Lady, Be Bad Page 7

  Boyer stopped as the heat hit him. Sam Rapp hurtled past, his clothes smoking. Shayne was out of the Cadillac on the driver’s side, yelling.

  “Upstairs! A locked bedroom! Two people—”

  The highway patrolman backed away from the fire. Shayne leaned on the horn, but the blasts were swallowed up in the rising roar of the flames.

  “Rourke!” he yelled, seeing the reporter.

  Rourke, his forearm raised to shield his face, moved around the end of the building at a shambling run. Shayne blew the horn again. When his friend still didn’t hear him, Shayne swore savagely, slipped back behind the wheel and started the motor. He slammed the indicator into drive. He couldn’t bring the wheel all the way around without breaking his arm, and the Cadillac didn’t complete the turn. It smashed into a small Porsche.

  Hearing the crash, Rourke turned. His face was blackened. He ran toward Shayne, waving.

  Shayne cut him off. “Maslow’s passed out in there! Tell the goddamn cop. The last bedroom upstairs. And there’s a girl tied up on the floor.”

  Rourke blinked down at the handcuffs and raced off to intercept the cop, who was walking away from the building. Shayne gauged the progress of the fire through narrowed eyes. The flames were still confined to the main room, but beneath the dense smoke they must be spreading fast.

  Boyer, without listening to Rourke, threw him off and continued toward his parked car. The second highway patrolman was standing by the front bumper, watching the fire open-mouthed. Rourke raged at them both, gesticulating toward the fire, until Boyer turned toward him ponderously and threatened him with a meaty fist. When Rourke continued to argue, Boyer, with a terrible slow patience, unfastened his pistol holster.

  Rourke ran back to the Cadillac. “The son of a bitch is in shock.”

  “Tim, for Christ’s sake, get in there. He’s in the end bedroom of the balcony. Go in from outside. There’s time. Tim, get moving. You’ve got about a minute. What’s the matter with you?”

  “I broke my goddamned fingers diving out a window!” Rourke shouted. He waved his left hand in front of Shayne’s face. “I’m not hauling any senators out of a burning building.”

  Shayne shook the handcuffs angrily. Rourke darted off and intercepted Matt McGranahan. He pointed at the fire, talking earnestly. As soon as McGranahan understood what he was being asked to do he backed away, shaking his head.

  “I didn’t hear you!” He cut past the Cadillac, and shouted to Shayne, “Too loud, didn’t hear him!”

  Rourke sent an anguished look at Shayne, and ran off to try the highway patrolmen again. Shayne swung back into the car, jackknifing his powerful body into a crouch between the top of the front seat and the roof. He forced the steering wheel through a quarter-turn to ease the drag on his wrist. This model Cadillac came with a collapsible steering post, to protect the driver from being skewered during head-on collisions. Shayne gave the rim of the wheel a powerful downward kick. Nothing happened.

  He changed position and kicked again. This time he succeeded in shearing off the breakaway pin. The post telescoped inside its safety bushing. Gripping the wheel in both hands, Shayne pulled it back hard against the upper collar. When it jammed he wrenched upward with a powerful twisting motion, using his full strength, and forced it past the obstruction. An instant later he was out of the car.

  “Too late!” Rourke cried as he ran past. “The whole building—”

  Boyer, the beefy state cop, loomed up in Shayne’s path, his face crimson. He reached out. Without breaking stride, Shayne brought the steering wheel around in a flat sweep, smashing the trooper’s jaw.

  He veered as the heat hit him. Lib Patrick and Sam Rapp were standing together. Lib’s dress was torn to the waist.

  “Mike,” she called. “What are you—”

  He was past. A tongue of flame licked out from the wall. He whirled, grasped the neck of Lib’s torn dress with his free hand and ripped it all the way down. Another quick pull and it came free.

  Sam shouted something. Rounding the end of the porch, Shayne plunged into the lake, going all the way down into the mud and the weeds. He came up sputtering, and whipped the wet dress around his head for protection.

  The sawhorse was still against the wall where he had left it. He exploded up onto the shed-roof and climbed, bent over, toward the bedroom windows.

  The shingles were alive with flame but the wall was still intact. Stabbing out with the steering wheel, Shayne battered the screen out of the window, took a deep breath and plunged through.

  He could feel the heat through his shoes. The dress slipped down over his eyes. He groped blindly through the smoke, swinging his left hand a few inches above the floor.

  His fingers fastened on a man’s shirt.

  He covered the rest of the room in wide fast sweeps. The girl he had left tied up on the floor was gone.

  Returning to Maslow, Shayne dragged him roughly to the window. A patch of ceiling came down, showering them both with bits of burning lath. He coughed smoke out of his lungs, filled them with uncontaminated air from the window, and began the difficult job of heaving the unconscious senator over the sill.

  He was hampered by the steering wheel. Fire broke through the floor a few feet away. On the other side of the room the bed was ablaze. Gripping Maslow under one shoulder, Shayne threw himself backward. The heavy body hung at the point of balance for an instant, and Shayne lost him.

  Another patch of ceiling fell. Shayne leaned all the way out the window to get more air. The dress was on fire, and he wrenched it off and threw it away. Maslow’s hair was burning. Shayne slapped out the flames. This time he hoisted the body with both arms, getting leverage from the stub of the steering post, backed against the window and they both went out together.

  The wheel snagged and checked Shayne abruptly. Momentum pulled Maslow out of his grasp. Shayne freed himself, feeling one foot go through the shingles. He overtook the rolling body, steered it to the edge of the roof and down the sloping joist until it could be reached from below. Rourke was there. So was Matt McGranahan.

  Shayne came down in a shower of sparks. Going headlong, he rolled over and over until he was sure all the fires were out. McGranahan and Rourke, with his one hand, dragged Maslow away from the blaze.

  Rourke, looking up at Shayne, asked the obvious question.

  “I’m great,” Shayne said savagely. “Nothing I like better than pulling a dead man out of a fire.”

  “Is he dead?” Rourke asked, looking down.

  “He isn’t breathing. That’s a pretty good sign.”

  “It’s Shell Maslow!” McGranahan exclaimed, looking down. “Now that’s typical of the guy. I know he wasn’t invited.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Shayne pulled McGranahan around.

  “Give him mouth-to-mouth,” he snapped. “Open his mouth and blow into it hard. Keep it up till somebody tells you to stop. Tim.”

  He stepped back among the trees. The bedroom wall, which Shayne had dived through a moment before, was now a sheet of flames. The building was going fast.

  “I’ve got to stay out of sight. Find the highway patrolman and see if you can get his keys. It shouldn’t be hard if he’s unconscious. I need to get rid of this wheel.”

  “Mike, was Maslow dead when you picked him up?”

  “How should I know? I didn’t listen for a heartbeat. Is your helicopter still around?”

  “Yeah, at Tallahassee airport.”

  “I want to borrow it.”

  The last section of roof fell in, and the flames swirled up with the roar of a waterfall. As Rourke started away, Shayne heard the cry of an outboard motor.

  He came forward, frowning. The parking lot was still blocked, and Shayne thought he had immobilized the boats. Swearing, he set out on a wide circle around the fire. He was on the wrong side of the driveway. He hesitated before stepping out of the shadows.

  The second state highway patrolman, the younger of the two, was walking toward him. Shay
ne saw him too late.

  “I’m Michael Shayne,” he said crisply. “Move your cruiser out to the gate and don’t let anybody leave before the city cops get here. This is going to be a hell of a story. A senator’s dead.”

  The patrolman rubbed his mouth and looked wonderingly at the steering wheel. “I only had this job two days, and something like this has to happen. What did you say that name was, again?”

  Shayne snapped it out like a command. An instant later he was among the trees.

  The outboard motor seemed to be moving straight across the lake. Shayne broke into a run. The boathouse was burning from the roof down. The light of the flames showed him both boats where he had left them. He fished the spark plugs out of his pocket and screwed them in. He tried the ignition, and the motor answered with a full-throated roar.

  Shayne backed out of the slot and wheeled about in a wide arc. Behind him, the boathouse rafters came down in a shower of sparks. He throttled down until he could hear the other motor, and aimed at the sound.

  He must have been visible against the fire, but he wasn’t able to pick up the other boat until he was three-quarters of the way across. He tried dashboard knobs until he found the one that turned on the front light. He was up to full power, and the gap was narrowing. The smaller boat bore to the left, aiming at the shore at the nearest point.

  Shayne crossed its wake, then cut sharply to his own left and shot past. He had the wheel over hard. The other boat, merely a fishing skiff with a motor clamped to its stern, sprang into outline. It carried two people, a man and a woman.

  A flash of light winked at Shayne.

  He completed his circle and came back, aiming at the point where the two arcs would intersect. There was another flash. He ducked, holding the wheel steady. He counted to five slowly, before raising his head for a quick look.

  The girl at the tiller of the outboard—it was Lib Patrick—had heeled too far over for the boat’s speed, and it was bucking badly. Shayne changed course, then gave the wheel a sudden half-spin. The boats missed by inches, and the smaller boat nearly capsized.

  Shayne came back at full speed. Both figures in the boat were waving. Their boat seemed to be settling, stern first.

  The motor, no longer running, was almost under water. Again Shayne passed within inches. The skiff rocked violently and shipped more water.

  He came around for another pass. He roared down, swinging the wheel at the last possible instant. The skiff was barely afloat. Sam Rapp, behind Lib, was knee-deep in water, his face disfigured.

  Shayne completed the top loop of a long figure-eight and started back. The skiff was gone. As he approached the spot where he had seen it last, his headlight picked up the two figures in the water.

  Lib cried, “Mike, he can’t swim!”

  Shayne wheeled around in a slow, contracting circle. Picking up a cork cushion he scaled it out as he passed. It skidded over the choppy water and Lib grabbed it.

  Shayne cut his power and continued to tighten the loops until the boat lost way.

  Lib called urgently, across the ten yards that separated them, “I can’t hold him! He’s going under.”

  “Will I get shot if I pull you in?” Shayne asked quietly.

  “He didn’t know it was you. Please. I can’t—”

  “Hang on and don’t panic,” Shayne said without sympathy. “How deep is it, can you stand?”

  “No!”

  “Give me a minute. Maybe I can think of something.”

  He looked around the deck and found a coiled line. After lashing a buoy to its free end he tossed it out. He felt the tug as she took hold, like a trout striking.

  He reeled them in. When he felt the bump he kept tension on the line but made no attempt to haul them aboard.

  “What happened to the gun?”

  “Mike—for the love of God! I don’t know. It’s at the bottom of the lake. Please, please.”

  Shayne twisted the line around a cleat and pointed his flashlight over the side. Lib was clutching the rope. Sam was clutching Lib, using the classic front-stranglehold.

  “Mike,” she gasped.

  “O.k., I believe you. Sam first.”

  Reaching down, he grasped Sam’s collar. She had to claw herself loose. The little man proved to be surprisingly light.

  Shayne hauled him over the side and dropped him on deck, where he lay on his stomach coughing out lake water. Before leaving him, Shayne gave him a fast one-handed frisk to be sure he was no longer armed.

  Lib reached up for Shayne’s hand. He put the flashlight beam in her eyes.

  “I’ve got the advantage for the time being,” he said coldly, “and I’d better hold onto it. What clothes are you wearing?”

  “What clothes?”

  “Yeah. And don’t repeat everything I say. It annoys me.”

  “You ripped off my dress, don’t you remember? You know what I’m wearing. I found a sweatshirt in the boat and put it on.”

  “What else?”

  “Well, a bra and—Mike, you know, the regular things. I’m not concealing a gun, if that’s what you mean. Please help me get out.”

  “Hand up your clothes. You can keep the sweatshirt. I want everything else.”

  “Mike, why?”

  When he answered only by snapping his fingers she said angrily, “All right, damn you.”

  The bra came up first, then a garter belt, pants, and, finally, stockings. Shayne tested the seams before tossing each garment aside.

  “Now I’m going to ask you a couple of questions.”

  “Let me get in the boat? I’ll tell you anything you want to know. I’m afraid of eels.”

  Shayne laughed. “They’ve got sense enough to be afraid of you. Who’s this girl named Anne? Blonde, with an English accent. You know the one I mean.”

  “She’s just a face and a name. One of the others recommended her.”

  “What is she, a call girl?”

  “If you have to have a label.”

  “Call girls don’t usually carry guns. It’s all this money floating around—everybody seems to want some. Where did the fire start?”

  “I don’t know. I was making a drink. There was a kind of flash and all the walls were burning at once.”

  “An explosion?”

  “No bang or anything. More like a pop.”

  “Did you and Sam give orders to let Tim Rourke in?”

  “Apparently Grover did that.”

  “Why?”

  “He keeps doing dumb things. He’s so sick of his job, he wants to make sure his father doesn’t run again.”

  “How much of that six hundred thousand have you and Sam spent so far?”

  “You’ll have to ask Sam.”

  “I could do that, but you’re the one in the water.”

  “I guess most of it’s gone, Mike, I don’t know exactly. Five hundred?”

  “How much of that went to Judge Kendrick?”

  “You know I can’t tell you that, Mike.”

  Returning to the cabin, Shayne cranked the engine and headed out toward the middle of the lake. Sam staggered into the doorway.

  “Lib—”

  “It’s a game, Sam. She knows I don’t mean it.” He throttled down and looked at Sam curiously. “Have you had a checkup lately?”

  “Why?”

  “You must be pushing sixty-five. It’s time you slowed down.”

  “Don’t I know it,” Sam said bitterly.

  “How do you explain all this? You were shooting at me a couple of minutes ago. How long since you shot at anybody?”

  Sam sighed heavily. “Years.”

  “Maybe I’d be doing you a favor if I cut her loose in the middle of the lake.”

  “She’s a fair swimmer. She’d make it.”

  They looked at each other for a moment. Then, switching off the power, he moved Sam out of the doorway and returned to the cleat, where he checked the line. In a moment Lib’s head appeared over the side. He loosened the half-hitch he had
taken around the cleat and she fell back in the water.

  “I asked you about Judge Kendrick,” he said.

  “Are you taping this?”

  “You never know, do you? It’s an electronic business these days.”

  “Can I have a minute alone with Sam?”

  “No.”

  “Because we might be able to work something out. It’s tricky. I’m not trying to bribe you. I know you better than that, after we shot at you and tried to put you in jail overnight. That gives you an incentive. But Mike, there’s a way you could really clean up, you could clear an easy fifty thousand dollars without going unethical in any way—”

  Shayne kept quiet.

  “Mike, pull me out. I have to see your face, to watch how you react. If I do this wrong—”

  She thought a moment more, and then said decisively, “No. I can’t take the chance. I’d have to be 100 percent sure we weren’t talking into a microphone. So screw you, Mike, to be vulgar about it. Go ahead, untie the rope or whatever. I won’t drown.”

  “All right.” Shayne began working at the knot.

  Her voice rose. “This isn’t all so gay and carefree, you know. People could get killed.”

  “People already have got killed.”

  “Gregory’s guy, I know. Sam and I both cried.”

  “I mean Sheldon Maslow.”

  Sam came careening along the deck and seized Shayne’s arm. “Maslow? Did you say Maslow?”

  Lib, from the water, said, “How did he—”

  “Let’s all calm down,” Shayne said. “Let go of my arm, Sam.”

  After an instant Sam released Shayne’s arm and collapsed on the padded bench along the boat’s side. Shayne decided to find out how they communicated with each other.

  “I’m pulling you in now,” he told the girl in the water, “but I’m a little short-tempered so do it my way.”

  “Give me something to put on.”

  “Not yet,” he said, reaching down to take her hand.

  He pulled, and she came up the side and leaped on deck, dripping. Her white hair was a mess, falling stringily about her face. She dragged at the bottom of the sweatshirt. It came down just about far enough.

  “Mike, this is silly. Let me get dressed. I feel so exposed.”