Built for Trouble (18 page)

Nola babbled on and I glanced toward the shore. We were still a good three miles out; there was no worry about the shots being heard. I knew I couldn’t use the knife on her if she came up the half dozen steps. Not that she didn’t rate that kind of treatment. She’d clawed her way to a movie career over the bodies of at least two men. Three, counting Conrad Masters, and there wasn’t much doubt about him now. He lay on the bow of the
Sirocco,
his body shifting gently with the roll and pitch of the boat; he wasn’t bracing against the motion. Nola was itching to add Eddie Baker to the list, but somehow I knew I couldn’t use the knife. When she stopped talking, I saw her shadow as she stood framed in the small doorway below.

“Are you up there?” she called in a high, thin voice.

I didn’t answer for a few seconds. The light spilled out onto the companionway once more as she moved back into the cabin. She had fired three shots. The .38 carried a full cylinder of six. When those were gone I could race in there and take command; I could get to her before she got the heavy rifle down and into action, but first I had to bleed out those remaining three slugs in the .38.

We were still idling, almost no headway, and I could move without changing the roll of the boat. I inched over to port as far as I could, then stood up to make the target a minimum from down below.

“No dice,” I yelled. “I’m staying up here!”

The gun barked twice, the lead slamming through the cabin roof in two places just over the doorway. One to go! I moved forward a few feet. I reached up with the knife, cut a signal halyard running up to the tiny mast overhead, then caught the line as it slipped through the pulley and fell. I coiled the rope and eased along the roof toward the companionway.

The engines went to half speed, and the boat came around and began to head toward sea.

“I’ll wait you out,” Nola called. “I’m staying up forward. You’ll never get through that cabin door.”

Maybe, I thought grimly, but you’re on the thin edge, baby.

I looked down toward the cabin deck below. It was going to have to be a well co-ordinated effort—toss the clump of line down in the hope that she’d fire at whatever hit the deck, then swing down, pile in there before she knew what was happening, get her tied up some place, and work things out from there.

Because all I wanted now was out. That was it. Just get the hell away from Nola Norton, maybe even out of the state. I’d had it. But first I needed to get command of the boat. I raised the coil of line.

“Look out!” I yelled, and threw the tangle of line down against the paneling in the aft part of the companionway. A shot rang out, but it was different somehow, and the bullet splintered through the paneling where the rope had hit. I didn’t jump down; she had fired the rifle. Nola Norton was still a step ahead of me all the way.

I wiped my forehead and tried to steady my nerves. If I had jumped—I looked toward Masters on the bow and wiped my arm across my face once more.

Now what? Go over the side? I could handle the swim from here, and off a big ship it might work. They aren’t maneuverable; by the time one swung around and headed back it would be impossible to find a person. But with the
Sirocco
it would be different. She could simply bring the boat about, nose it toward me, then get out on the bow with that rifle. And if I thought of it, so would Nola Norton.

Standing by the tiny mast, I tried to work out some escape. I guessed the time at two o’clock. In four hours it would be daylight; by eight o’clock the sun would be high enough to cast a nice shadow. The game would be up then. The .38 had only one shell but there was probably an unlimited supply of ammunition for the shark gun. It might take her a little time but the end was certain; all she had to do was swing the boat until my shadow fell somewhere, then estimate and fire. She could miss once. She could miss twenty times, but eventually she’d have to luck one in. I couldn’t wait for that to happen—the waiting game was Nola’s. So I had to get her out of there soon.

I was still working on it when I caught the thin smell of gasoline.

Moving aft, I looked over the edge of the roof and down toward the splintered wood. There was a bright brass fitting, an intake pipe for fuel, on the afterdeck just beyond the smashed panel. The port gas tank would be in that compartment; Nola’s rifle bullet must have slammed through the tank and now raw gasoline was running into the bilge. Sloshing back and forth with the roll of the boat, the gasoline was filling the bilge with highly explosive vapors.

I thought hard about those fumes. They’re heavy and they stay low in the boat, and if I could even detect them this high up with the wind blowing, this scow was just one hell of a big explosion waiting for an excuse to blow. I swallowed and looked toward the shore. We were farther out now, four miles maybe, and there was never going to be a better time for a swim. I shifted over to starboard.

“Eddie! There’s gasoline, Eddie!” Nola’s voice was high and tight again, but I didn’t answer. She called again, this time with something about working together and how she needed me and what should she do.

“This,” I shouted, and dived into the water. I planed shallow and away to miss propeller suction and went as far as I could before coming up. When I broke the surface, the
Sirocco
was moving slowly away, Nola framed in the bright rectangle of the companionway. She turned and disappeared, and then the motors roared, the bow raised, and the boat surged ahead.

“You fool,” I gasped. “Cut those engines. Get out of there!” But my voice was lost in the wind, and the
Sirocco
began to come about. She was moving right along now, a white bone in her teeth as she spread the sea in a great V of water at the bow.

“Get out,” I called again, knowing that it was useless to yell. She could never have heard above the roar of the engines. A crest lifted me high, and I tried to wave as the boat—now a good hundred yards away—turned directly toward me and began to close the distance.

She was in big trouble. Idling, the twin motors would hardly have developed enough heat to ignite the gasoline vapor filling the
Sirocco’s
bilge, but at full speed her exhaust manifolds were sure to heat up. Any second now could be her last. I rose with the next swell, saw her bearing down on me, and filled my lungs for a dive to get out of the way.

Then she blew.

A sheet of flame shot up and astern, the noise more a heavy
whoosh
than a sharp explosion. A gaping, flaming hole opened almost amidships. The white V of water at her bow faded, the stern dipped under.

I swam toward the
Sirocco
and the wreckage drifted down on me, a glowing mass of fire on the water’s surface. I began to tread water as I watched her flaming bow point upward. In the bright light I could see the dinghy farther back, but I didn’t swim toward it. Let it drift; I had no use for the thing. Someone would find it later. The fire was sure to be seen from the shore. Some of the fishermen on the Ballona Creek Jetties stay with it all night; a flaming mass like this couldn’t have gone unnoticed. Before long the Coast Guard boats would be sweeping up from the south. They would probably find some of the wreckage; they’d put part of the picture together.

I thought about Nola Norton and how she’d loved publicity. She was going out in a blaze of it—mystery death at sea on the eve of shooting her first big picture. Well, some other lucky girl would have to make
Island Love,
and in a month or two Nola would be forgotten.

And what about Eddie Baker?

Watching the
Sirocco
burn, I began to rationalize a little. Conrad was dead but he’d attacked me with a knife. My leg was tied. He’d had all the best of it and I couldn’t feel much like a killer on his account. Sure I’d gone in for a shakedown. Way in. I’d let them crack me and when it happened I played as rough as they did, but I didn’t rate a murder rap. I hadn’t started this little snowball.

Yet if I opened my mouth at all I’d have to face a trial for murder in the first degree. I couldn’t explain it all away in court—Joe Lamb and that long ride with him in the back of his Plymouth—it just wouldn’t go down. Carol would be on the hook too, and we’d be damn lucky to get off with life.

Carol! I had to get ashore; I had to phone her right away or she might talk, might try to explain—

I turned and began to swim toward the distant lights marking Venice, and Los Angeles beyond. I had to put some distance between me and the wreckage of the
Sirocco,
had to make sure I avoided the search the Coast Guard would be making soon. That was point one. I’d be hitting the beach at Venice just before dawn; I didn’t want to run into any all-night surf fishermen. Just one of many risks.

And there were others to worry about. If something of mine was left on the
Sirocco,
if they brought it up and found—but there was no point in borrowing trouble; it was a gamble, like everything else. I’d simply have to lie low for a few days, get out of the city and keep track of the newspapers, and…

Four miles. A little over two hours. That should be no great problem. I turned for a moment to watch the burning boat once more. She was lower now. As I watched, the flames burned through, releasing pent up gas vapors and air trapped in the bow. A thin flash of fire stabbed twenty feet into the air. Then the prow slipped down into the water, and the sea was dark and empty.

I turned and began to stroke toward the lights winking in the distance. The water was cool but not cold. It was just the way I like it.