“They’re both dead,” Gentry asserted angrily after a quick survey. “And the other two?” He started around the car.
“This one’s still alive,” Rourke called out cheerfully, kneeling beside Pug. “But I don’t think he will be long.”
Shayne sauntered around behind Gentry. Blood was seeping between Pug’s fingers, but his eyes were open when Gentry shook him and demanded to know where Grossman was.
“Inside. Cellar.” Pug’s voice was low and hoarse.
“You — Yancy and Marks,” Gentry directed two of his men. “Stay here and get a statement from him. Find out what this shooting is about. Everything. The rest of you fan out and surround the house. Take it careful and be ready to shoot. The real criminal is in there.”
Shayne took Gentry’s place beside Pug as Gentry moved away to direct the placing of his men around the lodge. He leaned close to the dying man and asked, “Where’s the girl, Pug? The girl. Where is she?”
“Inside,” the wounded man murmured.
Shayne got to his feet. Rourke got up beside him and grabbed his arm. “Sweet God, Mike! I don’t know what any of this is about, but it’s some Caesarean.”
Shayne pulled away from him and stalked toward the fishing lodge. Rourke hurried after him, expostulating, “Hold it, Mike. Don’t try to go in there. Didn’t you hear the guy? Grossman’s inside. Let Gentry and the Sheriff chase him out in the open.”
Shayne didn’t pay any attention to him. Unarmed, he strode on toward the sprawling stone house, his face set and hard.
Gentry was spacing his men around to cover all exits. He saw Shayne’s intention and called out gruffly, “Don’t, Mike. No need for anybody to get hurt now. We’ll smoke him out.”
Shayne continued steadily forward. He mounted the wide stone steps, his heels pounding loud in the sudden stillness, and went on to a sagging screen door. He pulled it open and went in, squinting his eyes in the dim interior.
There was a stale odor in the room. It was cool and quiet inside the thick rock walls. A wide arched opening led into a big room on the right.
Shayne went in and saw Myrna Hastings sitting upright in a heavy chair fashioned of twisted mangrove roots. Her legs and arms were tightly bound to the chair and her mouth was sealed with adhesive tape. Her eyes rolled up at him wildly as he strode across the room, taking his knife from his pocket.
He slashed the cords binding her arms and legs, pulled her upright, and put his left arm around her. “This is going to hurt,” he warned. “Set your mouth as tight as you can.”
She nodded, and he ripped the adhesive loose in one jerk, then put his other arm around her. She clung to him and cried softly, violent sobs shaking her slight frame.
Shayne was looking around the room as he held her close. He gave a grunt of satisfaction when he saw a square of water-soaked canvas on the floor with a pile of straw and bottles on top of it. An empty bottle lay on its side and another stood open.
Shayne said, “Try to walk a little. Use your arms and legs and they’ll limber up.” He began to move her slowly forward.
She sobbed, “I’m all right. I knew you’d come, Mike.”
She steadied herself with a hand on his shoulder as he leaned down to pick up the open bottle. He studied the watersoaked label and his eyes glinted. It was Monnet, vintage of 1926, and the bottle was half full. He drew in a long breath of the bouquet, then tilted it to Myrna’s lips.
“Take a good drink of this,” he told her. “Everything is all right now.”
She swallowed obediently when the liquor reached her lips. Shayne chuckled and took the bottle away. “It’s my turn now.” He took a long, gurgling drink, then led her over to a dusty rattan couch.
A flush came to her cheeks. She sat down limply and Shayne got out two cigarettes. He put one between her lips and the other in his mouth, thumbnailed a match and lit both.
Myrna started violently when Gentry’s voice bellowed at him from outside. “Shayne! What’s happening in there?”
Shayne called back, “A lady and I are having a drink. Leave us alone.” He laughed down into Myrna’s bewildered face. “We’re surrounded by a posse of detectives and deputy sheriffs,” he explained. “They’re summoning their courage to storm the place.”
“What happened?” she asked tensely. “All that shooting. They were laying a trap for you, weren’t they? I heard them talking before they went out. They were going to kill you because they thought you’d read the logbook. I told them you hadn’t, but they wouldn’t believe me. I was so frightened when I heard the shooting. I was sure you had walked right into the trap.” She began to tremble violently.
Shayne patted her hand reassuringly. “I practically never walk into a trap.”
They heard cautious, shuffling footsteps on the porch outside and Gentry’s voice rumbling, “Mike, where are you?”
“In here,” Shayne called. He put the bottle to his swollen lips again and took a long drink. He lowered it and grinned as Gentry moved in quietly with drawn gun, followed closely by the mustached sheriff with his rifle cocked and ready.
“You look,” Shayne chuckled, “like the last two of the Mohicans.”
Gentry straightened his bulky body and glared across the dim room at Shayne and the girl.
“What the devil’s going on. Who’s this and how did she get here?”
Shayne said, “You met Miss Hastings last night, Will. Why don’t you and Leatherstockings run along down to the cellar and look for Grossman? That’s where Pug said he was.”
Other men began to file cautiously into the room. Gentry turned to them and growled, “Find the cellar stairs. And take it easy. Grossman isn’t the kind to be taken alive.” He crossed the room heavily. “And you can start talking, Mike. What are you and this girl up to?”
“What can we do — with so many people prowling around?”
Gentry snorted, “What kind of a run-around am I getting?”
Shayne said, “You’re giving it to yourself, whatever it is. I didn’t invite you out here.”
“No. You thought you were pulling a fast one — covering up for a murderer to get a rake-off on a bunch of smuggled liquor. By God, Shayne, you can’t wiggle out of this one.”
Shayne drank from the bottle again. “It’s mighty good liquor. Next time you send a stool to cover the switchboard at my hotel don’t use a guy with d-i-c-k written all over him.”
Gentry swallowed his anger. “I wondered who sent Tim Rourke to me with a tip that there’d be fireworks. You can’t deny you brought along a couple of gunmen to wipe out Grossman and his gang to keep the stuff for yourself. If I hadn’t overheard the call and beat it out here you might have pulled it off.”
Shayne chuckled and sank down on the couch beside Myrna. “How much of the deal do you know?” he asked Gentry.
“Plenty. I always suspected Captain Samuels was running stuff for Grossman when he lost his boat in 1930. That’s why Grossman killed him last night. Fighting over division of the liquor that was cached here when Grossman was sent up.”
“You’re fairly close,” Shayne admitted. “When you find Grossman—”
“He’ll talk,” Gentry promised.
“Want to bet on it?” Shayne’s eyes were very bright.
“I never bet with you. With your damned shenanigans… What’s this girl got to do with it? One of Grossman’s little friends?”
“She wanted to see a detective in action,” Shayne replied.
Shayne set the bottle on the floor and sat up straighter when the detective trotted in and reported excitedly, “We’ve searched the cellar and the whole house, Chief. Not another soul here.”
Gentry began to curse luridly. Shayne stood up and interrupted him. “I don’t think your men knew where to look in the cellar. Let’s take another look.”