He heard a sound as of someone moving stealthily in the palmetto thicket behind him. He stiffened with his hands tight on the steering wheel.
A voice, quite close to him, said, “Hold it like that and you won’t get hurt.” The tone was curiously thick, as if it came from a sore throat.
Shayne did not move. He said, “I’m holding it.”
He heard other movement behind him. The same voice spoke again, much closer. “Unlatch the door and get out slow. Keep your back turned this way.”
Shayne grumbled, “This is a hell of a way to talk things over.” He unlatched the door and slid from the car.
The voice gave a low order, “Go over him, Pat,” and foot-steps approached from behind.
“I’m not carrying anything,” Shayne told him. “Hell, I thought we were going to make a deal.”
“Maybe we will, but it’ll be our way.”
Shayne felt breath on the back of his neck, and a growl, “Git yore hands up.”
A pair of hairy paws came around patted his chest and sides all the way down to his waist, then slid around to feel across his hips and outer thighs. “He’s clean, I reckon,” the surly voice said. “You want I should slug him now, Gene?”
“Not yet.” Gene moved forward and faced Shayne. He was slender and dark-featured, wearing ragged corduroys and a canvas fishing jacket. His face was clean-shaven and of the unhealthy pallor of a grubworm. A. 45 Colt’s automatic hung carelessly from the long, lax fingers of his right hand. His expression was one of curiosity rather than of animosity.
Pat was a hulking man in overalls and a sweaty cotton shirt open at the throat. The sleeves were rolled up above his hairy forearms, and matted black hair showed in the open V of his shirt. He was bareheaded and had flat features characterized by a leer of animal cunning.
Shayne’s gaze flickered past the dull eyes of Pat to Gene. He said, “What’s the idea of all the hokus? I’m not pulling anything.”
“Sure you’re not,” Gene agreed. His voice sank to a sibilant purr. “Not never no more.”
Shayne’s lips drew back from his teeth. “The old double-cross, eh?”
“That’s right, chum. You’re through listening to telephones.” Gene glanced down at the automatic in his hand. “You want to break him in two, Pat?”
Pat bobbed his head and said, “Yup,” happily. Slaver wet the corners of his mouth. He doubled his fists and they were like picnic hams. Childlike anticipation glinted from his eyes as he took a step forward.
Shayne said, “Wait,” sharply. He scowled at Gene. “I’m not going to be tough to deal with.”
Gene laughed. “You’re not going to be tough, period. Not after Pat softens you up.”
“You’re making a mistake,” Shayne warned. “If I’m not back by dark Will Gentry gets a sealed envelope with everything Clem Wilson told me last night.”
“I figured you’d make that stall,” Gene said. “I’m taking a chance on it.” He then added softly, “Slug him, Pat.”
Shayne saw the fist coming but couldn’t get his head out of the way in time. It was like being clubbed with a baseball bat. He was lifted off his feet and rocketed backward.
Pat lunged forward and kicked viciously at his face. Shayne rolled aside, forcing his right hand down to his side pocket. Pat fell on top of him, slobbering happily. He clubbed Shayne with huge fists, then lifted his body high and thumped it down.
Shayne twisted himself into a ball and got one heel in Pat’s mouth. His fingers closed about the butt of his. 38 and it came free from the cut-out pocket as he drove Pat backward. He threw one shot at Gene’s crouching figure before Pat lunged in again. Twisting the muzzle upward, he pulled the trigger twice. The explosions were muffled beneath the weight of Pat’s hulking body.
Pat’s hands were seeking his throat. Shayne twisted his head to get his teeth into one palm. He got his right wrist free and fired another bullet into the carcass sprawled across him.
Pat responded with a grunt. His huge body began to grow limp. Shayne put all his strength in a twisting, side-wise motion, and suddenly sat up.
He blinked in the bright sunlight and looked around stupidly for Gene, but Shayne and Pat were the only ones in the little clearing.
Swaying to his feet, he heard the sputter of a gasoline motor somewhere on the bay. He staggered forward a few steps and collapsed in a heap. He felt as though all his ribs had been shoved into his lungs.
As he lay there fighting for breath he witnessed an amazing thing.
In spite of three steel-jacketed bullets in his body, Pat was getting to his feet. He came up slowly, a look of childish hurt and disappointment on his broad, flat face. He whined, “Gene… don’ leave me, Gene,” and began dragging himself toward the sound of the motor.
Shayne lay on his side and watched the big man’s faltering progress. Twice he fell on his face, twice he dragged himself up and went on.
A complete sense of lassitude enveloped Shayne. Why had Gene taken it on the lam instead of finishing him off with the. 45? None of it made any sense.
He rolled over and painfully drew himself to a sitting position. Sunlight glinted from Gene’s heavy automatic near his feet. He picked it up and let his breath out in a low whistle when he saw the trigger of the automatic smashed back against the guard, rendering the weapon useless.
As he stared in amazement, examining the weapon carefully, he realized that his one unaimed shot had struck the pistol at a vulnerable point. It was pure luck. He could not repeat such a performance in a thousand shots by taking careful aim. One of those once-in-a-lifetime accidents… and it had saved his life.
He rocked to his knees and stood up. When he broke through the underbrush fringing the shore, he stopped. A small motorboat with a single occupant was pulling away rapidly, already well beyond pistol range.
Pat was staggering down the sandy beach toward the water’s edge. There was a sharp, angry spat from the motorboat, and Pat’s giant body quivered as though a shot of electricity passed through him. He sank to his knees, then fell flat on his belly with his face in the damp sand.
Remaining crouched in the underbrush, Shayne’s features contorted into hard lines. If Gene had handled the rifle that morning he wouldn’t have missed the easy target Shayne made at the window of his hotel bedroom.
When the motorboat whipped around an arm of the shore-line and slid from view Shayne dragged himself to his car and drove away.
CHAPTER 9
In the emergency ward at the hospital Shayne gritted his teeth and winced when the doctor drew a strip of adhesive tape tight about his chest. “Does it have to be that tight, Doc?”
“It does. You’ve got a couple of cracked ribs to be held in place,” the doctor told him.
“Only two?” Shayne grinned. “I thought they were all busted on the right side.”
“It will likely feel that way for several days,” the doctor informed him cheerfully.
Shayne swung his legs painfully from the operating table. He could hear Will Gentry stamping around the reception room, and he grinned ruefully as he went out.
Gentry was savagely chewing on the butt of an unlit cigar. When they were in the corridor, he burst out:
“You’ve got to come clean, Mike. This is too big for one man. You can see that now.” He glared at Shayne’s mottled face.
Shayne’s lips were puffed and there was a purple bruise under his right eye. He said, “I thought I was doing all right playing it my way.”
“All right?” Gentry sputtered. “What have you accomplished except to try to get yourself killed and to look like hell?”
“I’ve got them worried,” Shayne argued. “They’re coming to me, just as I knew they would.”
“Yeh… they’re coming to you, all right. The next time will be the charm. You can’t go on shooting the triggers off guns.”
Shayne tried out another grin. He pushed the DOWN button for the elevator and said, “Something’s bound to break soon.”