Fast Buck (26 page)

‘It’s a motor boat!’ he said, swinging upright. ‘That goddamn plane spot ed us!’

Rico went cold with panic. He began to paddle furiously until Baird snarled at him to stop.

‘We don’t stand a chance of racing them, you fool! Get over to the bank!’

Rico paddled the boat to the bank.

‘Shal we get out?’ he asked.

‘Yeah,’ Baird said. ‘Those boys wil be carrying a machine-gun.’

He hauled himself out of the boat on to the bank, surprised to find how weak his legs were.

‘Get Hater up here, and snap it up.’

Rico struggled with Hater. He managed to get him from the boat to the bank, nearly upsetting the boat as he did so. Baird reached down and dragged Hater to higher ground.

‘Get the Thompson and the Winchester,’ he said. ‘Better bring the suitcase, too.’

Rico floundered up to his knees in the water as he got the guns and case. He climbed up the bank and joined Baird. They lay down in the darkness.

‘The chances are they’l miss the boat in the darkness,’ Baird said, ‘but if they don’t we’ve got to nail them somehow. They’l probably have a radio on board…’ He broke off as a light appeared on the river.

A white motor launch came around the river bend with a big searchlight mounted on the bridge. They could make out three figures on the bridge and two others kneeling in the prow with a machine-gun between them. The light was sweeping both banks, and Baird could see at once that the police couldn’t fail to spot the boat.

‘Split up!’ he said urgently. ‘Quick! You go to the left. Use your gun if they start shooting.’

Bending double he ran from where their boat was moored and took shelter behind a tree.

Rico was too scared to move. He flattened down in the long grass and lay still. His hands covered his head.

The beam of the searchlight crept along the bank, reached the boat and then passed on. For a moment Baird thought they had missed the boat, but as he began to relax he heard someone shout, from the bridge and the searchlight swung around and focused on the boat. There was a clanging of a bell and the motor launch went about in a tight circle.

Baird didn’t wait for the police to take action. He opened up with the Thompson. He saw splinters fly from the deck, shifted his aim a little higher. The two men at the machine-gun were blasted off the deck into the river.

Answering fire came from the bridge. Baird again shifted his aim, but the three men had ducked down below the armour of the bridge, and the launch went on at full speed down stream.

Baird stood up and watched it. As soon as it was out of range, it turned. The searchlight had gone out, smashed by Baird’s fire. He guessed they’d man the machine-gun again and sweep the bank on the return trip.

He took cover behind the tree and waited. His turn would come when the launch went about.

The launch came on. They had got the machine-gun on the bridge now. When it was almost abreast of Baird’s boat the gun opened up. A hail of bullets churned up the bank, smashed through the trees, sending splinters of wood flying like shrapnel and hammered the boat to pieces.

Baird lay flat behind the tree, waiting for his chance to return the murderous fire.

Rico could hear the slugs zipping through the bush, and he squirmed down farther into the soft ground. Then the launch passed by him, and he came under the direct fire of the gun. A deluge of lead threw mud and water over him. The noise drove him crazy with fear. Not knowing what he was doing, he sprang up wildly and began to run into the bush. He had only taken a few steps when something bit into his leg, bringing him face down in the swamp.

Baird had seen Rico panic, and he cursed softly. No one could stand up in that hail of lead and survive. He might have guessed Rico would have done that, the useless punk! Just when he was wanted he had to get himself killed.

Baird swung up the Thompson. The launch was turning, and for the moment the machine-gun was out of action. He sprayed the bridge with a long burst. There came a smashing of glass and the launch suddenly wheeled sharply round. Baird caught sight of a man wrestling with the wheel, and he fired again.

The steersman threw up his hands and disappeared. The launch headed straight for the bank close to where Baird was standing, and drove its prow into the soft mud. The launch swung half round, its engines still running, its propellers churning up the water.

From his hiding-place Baird could look into the bridge. Two of the guards lay face down, while the remaining guard sat propped up against the wall, his head down on his chest.

Baird didn’t hesitate. He dropped the Thompson, snatched out his Colt and jumped from the bank to the deck.

He entered the bridge house cautiously. The guard against the wall raised his head. Blood ran down the side of his mouth. He stared at Baird, then made an effort to lift the gun that lay across his knees.

Baird shot him through the head before he could get the gun up.

As the guard slumped over, Baird ran over to the controls, throttled back the engine, put it in reverse, then opened the throttle slowly. The launch pulled out of the soft mud into deeper water. Baird half closed the throttle, and brought the launch alongside the bank.

Every movement he had to make was by sheer effort of will. His head was expanding and contracting, and it was as much as he could do to stand upright. He drove himself ruthlessly. Here was a chance of escape. If he could get Hater on board, most of his troubles would be over.

He slid overboard into the warm, muddy water, climbed up the bank and hunted around for Hater. He found him still lying motionless where he had left him. He made sure he was still alive, then began to drag him through the bush to the bank.

It took him a long time to get Hater on board. He was so exhausted by the time he had rolled Hater on to the deck that he flopped down in the shallow water, holding his head between his hands, only half conscious.

He sat there for some minutes. Conscious he was wasting time, he finally made an effort and stood up. He got back on the bank and began to search for the suitcase and the Winchester. He found them with difficulty, and as he picked them up he heard Rico calling.

He stood looking in the direction of the shouts, surprised that Rico was still alive. Leaving the case and the gun, he staggered into the bush in search of Rico.

By now the moon had swung up into the sky. Baird came upon Rico lying on his back, his white, sweating face agonised with pain.

‘I thought you’d forgotten me,’ Rico gasped, and began to sob with relief. ‘I thought you were going to leave me here to die.’

‘Get up, you rat!’ Baird snarled. ‘What do you think you’re doing, lying there?’

Rico groaned.

‘It’s my leg, it’s broken. It’s bleeding. Help me, Baird.’

Baird stood over him. He could scarcely keep his feet.

‘You asked for it,’ he said, his breath coming in great laboured gasps. ‘Why didn’t you keep down?’

‘Help me,’ Rico said, reaching out a shaking hand. ‘Don’t leave me here to die.’

Why not leave him here? Baird asked himself. All along Rico had been useless. Now with a broken leg he’d be worse than useless. Baird had already exhausted himself get ing Hater on board. The thought of having to go through that all over again with Rico decided him.

‘Take it easy,’ he said. ‘I’l be back. I’ve got to find Hater.’

Rico knew at once he was lying.

‘You can’t leave me like this!’ he cried, half sitting up. ‘I’m bleeding! Baird! You can’t do it!’

‘Aw, shut up!’ Baird said, and staggered back to where he had left the gun and the suitcase.

Rico shouted after him, but Baird didn’t look back. Sure now Baird was going to leave him, Rico started to crawl after him, dragging his broken leg behind him. His body was torn with pain, but somehow he managed to keep moving, digging his fingers into the soft ground to pull himself forward.

‘Baird!’ he shouted. ‘Wait for me!’

Baird looked over his shoulder. He saw Rico crawling after him, and he was tempted to put him out of his misery, but he decided not to risk a shot. The guards might still be near at hand looking for him for all he knew.

He slid down the bank into the water, hoisted the Winchester, then the suitcase on board and heaved himself over the gunwale.

Rico made a desperate effort to increase his speed. He was half out of his mind with pain and fear, and he began to scream at Baird.

‘Come back! Come back!’

Baird dragged himself to the bridge, eased open the throttle and the launch began to edge away from the bank.

Rico pulled out his gun.

‘Come back, Baird!’ he yelled. ‘I’l kil you if you don’t come back!’

Baird spun the wheel and the launch headed out to midstream. Already he was fifty yards or so from the bank. He wasn’t even listening to Rico’s frantic cries.

Rico pulled the trigger, but nothing happened. He tried to thumb back the safety-catch, but the gun slipped out of his hands and fell with a splash into the river. He made a frantic effort to save it, overbalanced and toppled over into the shallow water.

His broken leg twisted under him, and for a moment he lost consciousness, engulfed by pain. The water, closing over his head, brought him round, and he struggled to the bank, where he lay half in and half out of the water.

With sick horror, he watched the dim shape of the launch gathering speed and disappearing down the river into the darkness.

He dropped back, sobbing wildly. He could feel blood coming from his wound. In the bright light of the moon he saw the water around him was turning red.

Even then he wouldn’t believe he was going to die. The police would find him, he told himself frantically. Another launch would come in search of the first one, and they would find and save him.

He closed his eyes and began to pray: words coming from his mouth without meaning.

He didn’t see a dark, log-like shape slither down the opposite bank and take to the water. The scent of his blood drifted across the river: it was an irresistible invitation the alligator accepted with alacrity.

The dark silent shape came through the water with surprising speed, only its scaly snout showing; as dangerous and as menacing as the half-hidden periscope of a submarine.

Rico felt a movement of water against his face. He opened his eyes. A few yards away from him he saw a steady ripple on the water that was advancing towards him. He stared at it, wondering what it could be. Pain had dulled his fears. The ripple didn’t frighten him. He watched it, puzzled.

He only realised what it was when it was too late even to cry out.

I

Rain ran in the gutters and dripped from the trees that lined the broad Roosevelt Boulevard. The street lamps made wet pools on the glistening sidewalk. An occasional car swished past, its headlamps lighting up the driving rain.

Adam Gillis stood under a tree, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his shabby mackintosh, his soggy felt hat pulled down over his eyes.

He didn’t appear to notice the heavy rain or the fact that he was soaked to the skin. He was concentrating on Kile’s house, a big, double-fronted mansion, its lower windows ablaze with light.

They won’t be much longer, he told himself. Nothing like a policeman for getting some fast action. A little too fast, if anything, he thought, as he remembered he had only just left the pay booth and had taken cover in a dark doorway before a couple of prowl boys had arrived. Lieutenant Olin certainly knew his business. He had tried to keep him talking while he had sent his men to pick him up.

When the prowl car had gone, Gillis had taken a taxi to Roosevelt Boulevard hoping to be there in time to see the result of his anonymous call to Olin.

He had had to wait longer than he expected. He wasn’t to know Olin had had difficulty in finding a judge to sign the necessary search warrant at that time of night.

Gillis had twenty minutes to wait in the rain before he saw the red light of a police car coming swiftly up the boulevard.

He drew back out of sight as the car pulled up outside Kile’s house. He watched Olin and two detectives mount the steps and ring on the front-door bell. He saw them admitted, and the door close behind them.

The driver of the police car remained with the car, and prevented Gillis from getting nearer to the house in the hope of looking through a window to see what was going on. He had to content himself with waiting in the rain. He didn’t have long to wait. The front door suddenly opened, and Olin came out, followed by Kile, then by the two detectives.

Kile had on a hat and coat. He walked unsteadily, his head held low. One of the detectives had to help him into the car. Olin got in beside him and the detective got in beside the driver. The car moved off, leaving the remaining detective to return to the house.

Gillis had a good view of Kile as the car went past. Kile’s face was white, and his eyes stared fixedly at the back of the driver’s head. He seemed suddenly to have become an old man.

Gillis felt a wave of satisfaction run through him as he watched the car turn the bend and disappear.

Well, at least, he thought, that’s one untidy end snipped off.

He had spent his last dollar on the taxi fare to Kile’s house, but he wasn’t despondent. He knew Eve had money at her apartment, and it would be easy enough to get it out of her. It was a long walk to Roxborough Avenue, but he was in a jovial mood and he strode along briskly. Maybe tonight would be the last time he would have to walk anywhere. From now on, if his luck held, it would be taxis until he got his own car.

He entered Eve’s apartment block, rode up in the elevator and rang the front-door bell. Water dripped from his sodden mackintosh on to the mat, and squelched in his shoes, but he didn’t care. With his mind full of his future plans, he had never felt better in his life.

Eve came to the door. She started violently when she saw him, alarm jumping into her eyes.

‘Oh, Adam! What are you doing here? How wet you are!’ she exclaimed. ‘I suppose you’d bet er come in.’

‘I was going to suggest it,’ Gillis said, with his most charming smile. ‘It’s raining Great Danes and Ginger Toms, and I couldn’t find a taxi.’