“We’ve got eight or nine slobs on our decks,” he said with his usual briskness. He spun the redhead around and went on talking while he ripped the tape off his wrists. “They want Painter, and they want him dead. When they see you here, they’ll take you along. So lend a hand, even things up.”
As soon as Shayne’s hands were free he ran out. Shayne, ripping the tape off his mouth, started after him, and remembered his taped ankles. Twisting back, he scratched at the tape with his fingernails. Painter had been awakened by the noise and was throwing himself from side to side, his eyes frightened. Shayne rapidly unwound the tape, and running to Painter, flipped him over roughly and began working at his wrists.
“You were saving it for the first day of the convention, weren’t you, you goddam moron?” he said savagely. “So you could get your picture in every paper in the country. But there’s more than one faction in this union! One bunch of these guys just wants to keep you undercover till the election’s over. The other bunch wants to kill you. Get the rest of this tape off yourself, and let’s see if you’re any good in a fight. If you don’t want to fight, keep the hell out of my way.”
Feet were stamping around on the deck above them. He ripped the last tape from Painter’s wrists making no effort to be gentle, and let him roll over by himself. Then the redhead picked up one of the chairs and broke it over the table to get a weapon.
Only one shot had been fired since the fight began, but as Shayne started up the stairs there was another, near the top of the companionway. Someone stumbled through. It was Gray. He tried to grab the handrail but missed, and he went headlong down the steep stairs, his mouth wide open and his hands stretched out ahead of him. He caromed off one side of the companionway and ended in Shayne’s arms.
The redhead staggered. He had caught Gray from the side, around the chest, and he could feel the blood. Gray tried to say something, but it ended in a groan. Shayne laid him down gently. His breath came out in a long shudder and his hand turned over. He was dead.
Shayne grabbed the broken chair-leg, which he had dropped when Gray came hurtling toward him. His hand was slippery; he had to dry it on his sleeve. He stopped with his foot on the bottom step, his eyes narrowed.
The shooting of Gray had taken the spirit out of the defenders, and the fight appeared to be over. He heard a series of blows, as evenly-spaced as though someone was methodically punching a heavy bag. The Spanish-accented voice said sharply, “Whitey?”
“I better finish with him,” a voice answered. “Klipstone too, or we have trouble.”
“What trouble? Plato’s through. Luke Quinn’s gonna take care of everybody.”
Shayne calculated swiftly. If there were eight men on deck, the odds were very long. He turned. Gray had left the key in the lock, and Shayne whipped it out and dropped it in his pocket. He ran back into the cabin. Painter’s mouth was free and he was picking at the tape around his ankles.
Painter said bitterly, “I won’t forget being called a moron, either. You probably didn’t think I heard you.”
“Leave it alone,” Shayne said urgently. “They’ve clobbered Plato’s boys, and we’ve only got one chance. Leave it half off. Wait till they haul us out. When they get us on deck, jump overboard and get in under the dock.”
“I will like hell,” Painter said belligerently. “I never ran from a fight yet.”
“This isn’t a fight. It’s a massacre.”
He knocked Painter’s hands from his ankles, threw him back on the bed and whipped loose tape around his wrists.
“What are you trying to do, Shayne, damn it?” he said. “Oh, I see. You want me to be murdered. With me out of the way you’ll have a free hand in this town. Let me tell you—”
Shayne found the big X of tape on the bunk and slapped it acrosss his mouth. He quickly looped what was left of the tape around Painter’s ankles. He taped his own, pasted the other big X across his mouth and lay back against the bulkhead with his hands behind him. He had done a hasty job, but it might pass a hasty inspection. Painter was writhing on the bunk, tightening the tape around his wrists and ankles. As soon as he was hopelessly tangled he gave up and glared at Shayne.
Feet crashed down the companionway. Shayne forced himself to hold still. The door opened.
It was the Cuban who had driven Al Cole in the stolen car to Rose Heminway’s house. His nose had been smashed and a front tooth was missing.
“Gray’s dead,” a man behind him said. “Plato won’t like that.”
“Plato, who cares?” He looked down at the redhead. “Lookit, it’s that bastard Shayne.”
“What’s he doing here?” the other said, alarmed. “Nobody said anything to me that Shayne was gonna be—”
“He’s not gonna be much longer,” the Cuban said. He prodded the redhead with his toe. Shayne looked up, his right hand gripping his left wrist A .45 dangled from the Cuban’s hand, on a level with Shayne’s eyes. “You fool me, Shayne. There at the house, Cole and me, we should both go in and hit you and the girl. But that damn little island, that one road off. I had the goddam shakes. I catch up with you anyway, eh?”
Without warning he kicked Shayne in the side of the head. Shayne let go of his wrist. He managed to keep himself from diving at the Cuban and dragging him down, but it was one of the hardest things he had ever done. Juan’s face worked and he spat at Shayne. Then he turned contemptuously and checked the tape at Painter’s wrists and ankles.
“Lousy job,” he commented. “This whole thing very lousy.”
“What about Gray?”
“What about him? You want to bury him with a priest, or something? Leave him alone. See if he’s got the key in his pocket.”
The other man checked. “I can’t find it.”
The Cuban said, “Hell with it. Come on, those shots, cops be here in a minute.”
“You mean we don’t take Painter? You said—”
“I said, I said!” Grimondi said angrily. “I said so they let me get aboard. This is Plato’s boat, right? Plato’s boys snatched him. The cops find him and Shayne dead on Plato’s boat, nobody’s gonna bother with Luke, get it?”
“That’s just like Luke,” the other man said admiringly. “Smart.”
They clattered up the steps. Shayne leaned forward and worked the tape off his ankles. It came readily. Painter was saying, “Wha— wha—” through the loose tape across his mouth. When Shayne’s tape was off, he removed Painter’s. The little man demanded angrily, “What are they doing?”
“Scuttling the boat,” Shayne said in a fierce whisper. “Now shut up.”
“I certainly will not. Scuttling the boat! It so happens I can’t swim.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll hold onto you.”
“No,” Painter said. “No, no, no. Absolutely not!” He pushed Shayne out of the way and started for the door. “Any time I let myself be rescued by you—”
Shayne overtook him in one long stride and pulled him around. Painter opened his mouth to yell, but Shayne brought his fist up in a crisp disciplinary punch. Painter’s eyes turned up and his knees sagged. Shayne dumped him unceremoniously on the table. He opened the door to the companionway and listened.
“Find it?” the Cuban said on deck.
Another voice called from the engine room. “Water coming in to beat hell!”
Shayne could feel the difference in the trim of the boat Whitey’s voice asked. “What do we do with Klipstone?”
“Take him,” the Cuban said. “And Whizzer. Luke can use them.”
The Panther was settling fast. Shayne picked up the unconscious Painter and walked him to the door. He lifted him to get him past Gray’s body, and as he did so, Painter’s head snapped forward. He opened his mouth to complete the yell he had started before Shayne punched him. Shayne held his fist in front of his eyes, and he closed his mouth again, giving the redhead a look of extreme hatred. Shayne kept a firm grip on him as they went up the stairs.