Man on a Rope (25 page)

“Back up a step, lover!” she said. “That's it. Now be a good boy and I'll tell you what we'll do.”

McBride shook his head and a grin that was fixed and humorless began to work on the corners of his mouth. “Count me out, sweetheart,” he said. “I've had it.”

“Not until we do a bit of flying.”

“Who's we?”

“All of us. Just like we planned it.”

Barry moved a step to one side and she watched him warily. When she looked back at McBride a casual movement unbuttoned his jacket. He could not tell just what she had in mind, but he understood that the time for pretense was past, that as matters stood she was a woman with very little to lose. He spoke up now, hoping to gain time, to keep her from making any immediate move.

“Is that the gun you got in Havana?” He waited and when her glance merely flicked at him and returned to McBride he said: “Did you use the one you took from Lambert on Thaxter?… And then toss it in one of the canals?”

She did not answer this either, but he had an idea this was what had happened and he knew that if this was true, the chances of her being convicted for Thaxter's death would be remote. It was this little gun that was so dangerous to her, and he could tell by the way she looked at McBride that she would not hesitate to use it.

“You think you can make me fly you out of here?” McBride said to her.

“I can try.”

“You heard what Barry said about the money. Don't you believe him?”

“I believe him, but maybe this international police isn't as good as he thinks. I think I could get rid of a few bills, enough to give me another start. I'm not going to stay here and hang, lover. Once I get out of here I've got a chance because these Latin Americans give a woman a break. They look at things differently than the English and Americans.”

“You've got a point,” McBride said. “Your idea is that if I won't fly you, you'll plug me, is that it? And if you do that, how do I fly?”

“I'll tell you why you'll fly,” she said. “Because from now until the time we get aboard I'm going to hold this at the back of her head.” She tipped the automatic toward Lynn. “And once we get in the air the gun'll be at the back of your head, lover…. Game here,honey,” she said and again jerked the gun at Lynn before she swung it back.

The girl had been sitting on the edge of her chair, knees touching and her hands folded in her lap. Her young face was pale but composed, but now her glance went to Barry, as though asking for his advice.

One look at those eyes did many things to him. They reminded him again how much he loved her. That she had disobeyed him by coming to the veranda was of no importance; his own guilt lay in the fact that he had allowed her to come at all. Nothing was going to happen to her. That much he promised himself, but the mere thought of Muriel holding a gun on Lynn sickened him because he understood the desperation that now motivated the woman. Any compassion that had once been part of her makeup had long since atrophied. She had killed twice and she would kill again without compunction if her safety was threatened.

He was breathing shallowly now, the perspiration drying coldly on his spine. His hands hung loosely, the thumbs brushing the front of his jacket as he watched McBride and tried to predict his thoughts. Steeling himself against his rising fears, he considered anew the automatic in his waistband. He recalled other guns he had used—the 45 automatic in Korea, the .38 revolver he'd worn in the Surinam jungles. He was handy with such weapons but no expert….

His thoughts hung there as he heard Muriel call again and saw Lynn stand up. Surprisingly, it was McBride who spoke first in protest.

“Leave her out of it!” he said. “Stay where you are, Lynn!”

Lynn stopped uncertainly and Barry took a breath of relief. Muriel lifted the muzzle of the gun slightly until it was pointed right at McBride‘'s broad chest and less than six feet away.

“She'd better do as I say,” she said. “I'm not fooling.”

“No,” McBride said. “You'll never make it.” He glanced at the table with the package of money and the automatic he had left there. He could reach it with one quick stride, but he was careful not to lean that way. “I'll make a small deal with you,” he said. “I'll give you an hour.”

“For what?”

“You can have my word on it for what it's worth and I'll take my chances with the cops. I may get a couple of years out of it for helping you, but I can do that much standing on my head…. Take your bags and get in your car and head for the waterfront. The tide is right and there'll be a schooner or two pulling out for somewhere. Take some of the cash,” he said. “That'll buy you passage and plenty of silence from most of those captains, maybe more. Leave me this gun”—he indicated the automatic on the table—“and I'll guarantee to hold Barry and the girl here for that hour. That's the best I can do.”

“No.”

Muriel shook her head. She wet her lips and her hand was white-knuckled on the little gun. Her upward-slanting eyes were darkly flared and it seemed now that she was no longer responsible for her actions.

“It's not enough,” she said. “Do you think I'd trust you now?”

“It's all there is, sweetheart. If you think I'm kidding, start pulling the trigger.”

“No.” Again she shook her head. “And it's too late to argue.”

Barry knew then that she would shoot if McBride made one wrong move. He also knew that it was time for him to reach for the automatic Lynn had given him. He knew that when he reached for it there would be no backing out. The room was charged with impending violence and no one could tell when it would explode.

McBride was a stubborn man and he had the sort of courage that was born of pride rather than conscious thought. In the next moment or two while the emotional struggle hung in balance, Barry knew that McBride was going to make a move and take his chances on the bullet. There was a look of savagery and contempt in his pale eyes and at the moment he hated this woman as she hated him.

That they had been lovers meant nothing now, since no real love had passed between them. Each threatened the safety of the other. They seemed to understand this completely, and suddenly, seeing a muscle tighten in McBride's neck and the slight shifting of the shoulders, Barry knew that time had run out.

Then, even as he started to reach for the gun, something happened to McBride. His mouth cracked open in a grin. He lifted one hand an inch or so and let it drop. He chuckled and sighed audibly.

“Okay, sweetheart,” he said. “You win. We'll try it your way.”

Everything about the reaction seemed genuine except the bright glints in the pale eyes. The trouble was, McBride was a lousy actor. The sudden turnabout, the obvious effort to throw the woman off guard until he could get closer fooled no one, least of all her.

“
Boyd!
” she cried.

As she spoke, her body seemed to stiffen, and now, a split instant before McBride moved, Barry slid his right hand three inches inside his coat and the automatic was in his fingers. Yet even as he heard her scream: “
I mean it, Boyd!
” there was time for his mind to function and consider the probabilities.

The woman stood in profile and no more than twenty feet away, a simple target. One shot would stop her and save McBride, but even as he swung the gun up he knew he could not do it. Something stronger than his intelligence prevented him from shooting a woman that way, even a murderess, and so in that last fraction of time that was his he aimed at her hand, not hoping to hit it but hoping that the shot would startle her sufficiently to give McBride the chance he deserved.

It seemed then that everything happened at once, McBride's lunge, a twisting, sideways contortion, the hammering of the guns. Not quite together, for Barry shot first, missing the hand he aimed at but startling the woman sothat she made the mistake of trying to do two things at once.

In her effort to locate the source of Barry's shot, her hot, bright gaze wavered. Fear may have been an element in her hesitation, for instead of shooting instantly she tried to back away from McBride's charge, and as she moved she fired, the little gun bucking visibly in her hand.

Barry, watching it happen and not knowing whether to shoot again or not, could not tell whether McBride had been hit. All he knew was that one shot was all Muriel had time for. McBride was on her like a big cat, an extended hand slapping the gun from her grasp in a forward thrust and then swinging backhanded as his momentum carried him on.

He caught her full on the side of the face with that backhanded slap, and the blow carried authority. She fell sideways and off balance as it struck her, bouncing off a chair and then sprawling backward, skirts flying. Her head and shoulders struck the floor with a thud. Her lips moved once, as though from some involuntary muscular reaction; then she moaned and lay still.

McBride stood over her, chest heaving and his body bent. When there was no other movement from the woman, he straightened and looked for the gun she had dropped. Before he could start toward it Barry stopped him.

“Leave it, Mac!” he said curtly. “Just leave it there!”

McBride stopped short. He turned slowly, his pale eyes inspecting Barry as though he had never seen him before. He considered the gun which now covered him. He glanced at Lynn. Finally he shrugged.

“You had it all the time, hunh?” He grunted softly. “Lucky me,” he said. “You could have caused a lot of trouble with that if things had got real tough for you.”

“Back up a little.”

“Sure.” McBride retreated past the table. “And thanks for the assist. Were you really aiming at her?”

“At her hand. I missed.”

“It helped,” McBride said, and now his glance went beyond Barry as Lynn moved forward.

“I'll get them,” she said, and with no further hesitation she went over and picked up the gun Muriel had dropped. She retrieved the heavier automatic from the table.

As she started toward him there was the sound of a car in the driveway. A door slammed and feet pounded up the steps and across the veranda. Then Superintendent Kerby was hustling into the room, empty-handed except for the ever present swagger stick. Behind him came Inspector Cantrell, a uniformed constable, and, at the rear, the slim wiry figure of Eddie Glynn.

Kerby seemed more shocked at the sight of the three guns than at anything else, and as Cantrell collected them and Kerby gave his attention to Muriel, Barry knew without asking that Eddie was responsible for the police. Eddie, alerted earlier by what he overheard in his taxi, had added up the score and decided that it was time for some professional assistance.

In this Eddie had been right and Barry was grateful. His own feeling of relief at the moment was tremendous and in his reaction he knew his hands were trembling and his chest was still a little tight with strain. He also found it ironic that the assistance had not come earlier. A little more talk, a little more stalling, and there would have been no need for a gun, no danger to Lynn.

And then he understood that such reasoning was specious. The police had come unarmed, as was their custom. If they had walked in to find Muriel holding the gun and no longer susceptible to reason, neither violence nor bloodshed would have been prevented. The threat would have remained, but the problem would then have been Kerby's, the risk his rather than McBride's….

In less than fifteen minutes Superintendent Kerby had heard enough to know that it was time to transfer his base of operations to his office. He had already telephoned Headquarters to have a man sent to the Windsor to pick up Hudson for questioning, and now, as he glanced about the room, he was ready.

For another moment he considered Muriel Ransom, who had been speedily revived and now sat on the couch, her face slack and her eyes fixed dully on the floor. She had answered no questions nor shown the slightest interest in what went on around her. Now, when Kerby spoke to her, she did not even look at him, and he nodded to Cantrell.

“Look after her, Inspector.”

Cantrell touched her arm. When he began to lift it she came to her feet and turned toward the door with him without being told.

“You,” Kerby said to McBride, “can ride with me.” He looked at Barry and Lynn standing there together, glanced at Eddie Glynn as he made up his mind. “If you two want to ride back with Eddie it will be quite all right. Just follow along behind us, Eddie,” he said.

In the back seat of the Zephyr, Barry slid his arm lightly about Lynn's shoulders and she reached up and touched his hand. She did not say anything until after the car started and neither did he. There were a million things in his mind and he had to block out the unpleasant ones before he could consider the more immediate problems. Finally, rousing himself sufficiently to sit up, he removed his hand and searched for a cigarette.

He said it was going to be a rough night and she said she knew it.

“It'll be hours before Kerby has finished with us.”

“Yes.”

“Tomorrow's Saturday,” he said and brought reluctantly into focus a subject he had been avoiding. “I'd better stop in at the airline office.”

“Oh?”

“The law works pretty fast here,” he said, “but not fast enough for me. I'm a witness now. I'll never get away on Wednesday. I'll have to cancel my flight ticket.”

“I'm glad,” she said simply.

He turned to look at her in his astonishment. “You're what?”

“I'm glad.”

“Why?”

“Because now that you have to wait, maybe you'll stop quibbling and take me with you. That's the way it should be, isn't it?”

His grunt was affirmative and suddenly he was grinning down at her in the darkness because he knew she was right. The very thought of this helped his morale tremendously and he knew that his canceled flight was no longer important. He would simply cable the boss and tell him why he was delayed.