‘How?’
If I go out on deck on one side, the men in the well-deck will see me. They wouldn’t give it away intentionally, but out of thirty at least ten will keep looking in that direction, so he’ll know there’s somebody around the corner. He’ll come over to see, and if I can hear him I can tell when he’s close enough to try to jump him.’
‘And you’re a producer?’ She shook her head. ‘Harry, that man has gone toward that corner, or door, in a thousand pictures, and the only thing that’s always the same is that the gun is straight out ahead of him, ready to shoot. If you were close enough to dance, it wouldn’t work. But there is a way.’
‘What?’
‘Diversion. It’s just as old, but in this case it’ll do the trick. We both step out, on opposite sides, but I come on past the corner so he can see me. He’s certain I’m dead miles back there in the water, so he’ll freeze just long enough for you to reach him.’
‘Sure. And that grease gun will be pointed right at you, so when I land on him he’ll cut you in two.’
‘No. Just before you hit him, I’ll duck back past the corner. It’ll be only one step.’
He nodded. There was another way, too, that he could ensure the gun would be off her before a reflex could trigger it. ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘but one more thing. That rail where he is is solid, so if we crawl forward, the men in the well-deck won’t see us and give it away. But you stand up two or three steps before you get to the corner. Give him some preparation, so you won’t startle him into shooting before he thinks.’
‘Don’t worry, Harry.’ She was supremely confident. ‘I tell you he’ll freeze.’
He had to have a weapon. They found a twelve-inch crescent wrench in a locker. It had a brutal heft to it, which was just what he wanted; it had to be done with one blow, and he didn’t care if he drove Otto’s skull into his pelvis. He slipped forward to the messroom porthole and checked again. The big sailor was still in the same place.
They stepped out onto the after end of the deck to the roar and the heat of the fire. It was like a scene from hell, he thought, but the fury of the squall was beginning to slacken a little. He chose the starboard side. That way he’d be running for Otto with the bulkhead on his left, his right unhampered. They went in opposite directions, and when they reached the corners they looked back at each other. She smiled and gestured with circled thumb and forefinger. He wished he felt that relaxed; he was beginning to have butterflies. That was going to be the longest fifty feet in the world. He dropped to his knees and started to crawl.
It was awkward because he could use only one hand. With nothing on but a pair of shorts he had no place to carry the wrench except in the other, and he couldn’t let it bump the deck. As he went forward he rehearsed it in his mind. One stride before he reached Otto, he’d sing out. The sailor would start to whirl, swinging the gun, so it would be well off her before the wrench landed. That was simple enough, but he wasn’t as certain about the other signal, that to the men in the well-deck.
Mayr or Lind, or both, would be watching the well-deck too, and they would kill a lot of men on those ladders, shooting straight down from the bridge. But if he could signal them not to rush the minute they saw him get Otto, they wouldn’t have to file up like ducks in a shooting gallery. They’d all make it if he could get them to hold, as if Otto were still there, until he could go up to the after end of the boat deck and give them covering fire.
He looked out at the sea. The wind and rain were lessening all the time now, and he could see the pall of smoke blowing out to leeward for several hundred yards. It was only a few more feet to the corner. He was beginning to tighten up. Suppose Otto happened to be looking this way just as he peeked around the corner? Well, for Christ’s sake, what could he do about it? Why get in an uproar over something entirely out of his control?
He was there. With his hand as near the deck as he could get it, he leaned forward and peered around. Otto was in profile fifty feet away, staring unwaveringly down into the well-deck in front of him. His belly was against the rail, and though his forearms were resting on it, he held the weapon at ready, in both hands, with a finger inside the trigger guard. Goddard took a long, deep breath, and waited, conscious of that impulse to yawn which in a situation like this was just the opposite of what it implied.
Thirty more seconds went by. She was giving him plenty of time to be set. But not too much, Danish doll; this can get pretty hairy. Now! Otto’s head was turning; he was looking to the left. The men in the well-deck had seen her. He tried to breathe against the tightness in his chest, and gathered himself to leap. Then Karen Brooke stepped out into the open at the other corner of the deck house. He stared, and almost forgot to go into action, with an impression he must be as goggle-eyed as Otto. She’d taken off Antonio’s jacket.
She was facing Otto completely nude above the nylon briefs, and if that weren’t enough to nail any normal male under ninety-five solidly to the deck, she was also as wet and dripping as if she’d just emerged from the sea, and drowned strands of blonde hair were plastered over her face. She made a beautiful ghost, he thought, but he almost felt sorry for Otto as he got into gear at last and started running softly across the long expanse of open deck. It seemed almost superfluous to hit him.
But if Otto was no longer a problem, the men in the well-deck were something else. As he ran, presumably in full view of them, he made a slashing Cut! gesture with both arms and then pushed toward them with his palms, but not a damned one of them had even seen him. And suppose he couldn’t even get Otto to whirl and swing that gun off her? Take him by the shoulders and turn him, like a manikin in Macy’s window? It was less than ten feet now, and he was driving.
‘Otto!’ he snapped, and whacked the rail with the wrench at the same time. That did it.
The big sailor came unglued at last, and started to wheel, and at the same time Karen jumped back out of sight around the corner. He swung down with the wrench, getting the wrist into it at the end, and it made a sound he was afraid Lind might hear on the bridge. Otto simply collapsed, two hundred pounds of bone and cabled muscle folding up and settling to the deck like a deflating pneumatic toy. There was a good chance he’d killed him, and while it might bother him later, at the moment he didn’t seem to care.
Strangely, the gun didn’t fire at all. With his left hand he grabbed it from the other’s lifeless grasp before it had a chance to drop. He turned. The men in the well-deck were catching up now, and when they saw him with the gun, two or three started to break for the ladders. He made a savage gesture of the arm: Back! But they didn’t get it fast enough. There was a shout from the bridge, followed by the crash of a gun. He dropped the wrench, pointed the gun out toward the sea, and pulled the trigger. It was on single fire, so he shot twice more.
He made the gesture again, and this time they all got it. Nobody had fallen at the shot from the bridge, but now he saw Barset, at his third shot, clap a hand dramatically to his chest, grimace with agony, sway, and fall forward on his face. Trust a con man to pick it up, but, God, what a ham.
The men were shifting back now, watching him with the same fear and hatred they had Otto, so it should be safe as far as the bridge was concerned. He gave it to them in pantomime: pointing to his watch, holding up five fingers, then to himself, pointing aft, up, and then swinging the gun forward with a raking motion. There was no way they could signal they understood, but they should have it. He dropped beside Otto and fanned him for spare clips. He had two.
He waved to the crew, and ran around the corner. Karen was waiting for him. She had the jacket on again and looked blandly innocent.