure. Five years is a long time. Sandeman’s name had been Mick Ricavali then. He had been involved in a gang wipe-out and had been one of the few survivors.

Arnie avoided the bar that afternoon and evening. He wanted to be cold sober, in complete command. There was no sense in waiting longer. He’d do it that night.

But watch out for the cane.

He had already picked out the place. When Sandeman and the wriggling blonde went out on the misty deck for the midnight walk, Arnie waited for them on the boatdeck. He stood in the small space between two lifeboats, the loaded sap held lightly in his right hand, at his side. It was dark and shadowy on the deck. An orchestra was playing inside where one of the endless ship-arranged parties was winding down.

Arnie felt keyed up. It was like the old days again, a long time ago, when he was on the way to the top. One of his first jobs had been that of convincing guys to pay what they owed — or else. He would do this one quick, then slug the girl too. He couldn’t afford a witness. It was too bad about her, and it would cause a sensation when both Sandemans disappeared into thin air, but there would be no evidence, nothing. Nothing to connect him to the affair. Nutchy, you lose again.

When the strolling couple came close, Arnie Warga stepped out of the shadows.

“Mick,” he said.

Sandeman stopped short, leaning forward, peering at him.

“Who’s ’at?” The cane rose.

“It’s me,” Arnie growled. He clipped Sandeman on the side of the head, smoothly, very expertly. The guy made hardly a sound. The cane clattered on the deck, and the blonde gave a little Squeak, staring as though terror-stricken. She seemed frozen. Arnie caught Sandeman as he slumped, pushed him against the rail and tipped him over. It was done in one slick, fast motion.

Arnie glanced down, catching a glimpse of the dark body as it hit the water in a pinkish phosphorescent splash.

Then he heard the sharp reports of a twenty-five auto at close range. He felt the slam of the slugs, and he knew instantly that Sandeman had been a decoy. He had one fast look at the blonde, smiling.

“G’bye, baby,” she said, “Nutchy sends his love.”

Arnie was conscious long enough to feel the first shock of the water.