Violence Is Golden

by Brett Halliday

Shayne began to feel frantically for the dropped knife.

  “Is that you, Mike?” Ward gasped. “What are you looking for? Are you hurt?”

  Shayne made an urgent sound. Didn’t the damn fool realize there was no time for questions and answers?

  “God, yes—the knife,” Ward said. “Here.”

  An instant later Shayne’s wrists were free. He ran for the house, pulling at the tape across his mouth. Changing direction abruptly, he took cover behind the sand pile and considered the changed situation.

  The weapons were now evenly distributed, and Shayne had the heavier gun. Thompson was only a hired hand, probably with little personal stake in the venture. As soon as he realized that the Japanese was dead and Shayne had the use of both hands, he would remember the taxi and try to use it to get away.

  Shayne crawled out from the protection of the sand pile. Halfway to the taxi, he saw a figure dart out of a shadow, then veer away from the edge of the unfinished swimming pool. It was Thompson. For a few steps he was hidden from Shayne by the shadow of the bulldozer. When he came out into the open again, Shayne took careful aim and shot him in the leg.

  With a muffled cry, Thompson fell backward into the excavation. Shayne ran to the Checker and, after starting the motor, wheeled the cab around until its headlights illuminated the edges of the rectangular hole.

  “Thompson!” he called. “Say something if you can hear me.

  There was no answer.

  Leaving the taxi, Shayne circled toward the bulldozer. “Put up your head and I’ll blow it off, Thompson,” he called. “How can I miss? Throw your gun out. Then crawl out slowly.”

  There was still no answer. Shayne waved Ward back with a peremptory movement of the forty-five and slid around the bulldozer. Its blade was raised a few feet above the ground. He eased forward and called again.

  “Thompson, you’re through. You must know that by now. You’re all alone. Yami’s dead and George is out cold. I have the forty-five. I’m in no hurry. I can wait till you bleed to death or put your head up out of that hole.”

  There was a flicker of flame. A bullet whanged against the bulldozer blade and whined off into the darkness.

  Shayne swung up into the bulldozer’s high cab. He didn’t know this model, but all the controls seemed to be in the usual place. Thompson scrambled into view and snapped a shot up at him. Shayne switched on the ignition. As the powerful motor took hold, he pulled the blade lever, and the blade came up slowly to protect the cab. Thompson slid back, scratching at the loose dirt.

  Shayne put the monster in gear. It lunged clumsily forward. As soon as it began to tip, he cut the switch and set the stabilizers, two long hydraulic props which served to anchor the machine when the backhoe was being used.

  He called down, “Let’s do it this way, Thompson. You might not feel like answering questions after you get out. Two things I want to know. Throw your gun out first.”

  Thompson screamed an obscenity and tried to come in under the blade. Shayne put a forty-five slug in the dirt a few inches from his hand.

  Thompson scrambled back. He had lost his glasses. His clothes were torn and filthy. He lay on his back, breathing heavily and staring into the bulldozer’s single headlight.

  “Two questions,” Shayne said. “Who are you working for? Where’s the gold going?”

  Thompson stared up without answering.

  As Shayne started the motor again, Thompson did a terrified scrabbling dance in the loose dirt.

  “The Paladin!” he yelled. “Forced landing. That’s all she told me—Shayne, look out!”

  The bulldozer lurched. The left stabilizer had gone down to solid ground, but the right one was beginning to slip. The cab swung. Shayne yanked at the hydraulic control. The stabilizer went in deeper, arresting the tilt for an instant. Then the edge of the hole caved in and the big machine started to go.

  Thompson, below, twisted onto his hands and knees and scrambled desperately. “The Paladin!”

  Shayne pulled himself to the door and jumped. Thompson looked up over his shoulder and screamed. Slowly and deliberately, the bulldozer leaned forward and came down on top of him.

  CHAPTER 13

  Ward walked into the light. He had a cut over one eye, and his black clerical coat had been torn in front, showing the straps of the shoulder harness.

  He and Shayne looked at each other.

  “If this is what you’re like with your hands and feet tied—” Ward said.

  Shayne made no reply. He returned to the house for the lantern, then hunted outside until he found George Savage, lying on the cement-flecked dirt in his own thin vomit.

  George moaned as the light hit him. Gathering a handful of his shirt front in one hand, Shayne jerked him up into a sitting posture and said savagely, “We’re going to talk now, George. The Paladin. What is it, a boat?”

  George’s head lolled. Shayne shook, him angrily. George dribbled something and batted at the light. Then he fell forward against Shayne’s arm.

  “Sick. Leave me alone.”

  When Shayne released him, he crumpled into a tight crouch.

  “I can tell you about the Paladin,” Ward said.

  “It wouldn’t surprise me a bit,” Shayne said briefly.

  He took the lantern to the edge of the cliff and shone it down on the tumble of broken rock fifty feet below. The body of the Japanese lay face down in a pool at the base of the waterfall.

  Shayne put the lantern down. Filling his cupped hands with cold water, he dashed it in his face. After repeating this several times, he washed the edges of his scalp cut with his fingers. Shaking water from his hands, he returned to George Savage.

  Pulling him roughly out of his fetal crouch, Shayne slung him over his back and carried him to the stream, where he put him down and splashed water in his face.

  “Information, George,” Shayne said grimly. “Your two friends are dead. What are the plans for tomorrow?”

  George doubled forward and threw up. When the spasm had passed, Shayne pulled him up with one hand and slapped him.

  “The Paladin, Goddamn it. Where are you taking the gold?”

  George’s head fell back. Shayne flashed the light in his eyes. He was unconscious.

  With a disgusted exclamation, Shayne carried him to the cab, tore his shirt into strips and lashed his hands and feet together, tightening the knots cruelly. Then he returned to the house, where the Negro was waiting, seated on an upended cinder block.

  “OK,” Shayne said. He directed the beam at the Negro’s chest. “Who are you?”

  “My name’s really Crane Ward, but thank God I can drop the ‘Reverend.’ It seemed like a cute idea when we thought of it, but it was hard as hell to sustain. You’ve probably guessed that I’m a Treasury Department field agent.”

  “Is that why they gave me the runaround in Washington last month? Because you already had the operation covered?”

  “Hell, Mike,” Ward said apologetically, “everybody knows you’re not an easy man to control. You have every reason to be mad, but I’ll just remind you that if I hadn’t followed you up here—”

  Shayne cut him short. “I keep telling people I can get along without that kind of help. Two people are dead, and I don’t know a Goddamn thing more than I did before.”

  “If you’ll simmer down, Mike,” Ward said more sharply, “I may be able to tell you a few things you don’t know. The reason I didn’t identify myself is because Washington ordered me not to. They didn’t tell me to use my own judgment. I called in the minute we landed in St. Albans. They said to stick to the clergyman story and find out how much you knew. They’re great believers in making the standard moves. And you must have crossed swords with the Assistant Director at some point, because he doesn’t seem to like you. Just the same, orders or no orders, I didn’t want you to get in too much trouble. You may have noticed that I’ve been dogging you around.”

  “So you could knock them off when I drew them out in the open for you.”
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  “It’s a legitimate technique,” Ward said. “You’ve used it yourself. And there’s another angle. You won’t like this one, but I might as well tell you. The Department’s under budget pressure. We’ve been criticized for the amounts we’ve been paying in informers’ fees.”

  Shayne made a gesture of suppressed fury.

  “Mike, will you cork it? Ten percent of this deal would wipe out the budget item. I’m on salary. If I could wrap it up without any outside help, I’d save the Department money. But I repeat: It wasn’t my idea! I only work there. Obviously it was a mistake. If you and I had put our heads together in the beginning, this wouldn’t have happened tonight. OK. It’s water under the bridge. It’s time to adjust our sights and start over.”

  “Did you know I was approached by Jules LeFevre?”

  “LeFevre! Of Interpol? To do what?”

  Shayne told him briefly about LeFevre’s proposition and what had happened afterward.

  Ward fitted a cigarette carefully into a holder, lit it, and smoked for a time in silence.

  “He was a double agent,” he said, reaching a decision. “He was working for both sides, and both sides knew it. That’s not the healthiest occupation in the world. I wonder—well, never mind for now. Mike, the Paladin is Adam’s yacht. It’s a big diesel-powered eighty-five footer, usually based in the Mediterranean. I don’t understand what it’s doing around here. Why would Adam want to have anything to do with the gold directly?”

  “Mary Ocain heard talk about a ship called the Mansfield City in La Guaira.”

  “The Mansfield City,” Ward said slowly. “That sounds more like it. But if they’re going to use the Paladin—”

  He came to his feet. “What if this isn’t a simple change of plans? What if there are two sets of people involved? Don’t say anything for a minute. Let me work this out.”

  Unable to contain himself, he took several steps, wheeled, and came back, running his fingers through his hair. “By God, if I’m right, we’re going to have the coup of the decade. Did LeFevre tell you about Adam’s big loss last summer?”

  “He mentioned it.”

  “All right. What if that wasn’t an accident? What if LeFevre himself—Mike, I’ll tell it to you fast. I want to get back to a phone and wake up a few people in Washington. We’ve computed that Adam has been netting over two million a year from the gold trade for the last ten years. A very low rate of loss, mostly from pilfering by his own people. Last summer he lost an entire shipment, worth a million and a half. One of his dhows went down in a storm on the Indian Ocean. A three-man crew—no survivors. They carried a good ship-to-shore radio, but they didn’t succeed in sending out any distress signals. Certainly Adam has the resources to absorb the loss, but he pulled out of the Mideast gold trade directly afterward and all at once a question occurs to me. What if that gold isn’t really at the bottom of the Indian Ocean?”

  “You mean it’s in somebody else’s bank account?”

  “Yes, that’s just what I mean. It would almost certainly have to be someone quite high up in his own organization. I understand LeFevre was about to retire. French police pensions are notoriously inadequate. He knew the ins and outs of the operation—”

  Shayne interrupted. “Are you guessing here, Ward, or do you know something?”

  “Guessing, of course. With Adam, that’s all any of us can ever do. But it’s a guess that seems to fit the facts. If it was LeFevre, he’d be careful. He had an excellent motive for carefulness. If Adam found out about it, he wouldn’t live very long.”

  “He didn’t live very long,” Shayne pointed out

  “True.” Ward pondered for a moment. “If I’d been doing it, I would have duplicated the shipping crates, filling the dummy crates with lead, which has roughly the weight and density of gold. The substitution could be made at any point after the gold left the vaults. And what if one of the substitute crates contained a time bomb powerful enough to blow the dhow out of the water? There would be confusion about what had happened, a chance that the theft had taken place at sea. Or perhaps the crew had been bribed to sail to the wrong place and scuttle the boat after unloading. They couldn’t count on the storm. That was a piece of luck. If Adam accepted bad weather as an explanation, or if he seemed to accept it, the thieves might be tempted to hang around and possibly try again.”

  Shayne was scraping his chin, checking this new view of LeFevre against the man as he had seemed in the Miami Beach hotel room.

  “Not that any of this is conclusive,” Ward went on, “but there’s a way we can find out. Adam wouldn’t be on the scene himself unless he thought he could expose the traitors and perhaps locate the missing million and a half. We can stand aside and let them cut up each other, then step in and arrest anyone who’s left. Hold on a minute. What if they didn’t grab Mary Ocain because she’s a threat to them, but to decoy you out of the hotel and make sure you wouldn’t be on the plane tomorrow? Let’s fool them. Don’t go back to the hotel. Get on the plane early and hide in the men’s room. My cover’s intact. We can give George to the St. Albans cops and have them take care of him until we’re ready to come back for him. We can stay on top of the situation all the way.”

  “What if somebody wants to use the men’s room?”

  Ward laughed. “There has to be some place to hide on a plane.”

  Shayne said abruptly, “Are you carrying credentials?”

  Ward stopped laughing. He produced a worn leather folder, which Shayne examined carefully before handing it back.

  “Do you have any authority to talk about money?”

  “You know I don’t, Mike. I can make a recommendation, and in view of the facts, I’m fairly sure they’ll accept it.”

  “That’s not good enough.”

  “Mike, I don’t understand. I was told there was some kind of personal thing between you and Adam—”

  “There is. I also want the full tenth. When you talk to Washington, tell them that.”

  “I can tell them,” Ward said doubtfully. “I don’t know how much good it’ll do. I take it you don’t think much of my men’s-room idea. What do you suggest instead?”

  “I think we ought to stop the tour right here. Put armed guards on the plane. Then work backward from George. The Mary Ocain kidnapping gives us a handle. That’s a bad rap down here—he’ll talk.”

  “But I really wonder how much he knows. You’re right—that would be one way to do it. I wouldn’t have said it was your way.”

  “Four people have died so far,” Shayne said. “I want Adam as much as you do, but this whole thing has the wrong smell. We squeaked through tonight. But barely, Ward. If George hadn’t been throwing up, we wouldn’t have made it. Somebody’s pulling the strings, and before I go any farther, I want to find out who.”

  Ward gave him a straight, measuring look. “You can’t hold the plane unless I’m willing to bring the Consulate in on it. You have no official status. Not only that. You’re wanted for questioning about a Miami Beach murder, and the local people have probably had a notification on that by now. Only one thing will happen—you’ll miss the plane yourself. I intend to go ahead in any case, with you or without you. I’d like my forty-five back.”

  Shayne pulled the gun out of his waistband and handed it to him.

  “I don’t know what’s bothering you,” Ward said. “Adam’s clever, I grant you. There’s a division of opinion on the subject in the Unit, but I’m one of those who believe he may be one of the cleverest operators around. The man fascinates me, and I know I probably think about him far too much. But how can there be one single intelligence behind everything that’s happened so far, Mike? The attack on you at the Miami stadium, LeFevre’s murder, the smuggling, that abortive business at the casino, the kidnapping—it’s too much. How are you going to get any of it explained by calling a time-out at this stage?”

  “It would work if you backed me up,” Shayne insisted stubbornly.

  “I’m going for the big prize,�
� Ward snapped. “I don’t want to settle for George Savage and a few other small fry. It wouldn’t satisfy me. Stay or go. It’s up to you.”

  Shayne hesitated, then said slowly, “What the hell. I remember hearing about a stowaway who jammed himself into the tail cone of a DC-8. I don’t know how big it is.”

  “Good, Mike,” Ward said briskly. “I didn’t think you were the kind of guy who’d want to play things safe.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Back in St. Albans, Shayne let Ward dispose of George Savage while he made a phone call.

  Christa answered in their room.

  “Mike! I’ve been worried half to death! Are you all right?”

  “I’ve had better moments.”

  “Mary Ocain called. She sounded almost hysterical. Drunk, possibly. She’s had some sort of an adventure, and she wanted to tell you she took care of it all by herself. Finally she got some good out of all her aikido lessons, whatever that means.”

  “I know what it means. How about Tim Rourke?”

  “He’s right here. And Mike, why didn’t you tell me? He’s a very sweet man.”

  “So I’ve been told,” Shayne said drily. “Put him on.”

  “Darling, will you be back soon?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  A moment later Rourke was on the phone.

  “Mike, if you want to know why I’m always so willing to help out, it’s because of the grade of woman you attract. I never seem to meet chicks like this except when I’m traveling with you. But one thing bothers me. What are we going to do about the sleeping arrangements?”

  Shayne heard Christa’s low giggle. He grinned.

  “I’ve got a couple of errands for you, Tim. You may not get much sleep. I’ve been pounded around a bit and my watch has stopped. What time do you have?”

  “Four minutes to two.”

  Shayne shook his watch to get it started and adjusted the hands. Ward came out of the police station and approached the booth. Shayne opened the door.

  “Wait in the car, OK?”

  Ward shrugged and went to the Checker. Shayne returned to Rourke.