The sound of the shot triggered by Andrews was deafening and Shayne felt a stinging sensation across the top of one shoulder. Tiener yelled hoarsely as he was pitched over the redhead. It was a combination of surprise and pain.
Shayne rolled and went up on his knees. The flying Tiener slammed Andrews against the wall. Shayne shot forward from his knees and caught Andrews’ gun wrist as Tiener bumped down the stairwell. The detective jerked, pulling Andrews over him. He lashed upward with an elbow, that caught Andrews’ body and brought a grunt from the gunman.
He heard the clatter or the gun skittering across the floor, and then he whirled and flipped Andrews onto his spine. He came down hard with a knee against Andrews’ chest. Andrews writhed. Shayne looped a solid uppercut against his exposed jaw.
Andrews went limp. He twitched on the floor, but his lights were out. Shayne plunged down the stairsteps and slapped both big hands on Tiener’s shoulders. He yanked Tiener up and propelled him back up the steps, slammed him against the wall. Tiener was bleeding from a shoulder wound.
Shayne found both guns on the floor, scooped them up. Andrews was coming around. He sat up groggily. Shayne nudged him with a toe. “Inside!” he growled.
Andrews got to his feet, bobbed unsteadily. Shayne stuck the .45 against the back of Andrews’ head and pushed him forward into the apartment. He yanked Tiener from the wall and propelled him inside.
Tiener pitched to a wall, slammed his hands against it at the last second. He hung for several moments, then slowly twisted. He put his spine against the wall and slid down it to his haunches. His knees came up and he sagged, breathing harshly. The blood spot on his shoulder had widened.
Tiener was out of it. Shayne faced Andrews. The exmercenary was slumped in a deep chair, but he was swiftly regaining his senses. He knew where he was now, the situation. He pulled himself up slowly, eyes narrowed to buttons and hard. He was being very careful with his moves.
Shayne held the .45 loosely, wiggled it in reminder. “Call the cops, Andrews,” he growled.
Andrews stiffened. But his glance had gone beyond Shayne. His eyes widened abruptly. “Hey!”
Shayne whirled. Tiener had lifted his head. He was smiling. He also was drawing a derringer from a small packet in the side of his boot. Shayne brought the muzzle of the .45 up, steeled himself.
But all Tiener did was grin. “It’s finally finished for me, gentlemen.”
“No!” yelled Andrews as Tiener put the muzzle of the derringer into his mouth.
After the shot, Shayne stood frozen for several seconds, remembering Lisa Hume Montgomery’s forecast that her brother would die violently. Should he take his own life, it would be with a gun — just for the experience.
And he would have an audience!
Shayne cursed, then reached for the phone. It was time for the police. Then it was time he called Samantha to tell her the job was done.
The Packing Case
by James Holding
The caper was Joe Hadley’s last chance — which is just the way it turned out.
The small man said, with the air of one who isn’t certain about anything, even his own name, “My name is Joe Hadley.”
“Glad to meet you, Joe,” the redhead said. His fox-eyes examined Joe Hadley from crown to toe and seemed to like what they saw. “Sit down. Care for a drink?”
This seemed an odd question to Joe Hadley since he could not see where a bottle of anything could be kept in the cluttered garage-workshop in which they faced each other. Assorted piles of lumber and plywood, rolls of steel strapping, sheets of corrugated cardboard surrounded them. There were no chairs. The redhead waved at a stack of two-by-fours in short lengths, so Joe lowered his slight frame gently on top of them.
“A drink would go fine, Mr. Stacey,” he said.
“How’d you know my name?” Stacey interrupted his groping behind a battered workbench to glare at Hadley.
“Mr. Carr told me.”
“Damn that Carr!” Stacey came from behind the workbench with a half bottle of cheap bourbon. “His big mouth will kill us all yet!” He smiled at Hadley as though he were joking, but Hadley had the impression he wasn’t. “Here, Joe — you’ll have to drink out of the bottle.”
Joe took a long gulp, gagged, “Thanks, Mr. Stacey.”
The whiskey burned all the way down. It was as harsh as it was cheap. Stacey put the bottle back behind the workbench without sampling its contents himself. He settled himself on a teetering stack of packing paper facing Hadley.
“Now then. Did Carr tell you what this is all about?”
“No,” said the small man. “Only that if I was interested in making a potful of money, I should come and see you.”
The fox-eyes stared into his for a moment, then Stacey said, “Why you, Joe? Did he tell you that?”
“Why me?”
“Yeah, why he told you that, instead of some other fellow who was hard up for money, too.”
Hadley flushed. “He didn’t tell me. But I thought it might be because of my — my record, Mr. Stacey. I was suspended twice when I was a jockey and then ruled off for good for pulling my horses. I gathered that you and Mr. Carr wanted somebody who wasn’t too honest to help you with something that isn’t” — Joe cleared his throat uncomfortably — “too legal, maybe.”
Stacey gave him a vulpine grin. “You guessed it, Joe. Your crooked riding and the year you spent in jail was why we picked you.”
“The jail term was for something else entirely,” Joe said defensively. “It had nothing to do with riding. I was innocent, anyway.”
“I know. They all say that. Armed robbery, wasn’t it?”
“Well, they found some stolen jewelry on me, but they never found the gun the lady said I had, and besides—”
Stacey held up a hand. “Okay. Okay.”
Joe said, “Is it something illegal you want me to do, Mr. Stacey?”
Stacey grinned. “Slightly, yes.”
Hadley squared his narrow shoulders. “I won’t have anything to do with violence, Mr. Stacey!”
Stacey raised his eyebrows. “Not even a little harmless blackjack work?”
“Well...” Joe swallowed. He needed money very badly.
“Relax, this won’t involve any rough stuff, Joe. I promise you that, on my solmen word. It’ll be quick, clean and easy, the way we’ve worked it out.” He gave Joe another clinical look. “How tall are you, Joe?”
“Only five-one, Mr. Stacey.” Joe flushed again. “But I’m pretty strong.”
Stacey interrupted him brusquely. “We don’t care how strong you are. Or how much you weigh, either. We want you because you’re little.”
“Oh?” Joe waited for Stacey to explain.
Stacey pointed to a packing case at the end of his workbench. “Take a look at that.” The packing case was made of nailed lumber, reinforced with four bands of steel strapping near the corners. It stood about five feet high on a three-foot-square base. The words From Fairfield Electronics were stenciled in black on one side, and under that, in smaller letters, Unit 4472, Computer Component. A red arrow was painted on each face of the packing case with the words This End UP.
Joe said, puzzled, “The packing case?”
“Yeah. It’s just about your height, isn’t it?” The fox-eyes were amused.
Joe felt a sudden chill. He tried a weak grin. “Made to measure for me? Is that what you mean?”