Artist yanked the horn from his hands. He stood at the opening. “You have one hour,” he said in the horn. “We want a plane, a six-passenger at International. And have it gassed and ready to go. No bargains. Plane, one hour — or the mayor is dead!”
He threw the horn across the vast room. It clattered and scraped across concrete for a few seconds and then there was silence. He looked around. No one said anything.
Abruptly, Artist laughed. “Well, did I do okay? It’s what we want, isn’t it? Varga-baby is gonna fly us to Mexico, isn’t he?”
Varga and Iris remained silent. Pope said, “You did good, kid.”
Shayne analyzed. He had it now. Varga probably was a licensed, small craft pilot. They figured on flying across the Gulf, putting down in Mexico, probably on some deserted strip, splitting the loot and scattering.
None of these people were going to stick together. Varga and Iris maybe. For a short time, until she got her hooks into his share of the take. Then she’d cut on her own. Artist and Pope would be long gone, of course. In separate directions. Unless Pope… Pope was the truly dangerous one of the four. He was a tough. A hood, a punk. Until now, he probably had been a gas station stickup gnat, maybe a liquor store here and there. A loner. Self-styled. But a nickel and dimer all the way. No big scores until Varga had come along with a million dollar caper.
Varga was difficult to figure. Raw amateur. He was far out of his realm. Too far. But he was there. The drive was a mystery. Varga, basically, was straight, should be a nine-to-fiver. With or without an Iris.
On the other hand, he was the schemer. The kidnapings, the demand, the escape all belonged to Varga. Without him, Iris, Pope, Artist — had this kid truly once been on the city payroll as an artist in the police department? — would still be doing their things for pennies.
“M-Mr. Shayne?”
The mayor had a frog in his throat, a gun muzzle pressed against the outside. Shayne knew that every time the mayor sucked a breath he figured it might be his last.
He also knew the mayor was not going to be killed here. That was to come later. Along with his own death. They could be dumped from an aircraft into the Gulf of Mexico, or they could be shot down on desolate Mexican soil. Either way, they were to die.
Like the four kids? The police had two bodies. But where were the girls? He had expected to see them trussed and terrified in some corner of this floor. But there was nothing. Only vast space, concrete and dusky shadows.
Shayne said, “Maybe you won’t get a plane.” He looked straight at Pope as he spoke.
The hood lifted the .45 slightly, tensed. But it was Iris who wavered. She turned slightly from the mayor. The movement took the gun muzzle from the mayor’s throat. Shayne leaped.
The detective took two huge steps toward Iris and launched himself into a flat, swimmer’s racing dive. Sound numbed his eardrums, crashed around him. Something tugged lightly across his shoulder blades.
In that fraction of a second he knew Pope had triggered a shot from the .45 and that the slug had ripped a path across his coat. The sound was too loud for the gun Iris held.
His outstretched hands rammed the girl’s middle. She yelped. Another slug ricocheted off the concrete floor under Shayne just an instant before he landed flat and skidded. He rolled, pulled his legs up, came up on his knees.
Iris was off to his left now. She had crashed into a wall, was sinking to the floor. The .32 was gone from her hand. He saw it on the floor, but there was no chance in hell he’d reach it before Pope filled him with bullet holes.
He whirled on his knees as Pope fired another shot. The slug took the detective’s hat off. Shayne leaped to his feet, dodged to the left, then to the right, crouched, ran straight toward Pope who was bringing the .45 down level again.
The mayor yelled. He took a couple of steps, stopped, threw his hands high as Pope spun. Pope triggered another shot. The mayor squealed and went into a crazy spin, legs buckling quickly. He went down to the floor and writhed, groaning.
Shayne saw blood spreading from the mayor as he launched a long looping blow with his right arm. His fist crashed against Pope’s ear and sent Pope reeling away. Pope went off balance down the length of the vast room, but he didn’t go to his knees, and he didn’t lose the .45.
He finally caught himself, whirled and fired a wild shot. Shayne already was moving, diving for the gun lost by Iris. She was on her hands and knees, shaking her head groggily as she crawled to the gun.
Shayne leaped over her, caught her with an arm and yanked her against his front as he went down. The slug from the .45 opened her front and spilled a warm liquid on the detective’s arm and hand. He knew Iris had died instantly.
The slight seemed to freeze Pope for an instant, and Shayne used that second to stretch out a long arm and snake in the .32. He triggered a shot, made Pope dance.
Then Pope leaped to Varga, who was cowering against the front wall. He yanked Varga around and used him as a body shield, brought the .45 up.
Shayne fired a shot into the brick above Pope’s head. Pope kept moving forward, the .45 poised. Then Varga broke. He was a terrified man. He shot an elbow into Pope’s middle and bent forward. The move exposed Pope’s face. Shayne fired again. Pope yanked his head, yowled a curse. Shayne saw blood spurt from Pope’s ear.
Varga squirmed, dug deep with his elbows and slashed with his feet. Pope was forced to free him. He gave Varga a violent shove toward the detective as Shayne rolled from the girl and up on his knees again.
He was in front of the open black gap of the elevator shaft. He brought the .32 up, but steeled his trigger finger. Varga was totally exposed, could be cut down in an instant. But Varga also was out of control, reeling, and in no sense an attacker as he plunged forward.
Then there was another crash of sound from the .45 and Varga became spread-eagled in flight, his face muscles caught in surprised horror. A piece of his skull and hair sailed upward from his head as if it were an expertly tossed frisbee seeking a wind updraft.
Varga crashed down on Shayne, spilling the detective. He suddenly was on his back, and he felt terribly exposed again. He arched his head back, brought his arm over his head, the .32 upside down. He had a glimpse of Pope. The .45 was angled down. Shayne fired.
Pope howled and rolled out of sight. Shayne heard the clatter. He kicked and shoved the dead Varga from his body, flipped over to his belly. Pope was doubled, howling and cursing, the .45 gone from his hand. Shayne saw the gun on the floor ten to twelve feet away from Pope.
It was his opportunity. He scrambled to his knees, moving forward at the same time. If he could get to the .45, all of this was finished.
The movement in the corner of his eye made him bring an arm up reflexively. He had forgotten Artist. But the kid was flying in now, lunging toward him. Shayne ducked a shoulder and then brought it up fast. The shoulder plunged into the youth’s middle. He heaved upward.
Artist went over him with a yelp. Shayne whirled on his knee, saw Artist land on his spine and bounce. He skidded into the black wall gap. There was an instant of silence and then a long, terrified scream as Artist plunged down the four floors of open shaft.
Shayne heard Pope scrambling. The odds had evened. He was one and one with the hood now. Actually, he was slightly up. He had the .32 in hand while Pope was diving for the .45.
Shayne came around from the black wall gap, jaw thrust, face muscles ticcing, gray eyes icy. Iris’ blood had slicked his front and left arm.