Murder Takes No Holiday (10 page)

“That’s all right,” Shayne said, his eyes moving from face to face around the little semi-circle. “You can’t win them all.”

“So now we make haste,” Alvarez said. “We will have to conduct Mrs. Slater to the rendezvous with her husband, where we will find out who is going around hitting people on the head with heavy wrenches. We will tighten the screws on this Paul Slater. He is not so much, in my opinion. I will ask him politely, and then José will ask him impolitely. This is a specialty of José, who can make a fish talk, as the popular saying goes. If Slater is stubborn, we will ask the same questions of his wife in his presence. From this José will get even greater pleasure, I think.”

José bobbed his head, grinning.

“Michael,” Martha said warningly as Shayne stirred.

“Oh, he will be careful,” Alvarez assured her. “North American private detectives, whatever else one may say about them, are well known to be perfectly sane. If they lose one case, they wish to remain alive to take another. So Michael Shayne will stand still and allow us to tie him up. Of this I am sure. Pedro, you have the line?”

It was true that the redhead had very little choice. The .45, held unwaveringly in Al’s rocklike fist, was aimed point-blank at his stomach. José had Martha’s .25, if nothing else. The moon-faced youth had his hand in the side pocket of his jacket.

José’s brother took out a small reel of fishing line and released the long blade of a spring-knife with a tiny ugly click. He cut off a length of the line and advanced on Shayne.

José let go another burst of Spanish. Alvarez tolerantly shook his head.

“He asks my permission to shoot you once in each knee,” Alvarez said. “A charming imagination. This would certainly interfere with your freedom of action, but I have another plan, a better one.”

Shayne ignored him and went on concentrating on Al. “If he told you to pull that trigger, what would you do?”

“Pull the trigger,” Al said calmly. “I told you to stop needling me.”

“Loyalty today is all too rare,” Alvarez said smugly.

Pedro pulled Shayne’s hands together behind him and tied them at the wrists. Suddenly the .25 in José’s hand went off with a sharp crack. A comical look of surprise and consternation appeared in his mean little eyes. The gun had been pointing downward, and Shayne saw where a chip had been bitten out of the concrete.

Al said, “But you better do something about this nut or I’m going to have to lay his face open. He’s beginning to get on my nerves.”

Alvarez shot an order at José, who put the gun away sheepishly. Again Shayne heard the vicious snick of a knife behind him. After cutting another length of fishing line, Pedro began tying Shayne’s ankles, moving swiftly and surely. He threw a loop of line around one ankle, cinched it tight, then with another loop pulled Shayne’s feet together and made fast.

“I’d like to ask one question,” Shayne said, looking at Alvarez. “How many people can testify what you were doing a week ago Wednesday, between six and midnight?”

Squinting, Alvarez swung a roundhouse right at the redhead’s jaw. Shayne watched it coming. At the last instant he bent his knees, taking the blow on his forehead. It probably hurt Alvarez more than it did him, but because Shayne’s ankles were lashed together it knocked him down. He twisted as he fell, taking the jolt on his hip and shoulder.

“You need some work on the heavy bag,” Shayne said caustically. “I’ll be asking you that question again.”

Stooping, Pedro forced a folded handkerchief between Shayne’s teeth and bound it in place with another length of the waxed fishing line.

“I may not be here to answer you,” Alvarez said. “If all goes well with my friends the Slaters, I think I will use that plane Paul has chartered. Not to go to the States, however! As for you, it would distress me if someone came along and untied you. I am hardly ever in a position to do the police a favor, so I think I will tell them where to find you. I have your detective’s license, so you may find it difficult to convince them who you are. Goodnight, Shayne. I won’t say it’s been a pleasure.”

“I’ll make it up to you, Michael,” Martha called. “I’m—”

It ended in a moan. She was hurried away. The flashlight disappeared around the building, and Shayne was left alone in the dark. Car doors slammed. One motor roared, then the other, and the little cavalcade moved away very fast. He tried to determine which way they turned at the corner, but from where he lay it was impossible to tell.

In a moment Shayne’s eyes had adjusted to the absence of artificial light. The night was clear, without a moon. He seemed to be lying at the foot of a gently sloping concrete ramp. He could probably succeed in wriggling to the top, but even if he could roll in among the low palms before the cops arrived, they would have no trouble finding him. His one chance was to make enough noise so he could wake up somebody in the hotel and get them to untie him.

He jack-knifed about, struggling into a sitting position. Hitching sideward, first moving his legs, then leaning backward so he could support his weight on his clenched fists, he reached the doorway. He backed through into the blackness.

He tried to remember the arrangement of the laundry facilities, as he had seen them briefly in the feeble glow of the paper match. There were stationary tubs along one wall, a bench off to the left, an indoors clothesline, shaped like the ribs of a huge umbrella. Somewhere on the floor near the bench he thought he had glimpsed a squat, two-handled utensil, a wash basin of some kind. He hitched painfully across the rough concrete in what he hoped was the right direction.

The line was cutting his wrists cruelly. Each time he moved he had to use more effort than the time before. Lying full length, he tried rolling. He rolled twice, splashing through a puddle of brackish water. Twisting around, he lashed out with both legs. His shins struck something sharp, and the bench went over with a crash and a ring of metal. Shayne kicked the bench out of his way and tried to find the basin. He reached it after a moment’s floundering. One heel struck against it with a resounding clang.

He rested for a moment, breathing hard. But time was passing. He maneuvered into a position where he could raise his legs and swing them against the basin. The noise seemed very loud, echoing back and forth between the cinder-block walls. With each kick the basin moved a few inches and he had to shift position. From time to time he stopped to listen, but except for the sound of his own panting breath he could hear nothing. If he had succeeded in awakening the desk clerk, the old man was afraid to come down to the basement to see what was going on.

Shayne kicked at the basin twice more. The second kick sent it spinning out of reach. He hitched himself after it, and knocked over the pole holding the inside clothesline. The whole awkward contraption came down on top of him. The heavy pole missed him narrowly, but the web of ropes was all around him. He tried again to reach the basin, and the ropes tightened. As he backed away, trying to work free, he cut the back of one hand against the bottom of the pole. He felt the stab of pain and swore deep in his throat. Then, realizing in a flash what had happened, he maneuvered cautiously backward to bring his wrists against the sharp edge. The metal binding around the base of the pole had been knocked loose, exposing a jagged corner of metal a quarter of an inch across. The little spur of metal raked the back of his hand again. He worked it very carefully between his wrists and began rocking backward and forward.

Then he heard the car.

It came around the corner, tires screaming. The driver shifted into high only an instant before he had to slam down hard on his brakes. He came to a noisy stop in front of the hotel. Biting down hard on the gag in his mouth, Shayne continued to saw away at the jagged piece of metal. But Alvarez had told them exactly where they could find him. He heard running footsteps on the concrete ramp. The line broke as two cops with flashlights burst in through the back door.

There was nothing Shayne could do now but lie still. The circles of light played rapidly around the room until they found him. A voice warned him not to move, or he would be shot. One of the flashlights held steady on him while the other stabbed here and there until it picked out the light switch. A third man came past the other two. All three, Shayne saw, had pistols showing. A naked 150-watt bulb flooded the room with light.

The two cops with the flashlights were natives, wearing their full dress-up uniform, blue and red, with white Sam Browne belt and white helmet. The only thing they had dispensed with was the gloves. The third was an Englishman in a simpler uniform. Shayne noticed upside-down chevrons on his arm. He was short and red-faced, with a full mustache. His collar seemed too tight.

He strode across to Shayne and looked down. “That’s the man,” he said with satisfaction.

Shayne made a small sound. He brought his hands out in front of him and tried to untie the gag. The only way he could get out of this was to talk his way out, which was impossible so long as he had a handkerchief in his mouth.

The native cops put away their flashlights, but their guns were still out. The sergeant kicked the basin out of his way.

“Well, you bastard,” he said in an unexpectedly deep voice, “you’ve kept us all up after our regular bedtime, and don’t expect us to be friendly. You’re under arrest. I’ll omit the warning because you won’t be charged in my jurisdiction. You really got yourself tangled up, didn’t you?” He motioned to one of his men and said, “Cut him loose.”

The cop produced a pen-knife. Wielding it delicately, he cut the fishing line that bound Shayne’s ankles. After that he cut the line around his mouth. The redhead spat out the handkerchief, but picked it up again to wrap around his cut wrist. The cop helped him free himself from the clothesline, and quickly went over him to see if he was carrying a gun.

“Get up,” the sergeant said, “and don’t give us any trouble.”

Shayne did as he was told. He stamped one foot to get the circulation going. When he tried to speak, he only succeeded in bringing forth an unintelligible croak. He cleared his throat and tried again. This time the muscles worked.

“Do you want to know who murdered Albert Watts?”

For a moment the sergeant looked at him in silence. Then he said, “Don’t tell me you did.”

“He turned in a customs tip on an American named Paul Slater before he was killed. Slater was caught and fined, and came back to St. Albans. So maybe Watts wasn’t killed by a native, after all. Does any of this interest you?”

“Right now,” the sergeant said, “whether I’m interested or not is neither here nor there. If you want to buy your way out of this with information, you’re talking to the wrong man. You can take it up with the inspector in the morning.”

“It won’t be worth anything in the morning,” Shayne said. “There’s a large-scale smuggling operation underway on this island, as I think you know. If you move fast you can break it up while the inspector’s still asleep. And while you’re doing that you can find out who murdered Watts.”

“You are feeling talkative, aren’t you?” the sergeant said. “But let’s wait and have a stenographer take it all down.”

“I just said it can’t wait,” Shayne told him impatiently. “By the time everything’s signed and witnessed and all the documents have been filled out in triplicate, Alvarez will be in some other country.”

“Who did you say?” the sergeant said, pushing his head forward.

“You heard me. Luis Alvarez. Use a little imagination and you can put him out of business for good. Law enforcement around here will be easier when that son of a bitch is behind bars.”

“Where does Alvarez come into this?”

“Slater was working for him as a courier,” Shayne said. “That tip from Watts was as bad for him as it was for Slater. There’s been some fancy double-crossing going on tonight. Slater was about to take off for the States in a chartered plane. Alvarez kidnapped his wife and threatened to kill her unless Slater got off the plane and came in to explain himself. Do you follow that, or do you want me to go over it again?”

“Where are they, at Alvarez’ nightclub?”

“No. I don’t know where they are, but maybe we can figure it out.”

The sergeant hesitated. “Kidnapping, double-crossing, blackmail,” he said suspiciously. “What are you saying, exactly? That Alvarez killed Watts?”

“I don’t know who killed Watts. I do know that he was killed because of the tip he turned in on Slater.”

“Do you have some evidence of this that you’d like to tell us about?”

Shayne skipped quickly back over the few hard facts he had picked up in the last few hours. “No. Nothing definite. Alvarez has an illegal shipment he was supposed to pass on to Slater tonight. You arrested Alvarez’ driver, and he took me along instead. Something went wrong. He was knocked cold and the shipment was highjacked. Not by me.”

The sergeant smoothed his mustache with his fingertip, in a gesture that for some reason reminded Shayne of somebody he knew well.

“A shipment of what?” he said.

“How should I know?” Shayne said, becoming increasingly impatient. “It had to be contraband of some kind, because of the way it was delivered.”

The sergeant persisted, “Did you see it?”

“No! We don’t have time for all this detail, but if you can’t live without it—he drove into a private garage. I think I can take you to it, but later, for God’s sake! The stuff was in the trunk of his Hillman. Somebody was waiting in the dark and as soon as the headlights went off, stepped up and conked him. When I went in to see why he didn’t come out, he was taking the full count, with a lump on the back of his head. The back window in the garage was open, the trunk hatch was up. Goddamn it, how much more do you want?”

“A great deal more. He believed his assailant to be this American, Paul Slater?”

“Yeah, and it looks that way to me too. The meet was set for eleven. Slater’s plane was set to take off at twelve. It looks like a time-table the same person worked out.”

“I see,” the sergeant said slowly. “The procedure in assault cases is for the aggrieved party to come in and make a complaint. It is then our duty to investigate, even if the victim is an unsavory character like Alvarez, who deserves to be knocked on the head repeatedly, in my humble opinion. But—” and here his head shot forward again—“this entire story is rather flimsy, my friend, and I don’t believe it for an instant. What I seem to see here is a falling-out among scoundrels. No doubt it was the estimable Señor Alvarez who trussed you up like this and told us where we could lay our hands on you. You bear him ill-will, and would like to use the police for your private revenge. I have been in this business long enough to know that such little fallings-out often have most fruitful results for honest men. In the morning we will have it out with the inspector, and you can give us all the corroborating details which you have apparently been skipping over.”