Murder Takes No Holiday (15 page)

He let her go first. She looked down the stairs and along the corridor. Turning, she beckoned. They met no one on the stairs. At the bottom, as she turned into the corridor, she called a gay greeting to someone, and Shayne pulled down the brim of the grotesque hat. He had his hand to his cigarette screening the lower part of his face, as he passed a Negro porter leaning on a broom. The man looked at him curiously, and Shayne replaced his usual vigorous step with a spiritless shuffle. The old woman at the door was drowsing over an American movie magazine. Shayne went by with his head down, his hand still at his mouth.

Vivienne was waiting in the alley. She took his arm possessively, hugging it to her breast.

“Where is the car, cheri?”

Without answering, Shayne took her along the alley and up the steep street to the church. The Morris was parked where he had left it. Cecil Powys was behind the wheel.

“Mike,” he said as Shayne opened the door for the girl. “This is a pleasant surprise.”

“I knew you’d appreciate it,” Shayne said. “She’s going along to show us the way. I also want her where I can keep my eye on her.”

“That shouldn’t be at all difficult,” the Englishman said cordially.

She gave him an interested look, shooting from behind the eyelashes as she had done with Shayne. The redhead got in back; she stayed in front so she could call the turns. Powys, sitting sideways in the driver’s seat, seemed in no hurry to get underway.

“I enjoyed your performance,” he said to the girl. “Frightfully good, really. When you were doing those convolutions to the drum, the thought crossed my mind how jolly nice it would be to go backstage and make your acquaintance. Then I thought to myself, ‘Impossible, old boy. Can’t be done. Girl like that must have scads of admirers. Probably a jealous husband somewhere in the background.’”

He beamed at her. Shayne said brusquely, “His name is Cecil Powys. He claims to be working for a degree at Oxford, but don’t ask him what he’s really up to because he won’t tell you. Now let’s get going.”

“Oh, come now,” Powys said mildly, looking around. “It’s not all that bad. I say—where did you get that awful hat?”

“You mean you just noticed it?”

Shayne laughed and put the hat on the seat beside him. Powys started the motor, swinging around the block to keep from passing the nightclub’s front entrance. Soon, following the girl’s directions, they were out of town tooling along the coast road at the little car’s top speed. Occasionally Powys turned his head to smile appreciatively at the girl beside him. She was a girl who liked to be appreciated. She slid closer until their shoulders touched.

“Now to the left,” she said after a time.

They started inland. Shayne leaned forward.

“I keep thinking of more things I want to ask you. When Martha was going out of town and Paul wanted to make a date with you, didn’t he have some way of sending you a message so it wouldn’t mean anything to anybody else? Wouldn’t it be a good idea, for instance, to tear the radio program out of a paper and—”

She swung around, and Shayne said, “That’s right. I looked through your bag. I didn’t have anything else to occupy my time. Those were from Paul?”

She hesitated. “I see no reason not to tell you. Yes.”

“You’ve been with him a lot lately. By this time you probably know most of his secrets. The customs people think he fooled them on his last trip. Do you know how he did it?”

Powys, his pipe clenched between his teeth, was holding the steering wheel lightly, intent on the road. His grip seemed to tighten, and Shayne felt a sharpening of attention.

Vivienne said carelessly, “I do not concern myself.”

Shayne made a rude noise. “The hell you don’t, baby. It wouldn’t surprise me if even Alvarez doesn’t know exactly how he works. But I’d be damn surprised if you don’t.”

She smiled in the faint light. “But you know, all this trouble may bring him together with his wife again. And if that happens, I might want to talk to the American officials in person. They pay well for such information, I am told.”

“Now that’s the spirit I like to see,” Powys said.

When she looked at him to see if he was joking, he winked at her broadly. Shayne sat back.

“Now you must go more slowly,” Vivienne said soon afterward, peering at the road ahead. “It is not far away.”

Powys cut his speed while the girl watched for landmarks. They passed several large plantations, and went on climbing. They left a small sleeping village behind. In the end, though they were all watching for the turn, they missed it. Powys had to stop and back. It was a small sign: “R. Smith,” with an arrow pointed up a gravel road. At a quiet word from the girl, Powys cut his lights. He waited briefly until his eyes came into the new focus, then ground forward slowly in second. The dark vegetation on each side made the road easy to follow.

“Not far,” the girl said.

Soon Shayne made out a massive stone wall on their left, about as high as a professional basketball center taking a rebound.

“I remember something,” Vivienne said suddenly. “Wait. When the gate opens, a bell rings at the house.”

“Easy enough,” Powys said. “We go over the wall, eh, Mike?”

He spotted a break in the vegetation. Coming to a halt, he got out to try the ground. Satisfied, he returned to the Morris, cut the wheels sharply and backed off the road as far as he could, stopping only when the rear wheels began to spin. He killed the motor and set the emergency. All three then set to work breaking branches to conceal the little car.

“What do you think about our mademoiselle?” Powys said. “Can we count on her not to drive away and leave us?”

“Sure,” Shayne replied with a grin. “I convinced her. And just to be on the safe side, let’s take the keys.”

“You don’t mean you are going to leave me here in the jungle!” she exclaimed. “All by myself?”

“We’ll be back.”

“Michael!” she said pleadingly. “You don’t know what you are saying. There are wild animals.”

“If I worried about anybody,” Shayne said, “I’d be worrying about the animals.”

“It is nothing to joke about!”

Powys laughed, but then said seriously, “No, you’re right. Get in the car and run up the windows. Then even the snakes can’t get in.”

“Snakes!” she said in horror. “You, you—you—”

He held the branches aside for her. After she was in the car, he let them fall back in place. “All right?”

Her voice seemed small and far away. “But for the love of God, hurry.”

“All the same,” he said in a low voice to Shayne, “this may not be so simple. I don’t suppose you have a gun?”

“They have enough guns to go around,” Shayne said.

“Expect you’re right,” Powys said doubtfully as they crossed the road. “I’ll give you a leg up. Mind there’s no broken glass on the top.”

He backed up against the stone wall and made a foothold with his hands. “I had Commando training, actually. Never thought it would come in handy. Just keep your foot out of my face, will you?”

Shayne put his toe on the Englishman’s hands and sprang upward. He swept his hand across the top of the wall without meeting any obstacles, and came back to the ground.

“No glass, at least.”

Powys flexed his fingers. “Next time I’m going to pick somebody who weighs less. Here we go.”

Shayne gripped the Englishman’s shoulders, placed his foot, and went up onto the wall in one smooth flow of motion. He swung his legs up and reached down for Powys’ hand. The Englishman backed away a few steps, threw himself toward the wall and seized Shayne’s hand.

The redhead felt a stab go through his chest, as though a sliver of glass was being driven between his ribs. He held on and pulled, and Powys came up the wall. For an instant, until he threw his free arm over the top, his full weight seemed to bear on the break in Shayne’s ribs. He scrambled up beside Shayne, and the two men dropped to the ground together. Shayne had to prop himself against the solid bulk of the wall or he would have fallen. His lips were drawn back as he fought the pain.

“Anything wrong, Mike?” Powys said.

Shayne grunted and pushed off from the wall. He saw the lighted house ahead, several hundred yards away, but instead of heading for it directly, across uncertain ground, they followed the wall to the gate. Then they went up the drive, single file on the turf at the edge of the gravel.

The house was lit up like a beacon. It was all on one level, of brick and glass. On the far side, the ground dropped away steeply, and in daylight there was probably a fine view across the mountains from the flagstone terrace. The rooms were like separate stage sets, each flooded with light. A man’s figure crossed in front of one of the windows, and Shayne instinctively crouched, although he knew they couldn’t be seen. The drive curved on around the house, ending at a three-car garage. One of the cars Shayne had seen at the Half Moon had been run into the garage, but the overhead door had not been closed. The second car was parked outside on the gravel. A cab, probably the one that had brought Paul Slater from the airport, was standing at the front steps.

Shayne pointed at the cars and made a wringing motion with both hands. The Englishman nodded. Keeping below the level of the terrace, he made his way quietly to the cab, unlatched the hood and lifted it carefully so he could get to the motor. Shayne heard a small tearing sound. Powys threw something into the darkness, lowered the hood and moved on.

A radio somewhere in the house, turned up too high, was playing American music. Crouching, Shayne ran to the stone balustrade at the edge of the side terrace. After a moment, very cautiously, he raised his head. Standing in a lighted bedroom, on the opposite side of a large picture window, Martha Slater was looking directly at him.

It took Shayne an instant to realize that she couldn’t see him. She was holding a lighted cigarette, and she looked very tired. The shoulder of her blouse was torn. She turned and walked away, going out of sight and then coming back.

There were two men in the room with her. One was on the bed, and Shayne saw, with an involuntary tightening of his stomach muscles, that it was José. He was watching Martha. As she moved, a kind of hunger glittered in his small eyes. The other man was in a straight chair tipped back against the door. Shayne raised his head a little more. It was the moonfaced youth whose name Shayne didn’t know. He was paring his fingernails lazily with a long knife.

Martha said something which Shayne couldn’t hear. José laughed scornfully.

Shayne pulled at his earlobe. Before he could make his move, he had to know where all his enemies were located and what they were doing. He ducked down below the balustrade and eased on to the next room. This was a much smaller bedroom. The cab-driver, wearing an impromptu uniform, was sitting at his ease in an upholstered chair with one leg over the chair-arm, smoking a long cigar. He had a tall iced drink in his hand. The radio was at his elbow, with a choice of Caribbean or North American music. Outside, his meter was ticking off waiting time. There was a wonderful look of contentment on his face.

The redhead grinned ruefully and continued his careful survey of the house. There was a bathroom and then another bedroom, both of which seemed to be empty. That brought him to the front terrace. To see into the front windows he would have had to cross the terrace, so he backed off into the darkness and retraced his steps.

The kitchen was empty. Powys was not in evidence; Shayne could hear faint metallic noises from the garage, where he was putting the third car out of action. Passing the garage, the redhead looked into the dining room. Al, the bartender, was playing solitaire at a long table. He was in his shirt sleeves, and he was wearing his big gun in a shoulder holster. That was the gun Shayne was chiefly concerned about. He was about to move on when he noticed something else. Al was turning up one card at a time, but he wasn’t adding any of them to the red-and-black pattern spread out on the table in front of him. Instead, while he kept his hands moving, he was leaning back in his chair, listening intently. A folding door was pulled shut behind him.

Shayne went on, around a clump of flowering shrubs. He saw the Camel in the living room, and a moment later he saw a man who must be Slater. That left only two unaccounted for—José’s brother Pedro and the caretaker Alvarez had mentioned.

Slater was speaking angrily. He was boyishly good-looking, but there was a weakness and petulance around his mouth, an unbecoming fleshiness of the neck and chin. The redhead was too far away to catch more than an occasional word. He studied the situation.

The Camel was on one side of a large stone fireplace, Slater on the other, continuing his harangue. Slater stalked to the big front window. The Camel followed him with his eyes. Now they were both in profile to Shayne, and the redhead quickly vaulted the balustrade, dropping without a sound onto the terrace. Slater’s voice rose and Alvarez broke in on him. Both men were fully taken up with each other. Shayne crawled in against the building, beneath the window level, and around to the front terrace. Here he could hear the voices plainly. There was a soft scraping behind him and Powys wriggled around the corner. The Englishman winked solemnly, and made a sign that the cars were out of commission.

“And if you are not the villain who raised this bump on my head, dear Paul,” the Camel’s voice said calmly, “I make it a condition that you tell me who did. I think that is reasonable.”

Powys tugged at Shayne’s ankle and formed the word “Alvarez” with his lips. Shayne nodded.

“I don’t accept that,” Slater answered. “It’s unreasonable as hell. I’m not your keeper. Do you expect me to make a list of all the people who have a good reason for wanting to beat your brains out? The woods are full of them.”

“Perhaps,” the Camel said. “The point is, you see, that the appointment was made in the usual way.”

“On a radio schedule?” Slater said sharply.

“Precisely! It came in the afternoon mail. With a circle around eleven o’clock.”

Shayne would have liked to see Slater’s face, but it would have been too risky to raise his head.