Murder in Haste

Chapter Sixteen

The overnight light had been left on. Painter seemed to be trying desperately to say something. As for the redhead, he wasn’t interested in anything Painter had to say, and he had nothing to say himself that wouldn’t have been profane.

Someone came down the companionway and went into the opposite cabin. There were footsteps and low voices overhead. After a time their captors settled down and the boat was quiet. Painter’s eyes closed. He forced them open. But the next time they closed, several minutes later, they stayed closed. Shayne remained awake, his thoughts going in circles, like mice in a cage.

His watch was behind him, strapped up beneath overlapping layers of adhesive tape. The sky, which could be seen through the single porthole, was beginning to brighten. Dawn could be no more than fifteen minutes away. Exactly twenty-four hours earlier, he had parked his car in front of his hotel, and Joe Wing and his boys had moved in on him. And too much had happened in the next twenty-four hours that he didn’t understand.

Occasionally he heard a car pass on the Beach, or the beat of a motor out in the bay. By now the fast Coast Guard cutters would have given up the search for the skin-diving bomber. Tim Rourke, he hoped, was still working north along the bayfront, looking for a large white boat called Panther. Unfortunately, he was also looking for a large white boat with a tuna-fish platform, but perhaps he would remember in time that such platforms are detachable.

Another boat’s motor, louder than those he had heard so far, was approaching the marina, coming down from the north. His attention sharpened. It didn’t go by, but swung into the open water between the lines of berthed boats, throttling down until it was barely turning over. Suddenly, no more than a half-cable length away, it cut out entirely. Shayne rocked forward, working his feet underneath him, and listened intently. He heard the faint slapping of waves against a hull; the other boat must be almost alongside.

Suddenly bare feet hit the deck directly overhead. Klipstone’s voice called, “Who’s that?”

When there was no answer a door slammed open across the companionway and someone ran up the companion ladder.

Klipstone’s voice, low and worried, said, “It looks like Juan Grimondi. Get Gray.” Then he called, “Juan? What gives, kid? Up late or up early?”

A voice with a strong Spanish accent answered, “Coming aboard you, Jack. Gotta talk about something.”

Shayne heard someone else run out on the Panther’s deck, and Gray said easily, “Take it easy, Juan, boy. You’ve got to be asked. That’s one of the things about boats.”

Shayne strained to hear the answer.

“Asked? You kidding me, boy. This here is important union business.”

“But this ain’t no union hall,” Gray said softly. “Who you got there with you? Is that you, Whitey?” he called more challengingly. “I didn’t know they let you out.”

“I made parole,” a voice answered from the other boat.

“And does your parole officer know you’re this far from Baltimore? How many more you’ve got there, Juan? You brought a little army with you, didn’t you? Hold it! We don’t want to overload. We’re crowded already.”

Shayne pressed his back to the bulkhead and slowly began to work himself to his feet. On deck, the argument continued.

Juan said, “What’s wrong with a little talk? We’re good union brothers.”

Shayne straightened his knees and came erect. He made the porthole in a series of careful movements, and looked out. The bow of the second boat had nudged into the same berth as the Panther, and the two boats lay alongside, front thirds overlapping. Shayne couldn’t see up to the deck. Painter, on the bunk beside him, snored heavily.

“Okay, tell you what we want,” Juan said. “You got that cop, right? Painter. Very good trick, I hear all about it, just like you, Mr. Gray. Now we going to take charge of that cop.”

“No, you’re not,” Gray said.

“Honest, Mr. Gray, we take care of him good. Nobody complain afterward, nobody find the body. We got some big cinderblocks, take him out in deep water.”

“The hell you will. Not unless I get told by the right people. Sheer off, or we’ll blow a few holes in your boat for you.”

Shayne bumped Painter’s shoulder with his knee, trying to wake him. The little man twitched, but slept on.

“We blow a few holes right back,” Juan said. “What’s the matter, Mr. Gray, you in love with this Painter, or something?”

He added something in Spanish, and one of his men jumped aboard the Panther. There was a rush of footsteps. Shayne’s eyes, cold and murderous, went rapidly around the cabin. A blow was struck, and Klipstone swore viciously. Several more boarders made the deck. A fight was raging forward. Shayne knew enough not to struggle against the tape, but he had never felt more helpless. He stood in a half-crouch, waiting.

A gun went off.

“Hold them!” Gray shouted. “Whizzer — you’ve got a gun, use it! Throw the bastards in the water.”

There was a loud splash, as though his orders had been taken literally. Shayne heard rapid footsteps on the companion ladder. The key turned, and Gray darted in.

“We’ve got eight or nine slobs on our decks,” he said with his usual briskness. He spun the redhead around and went on talking while he ripped the tape off his wrists. “They want Painter, and they want him dead. When they see you here, they’ll take you along. So lend a hand, even things up.”

As soon as Shayne’s hands were free he ran out. Shayne, ripping the tape off his mouth, started after him, and remembered his taped ankles. Twisting back, he scratched at the tape with his fingernails. Painter had been awakened by the noise and was throwing himself from side to side, his eyes frightened. Shayne rapidly unwound the tape, and running to Painter, flipped him over roughly and began working at his wrists.

“You were saving it for the first day of the convention, weren’t you, you goddam moron?” he said savagely. “So you could get your picture in every paper in the country. But there’s more than one faction in this union! One bunch of these guys just wants to keep you undercover till the election’s over. The other bunch wants to kill you. Get the rest of this tape off yourself, and let’s see if you’re any good in a fight. If you don’t want to fight, keep the hell out of my way.”

Feet were stamping around on the deck above them. He ripped the last tape from Painter’s wrists making no effort to be gentle, and let him roll over by himself. Then the redhead picked up one of the chairs and broke it over the table to get a weapon.

Only one shot had been fired since the fight began, but as Shayne started up the stairs there was another, near the top of the companionway. Someone stumbled through. It was Gray. He tried to grab the handrail but missed, and he went headlong down the steep stairs, his mouth wide open and his hands stretched out ahead of him. He caromed off one side of the companionway and ended in Shayne’s arms.

The redhead staggered. He had caught Gray from the side, around the chest, and he could feel the blood. Gray tried to say something, but it ended in a groan. Shayne laid him down gently. His breath came out in a long shudder and his hand turned over. He was dead.

Shayne grabbed the broken chair-leg, which he had dropped when Gray came hurtling toward him. His hand was slippery; he had to dry it on his sleeve. He stopped with his foot on the bottom step, his eyes narrowed.

The shooting of Gray had taken the spirit out of the defenders, and the fight appeared to be over. He heard a series of blows, as evenly-spaced as though someone was methodically punching a heavy bag. The Spanish-accented voice said sharply, “Whitey?”

“I better finish with him,” a voice answered. “Klipstone too, or we have trouble.”

“What trouble? Plato’s through. Luke Quinn’s gonna take care of everybody.”

Shayne calculated swiftly. If there were eight men on deck, the odds were very long. He turned. Gray had left the key in the lock, and Shayne whipped it out and dropped it in his pocket. He ran back into the cabin. Painter’s mouth was free and he was picking at the tape around his ankles.

Painter said bitterly, “I won’t forget being called a moron, either. You probably didn’t think I heard you.”

“Leave it alone,” Shayne said urgently. “They’ve clobbered Plato’s boys, and we’ve only got one chance. Leave it half off. Wait till they haul us out. When they get us on deck, jump overboard and get in under the dock.”

“I will like hell,” Painter said belligerently. “I never ran from a fight yet.”

“This isn’t a fight. It’s a massacre.”

He knocked Painter’s hands from his ankles, threw him back on the bed and whipped loose tape around his wrists.

“What are you trying to do, Shayne, damn it?” he said. “Oh, I see. You want me to be murdered. With me out of the way you’ll have a free hand in this town. Let me tell you—”

Shayne found the big X of tape on the bunk and slapped it acrosss his mouth. He quickly looped what was left of the tape around Painter’s ankles. He taped his own, pasted the other big X across his mouth and lay back against the bulkhead with his hands behind him. He had done a hasty job, but it might pass a hasty inspection. Painter was writhing on the bunk, tightening the tape around his wrists and ankles. As soon as he was hopelessly tangled he gave up and glared at Shayne.

Feet crashed down the companionway. Shayne forced himself to hold still. The door opened.

It was the Cuban who had driven Al Cole in the stolen car to Rose Heminway’s house. His nose had been smashed and a front tooth was missing.

“Gray’s dead,” a man behind him said. “Plato won’t like that.”

“Plato, who cares?” He looked down at the redhead. “Lookit, it’s that bastard Shayne.”

“What’s he doing here?” the other said, alarmed. “Nobody said anything to me that Shayne was gonna be—”

“He’s not gonna be much longer,” the Cuban said. He prodded the redhead with his toe. Shayne looked up, his right hand gripping his left wrist A .45 dangled from the Cuban’s hand, on a level with Shayne’s eyes. “You fool me, Shayne. There at the house, Cole and me, we should both go in and hit you and the girl. But that damn little island, that one road off. I had the goddam shakes. I catch up with you anyway, eh?”

Without warning he kicked Shayne in the side of the head. Shayne let go of his wrist. He managed to keep himself from diving at the Cuban and dragging him down, but it was one of the hardest things he had ever done. Juan’s face worked and he spat at Shayne. Then he turned contemptuously and checked the tape at Painter’s wrists and ankles.

“Lousy job,” he commented. “This whole thing very lousy.”

“What about Gray?”

“What about him? You want to bury him with a priest, or something? Leave him alone. See if he’s got the key in his pocket.”

The other man checked. “I can’t find it.”

The Cuban said, “Hell with it. Come on, those shots, cops be here in a minute.”

“You mean we don’t take Painter? You said—”

“I said, I said!” Grimondi said angrily. “I said so they let me get aboard. This is Plato’s boat, right? Plato’s boys snatched him. The cops find him and Shayne dead on Plato’s boat, nobody’s gonna bother with Luke, get it?”

“That’s just like Luke,” the other man said admiringly. “Smart.”

They clattered up the steps. Shayne leaned forward and worked the tape off his ankles. It came readily. Painter was saying, “Wha— wha—” through the loose tape across his mouth. When Shayne’s tape was off, he removed Painter’s. The little man demanded angrily, “What are they doing?”

“Scuttling the boat,” Shayne said in a fierce whisper. “Now shut up.”

“I certainly will not. Scuttling the boat! It so happens I can’t swim.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll hold onto you.”

“No,” Painter said. “No, no, no. Absolutely not!” He pushed Shayne out of the way and started for the door. “Any time I let myself be rescued by you—”

Shayne overtook him in one long stride and pulled him around. Painter opened his mouth to yell, but Shayne brought his fist up in a crisp disciplinary punch. Painter’s eyes turned up and his knees sagged. Shayne dumped him unceremoniously on the table. He opened the door to the companionway and listened.

“Find it?” the Cuban said on deck.

Another voice called from the engine room. “Water coming in to beat hell!”

Shayne could feel the difference in the trim of the boat Whitey’s voice asked. “What do we do with Klipstone?”

“Take him,” the Cuban said. “And Whizzer. Luke can use them.”

The Panther was settling fast. Shayne picked up the unconscious Painter and walked him to the door. He lifted him to get him past Gray’s body, and as he did so, Painter’s head snapped forward. He opened his mouth to complete the yell he had started before Shayne punched him. Shayne held his fist in front of his eyes, and he closed his mouth again, giving the redhead a look of extreme hatred. Shayne kept a firm grip on him as they went up the stairs.

“Going fast!” the Cuban cried. “Untie!”

Shayne kicked off his shoes. He couldn’t take off his pants without letting go of Painter, whose eyes were darting in panic from one side of the companionway to the other. The boat lurched sharply to starboard. Shayne held Painter on the step next to the top, restraining him from running out on deck.

“No!” Painter cried clearly. “Let me—”

Shayne clapped his hand over the little man’s mouth. “Do that again,” he whispered, “and we’ll both be killed.”

Whitey’s voice called from the other boat, “Did you hear that, Juan? Somebody—”

“Nah,” the Cuban said scornfully. “Start up the motor.”

The Panther righted herself for an instant, but her decks were awash. Shayne started to count. He got as far as six, and then the boat seemed to rush away beneath his feet. He had to use both hands to hold Painter, who was struggling like a cat being drowned. Water poured in through the companion doorway. Shayne thrust Painter ahead of him and pushed off hard.

They rode the bubbles to the surface. Shayne had one hand around Painter’s mouth. He stroked hard with the other arm, coming up at an angle in the hope of being beneath the dock when they surfaced. But Painter was fighting too hard, and he didn’t quite make it Their heads broke water. He heard a cry from the Cuban’s boat, and at the same instant, a siren.

He rolled on his side, shifting his grip to Painter’s chin, and pulled hard for the dock. Painter floundered behind him, trying to get his arms around Shayne’s neck. Shayne held him at arm’s length. His wet clothes slowed him down, but he reached the dock before anyone on the Cuban’s boat could get out a gun. Four more swift strokes carried him beneath the cross-walk. There were two sirens now, coming fast. The engine of the Cuban’s boat was idling. Shayne noted the name on the stern as it swung toward him. Someone shouted in Spanish.

“Gotta get him!” Juan shouted. “Or Luke—”

“Hell with Luke,” somebody answered. “Those are cops.”

“Cops, cops. Hold it right here, or by God I knock you out of the boat with this forty-five.”

Shayne pushed Painter against a piling. He heard the Cuban’s feet on the cross-walk.

“Hang on,” he whispered.

Painter reached for him desperately as he swam away, Then snatched at the piling, wrapping both arms and legs around it. Shayne surface-dived silently and breast-stroked toward the Cuban’s boat. He groped ahead of him in the black water. When his fingers touched a piling, he surfaced slowly, easing up to avoid a splash.

He heard the voice from the boat, low but penetrating, “Juan, they’re coming, they’re coming.”

The Cuban made a sharp sound above Shayne, five feet toward the shore. Shayne moved quietly past the piling, grazing it lightly with his fingertips. He saw something move on the water — a long pointing shadow. Juan was leaning far down, his gun ready, watching and listening intently. Shayne sank beneath the surface, turned in the Cuban’s direction and planted his feet solidly against the piling. He straightened his knees, kicking backward, and shot upward through the water.

He had misjudged his distance slightly, but as he flashed into the open he changed direction with a powerful flip of his body. His hand fastened on the Cuban’s arm. He heard a shout from the boat. The Cuban grunted and tried to turn the gun, but he was half over the edge, and his balance was wrong. Shayne twisted, kicking, and dragged the Cuban into the water.

He took him down, concentrating on the gun. The Cuban stabbed at Shayne’s face with the rigid fingers of his free hand. Shayne’s legs scissored around the Cuban’s waist. Still they went down. Shayne had filled his lungs before he attacked, but the Cuban had been caught by surprise. Another moment, and he was no longer trying to hurt Shayne, but to get away.

They were down in muddy water, roiled by the settling of Plato’s boat. The Cuban dropped the gun and clawed upward. Instantly Shayne pushed toward the surface. The Cuban hit at him when they broke water. Shayne clipped him behind the ear, but not hard enough to stun him. He continued to struggle. Shayne tried to maneuver him around to get a clear shot at a knockout point, but his arms and legs were heavy and the frantic Cuban was hard to control as a fighting salmon. Shayne pushed him back against the nearest piling and banged his head until he felt the lithe body go limp in his hands.

Men were running out on the dock. The Cuban’s boat swung out into the bay, its throttle opened up full. Shayne towed the Cuban to where he had left Painter. For a minute he thought the little man had let go, choosing to drown himself in preference to being saved by Michael Shayne.

“Painter!” he shouted. “Goddam it—”

But he had made a mistake in the half light. He saw Painter clinging to the next piling.

“I’m never going to forget this, I warn you!” Painter said. “You deliberately let them sink that boat. You thought you were going to get rid of me, didn’t you?”

Suddenly Shayne was filled with cold fury. “You got yourself into this all by yourself, and I wish I’d let you get out of it. You found some evidence that would save a man from execution. It must have been pure luck, but you found it. And then you held it up so you’d get more personal publicity out of it. You fell for the oldest dodge in the book, you were so goddam anxious to get something on me—”

“And I’ll get it yet, don’t worry!”

“Who really robbed the Beach Trust, Petey? Luke Quinn?”

Painter howled. “No, you don’t! You think you can grab the spotlight now, after everything I’ve gone through? No, sir. I’m way ahead of you.”

Shayne suppressed an impulse to drag him into the water. “Have it your own way,” he said wearily.

“And don’t you forget it!”

The dock above them reverberated to the sound of footsteps. Tim Rourke’s voice called, “Mike Shayne, are you down there?”

His head appeared upside down at the edge of the dock. A gun went off, but the escaping boat was beyond pistol-range. Other heads appeared beside Tim’s, and one of the cops played a flashlight into the shadows. Shayne swam toward the light, towing the Cuban. Rourke reached down, Shayne reached up and their hands joined.

“I called the cops when I found your car,” Rourke said. “That’s not the Panther out there. What the hell happened?”

Other hands came down and dragged Shayne and the Cuban out of the water.

“And that’s not Petey!” Rourke exclaimed.

A voice sounded faintly from beneath the dock. “What do you bastards think you’re doing? Get a rope down here or you’re going to be back walking a beat, a lot of you, and by God, I mean it!”

Rourke made a face. “Stupid of me, I know. But I was kind of hoping he might be different.”