Dead Man's Diary & A Taste for Cognac (17 page)

He drove decorously through Homestead and looked at his watch. It was a quarter to eleven. He stopped at a filling station on the outskirts of the village where the first dirt road turned off the paved highway to the left. He told Blackie and Lennie, “I’ll be just a minute,” and swung out of the car to speak to a smiling old man in faded overalls and a wide straw hat.

“Does the bus stop here, Pop?”

“Sometimes. Yep. If there’s passengers to get on or off. ’Tain’t a reg’lar stop.”

“How about yesterday? Any passengers stop here?”

“Yestiddy? Yep. The old sailor feller got off here to go a-fishin’.” The old man chuckled. “Right nice old feller, but seemed like he was turned around, sort of. Didn’t know how far ’twas to the Keys. Had him a suitcase, too, full of fishin’ tackle I reckon. Him an’ me made a deal to rent my tin Lizzie for the day and he drove off fishin’ as spry as you please. No luck though. Didn’ have nary a fish when he came back.”

Shayne thanked him and went back to his car. That was the last definite link. He didn’t need it, but it was always good to have added confirmation. He wouldn’t have bothered to stop if he hadn’t had a few minutes to spare.

He got in and turned down the dirt road running straight and level between a wasteland of palmetto and pine on either side.

“This is it,” he told the boys calmly. “Couple of miles to where I’m supposed to meet these birds, but they might be hiding out along the road waiting for me. You’d both better get down in the back where you can’t be seen.”

“We won’t be no good to you that way,” Blackie protested, “if they’re hid out along the road to pick you off.”

“They’ll just pick all three of us off if you guys are in sight too,” Shayne argued reasonably. “I don’t think they’ll try anything till we get there, and I want them to think I came alone so they’ll be off guard. Get down and stay down until the shooting starts or until I yell or give you some signal. Then come out like firecrackers.”

The two gunmen got down in the back. Shayne drove along at a moderate speed, watching his speedometer. It was lonely and quiet on this desolate road leading to the coast. There were no houses, no other cars on the road. It was a perfect setting for murder.

A narrower and less-used road turned off to the right at the end of exactly two miles. A wooden arrow which had once been painted white, pointed west, and dingy black letters said: LODGE.

Shayne turned westward and slowed his car still more as it bumped along the uneven ruts. Sunlight lay hot and white on the narrow lane between the pines, and the smell of the sea told him he was approaching one of the salt-water inlets.

The car panted over a little rise and saw the weathered rock walls of John Grossman’s fishing lodge through the pines on the left. It was a low, sprawling structure, and a pair of ruts turned off abruptly to lead up to it.

Two men stepped into the middle of the lane to block his way when he was fifty feet from the building. This was so exactly what Shayne had expected that he cut his motor and braked to an easy stop with the front bumper almost touching the men.

He leaned out of the window and asked, “This John Grossman’s place?” then opened the door and stepped out quickly to show that he was unarmed and to prevent them from coming to the car where they would see Lennie and Blackie crouched in the back.

One of the men was very tall and thin, with cadaverous features and deep hollows for eye sockets. He wore a beautifully tailored suit of silk pongee with a tan shirt and shoes, and a light tan snap-brimmed felt hat. He had his arms folded across his thin chest. His right hand was inside the lapel of his unbuttoned coat close to a bulge just below his left shoulder. His face was darkly sun-tanned and he showed white teeth in a saturnine smile as he stood in the middle of the road without moving.

His companion was a head shorter than Slim. He had a broad, pugnacious face with a flat nose spread over a lot of it. He was hatless and coatless, wearing a shirt with loud yellow stripes, with elastic armbands making tucks in the full sleeves. He stood flat-footed with his hand openly gripping the butt of a revolver thrust down behind the waistband of his trousers.

Shayne stood beside the car and surveyed them coolly. He said, “I don’t think we’ve met formally. I’m Shayne.”

Pug said, “Yeah. We know. This here’s Slim.” He jerked the thumb of his left hand toward his tall companion.

Shayne said, “I thought this was a social call. Where’s Grossman?”

“He sent us out to see you were clean before you come in.” Slim’s lips barely moved to utter the words. He sauntered around the front of the car toward Shayne, keeping his hand inside his coat. His deep-set eyes were cold and glittered like polished agate. His head was thrust forward on a long, thin neck.

Shayne took two backward steps. He said, “I’m clean. I came out to talk business. This is a hell of a way to greet a guy.”

Pug moved behind Slim. He was obviously the slower wilted and the less dangerous of the pair. He blinked in the bright sunlight and said, “Why don’t we let ’im have it here?”

Slim said, “We do.” He smiled, and Shayne knew he was a man who enjoyed watching his victims die.

Shayne pretended he didn’t hear or didn’t understand the byplay between the two killers. They had both moved to the side of the car now and were circling slowly toward him.

Shayne said, “I brought along some cold beer. It’s here in the back.” He reached for the handle of the rear door and turned it steadily until the latch was free. He flung himself to the ground, jerking the door wide open as he did so.

Slim’s gun flashed at the same instant that fire blazed from the back seat. Slim staggered back and dropped to one knee, steadying his gun to return the fire.

Shayne lay flat on the ground and saw Pug spin around from the impact of a .45 slug in his thick shoulder, but Pug stayed on his feet and his own gun rained bullets into the tonneau.

Slim fired twice before a bullet smashed the saturnine grin back into his mouth. He crumpled slowly forward onto the sunlit pine needles and lay very still.

Pug went down at almost the same instant with a look of complete bewilderment on his broad face. He dropped his revolver and put both hands over his belly, lacing his stubby fingers together tightly. He sank to a sitting position with his legs doubled under him, and swayed there for a moment before toppling over on his side.

There was no more shooting. And there was no sound from the back of the car.

Shayne got up stiffly and began dusting the dirt from his clothes. He heard shouts and looked up to see excited men filtering through the trees and coming from behind the lodge to converge on the car.

He saw that both Blackie and Lennie were quite dead. Blackie lay with his body sprawled half out on the running-board, his gun hand trailing in the dirt. Blood trickled from two holes in his yellow polo shirt, and his mouth was open.

Lennie was crouched on the floor behind Blackie and there was a gaping hole where his right eye had been. His thin features were composed and he looked more at peace with the world than Shayne had ever seen him look before.

Will Gentry came puffing up behind Shayne, his red face suffused and perspiring. A tall, black-mustached man wearing the clothes of a farmer and carrying a rifle was close behind him. Other men were dressed like farmers, and Shayne recognized half a dozen of them as Gentry’s plain-clothes detectives. He saw Rourke’s grinning face and had time to give the reporter a quick nod of recognition before Gentry caught his arm and pulled him around angrily, demanding, “What the bloody blazes are you pulling off here, Mike?”

“I? Nothing.” Shayne arched his red brows at the Chief of Detectives. “Can I help it if some damned hoods choose this place to settle one of their feuds?” He stepped back and waved toward the rear of the car. “Couple of hitch-hikers I picked up. Why don’t you ask them why they started shooting?”

“They’re both dead,” Gentry asserted angrily after a quick survey. “And the other two?” He started around the car.

“This one’s still alive,” Rourke called out cheerfully, kneeling beside Pug. “But I don’t think he will be long.”

Shayne sauntered around behind Gentry. Blood was seeping between Pug’s fingers, but his eyes were open when Gentry shook him and demanded to know where Grossman was.

“Inside. Cellar.” Pug’s voice was low and hoarse.

“You—Yancy and Marks,” Gentry directed two of his men. “Stay here and get a statement from him. Find out what this shooting is about. Everything. The rest of you fan out and surround the house. Take it careful and be ready to shoot. The real criminal is in there.”

Shayne took Gentry’s place beside Pug as Gentry moved away to direct the placing of his men around the lodge. He leaned close to the dying man and asked, “Where’s the girl, Pug? The girl. Where is she?”

“Inside,” the wounded man murmured.

Shayne got to his feet. Rourke got up beside him and grabbed his arm. “Sweet God, Mike! I don’t know what any of this is about, but it’s
some
Caesarean.”

Shayne pulled away from him and stalked toward the fishing lodge. Rourke hurried after him, expostulating, “Hold it, Mike. Don’t try to go in there. Didn’t you hear the guy? Grossman’s inside. Let Gentry and the Sheriff chase him out in the open.”

Shayne didn’t pay any attention to him. Unarmed, he strode on toward the sprawling stone house, his face set and hard.

Gentry was spacing his men around to cover all exits. He saw Shayne’s intention and called out gruffly, “Don’t, Mike. No need for anybody to get hurt now. We’ll smoke him out.”

Shayne continued steadily forward. He mounted the wide stone steps, his heels pounding loud in the sudden stillness, and went on to a sagging screen door. He pulled it open and went in, squinting his eyes in the dim interior.

There was a stale odor in the room. It was cool and quiet inside the thick rock walls. A wide arched opening led into a big room on the right.

Shayne went in and saw Myrna Hastings sitting upright in a heavy chair fashioned of twisted mangrove roots. Her legs and arms were tightly bound to the chair and her mouth was sealed with adhesive tape. Her eyes rolled up at him wildly as he strode across the room, taking his knife from his pocket.

He slashed the cords binding her arms and legs, pulled her upright, and put his left arm around her. “This is going to hurt,” he warned. “Set your mouth as tight as you can.”

She nodded, and he ripped the adhesive loose in one jerk, then put his other arm around her. She clung to him and cried softly, violent sobs shaking her slight frame.

Shayne was looking around the room as he held her close. He gave a grunt of satisfaction when he saw a square of water-soaked canvas on the floor with a pile of straw and bottles on top of it. An empty bottle lay on its side and another stood open.

Shayne said, “Try to walk a little. Use your arms and legs and they’ll limber up.” He began to move her slowly forward.

She sobbed, “I’m all right. I knew you’d come, Mike.”

She steadied herself with a hand on his shoulder as he leaned down to pick up the open bottle. He studied the watersoaked label and his eyes glinted. It was Monnet, vintage of 1926, and the bottle was half full. He drew in a long breath of the bouquet, then tilted it to Myrna’s lips.

“Take a good drink of this,” he told her. “Everything is all right now.”

She swallowed obediently when the liquor reached her lips. Shayne chuckled and took the bottle away. “It’s my turn now.” He took a long, gurgling drink, then led her over to a dusty rattan couch.

A flush came to her cheeks. She sat down limply and Shayne got out two cigarettes. He put one between her lips and the other in his mouth, thumbnailed a match and lit both.

Myrna started violently when Gentry’s voice bellowed at him from outside. “Shayne! What’s happening in there?”

Shayne called back, “A lady and I are having a drink. Leave us alone.” He laughed down into Myrna’s bewildered face. “We’re surrounded by a posse of detectives and deputy sheriffs,” he explained. “They’re summoning their courage to storm the place.”

“What happened?” she asked tensely. “All that shooting. They were laying a trap for you, weren’t they? I heard them talking before they went out. They were going to kill you because they thought you’d read the logbook. I told them you hadn’t, but they wouldn’t believe me. I was so frightened when I heard the shooting. I was sure you had walked right into the trap.” She began to tremble violently.

Shayne patted her hand reassuringly. “I practically never walk into a trap.”

They heard cautious, shuffling footsteps on the porch outside and Gentry’s voice rumbling, “Mike, where are you?”

“In here,” Shayne called. He put the bottle to his swollen lips again and took a long drink. He lowered it and grinned as Gentry moved in quietly with drawn gun, followed closely by the mustached sheriff with his rifle cocked and ready.

“You look,” Shayne chuckled, “like the last two of the Mohicans.”

Gentry straightened his bulky body and glared across the dim room at Shayne and the girl.

“What the devil’s going on. Who’s this and how did she get here?”

Shayne said, “You met Miss Hastings last night, Will. Why don’t you and Leatherstockings run along down to the cellar and look for Grossman? That’s where Pug said he was.”

Other men began to file cautiously into the room. Gentry turned to them and growled, “Find the cellar stairs. And take it easy. Grossman isn’t the kind to be taken alive.” He crossed the room heavily. “And you can start talking, Mike. What are you and this girl up to?”

“What can we do—with so many people prowling around?”

Gentry snorted, “What kind of a run-around am I getting?”

Shayne said, “You’re giving it to yourself, whatever it is. I didn’t invite you out here.”

“No. You thought you were pulling a fast one—covering up for a murderer to get a rake-off on a bunch of smuggled liquor. By God, Shayne, you can’t wiggle out of this one.”

Shayne drank from the bottle again. “It’s mighty good liquor. Next time you send a stool to cover the switchboard at my hotel don’t use a guy with d-i-c-k written all over him.”