in a heap. He felt as though all his ribs had been shoved into his lungs.
As he lay there fighting for breath he witnessed an amazing thing.
In spite of three steel-jacketed bullets in his body, Pat was getting to his feet. He came up slowly, a look of childish hurt and disappointment on his broad, flat face. He whined, “Gene… don’ leave me, Gene,” and began dragging himself toward the sound of the motor.
Shayne lay on his side and watched the big man’s faltering progress. Twice he fell on his face, twice he dragged himself up and went on.
A complete sense of lassitude enveloped Shayne. Why had Gene taken it on the lam instead of finishing him off with the .45? None of it made any sense.
He rolled over and painfully drew himself to a sitting position. Sunlight glinted from Gene’s heavy automatic near his feet. He picked it up and let his breath out in a low whistle when he saw the trigger of the automatic smashed back against the guard, rendering the weapon useless.
As he stared in amazement, examining the weapon carefully, he realized that his one unaimed shot had struck the pistol at a vulnerable point. It was pure luck. He could not repeat such a performance in a thousand shots by taking careful aim. One of those once-in-a-lifetime accidents… and it had saved his life.
He rocked to his knees and stood up. When he broke through the underbrush fringing the shore, he stopped. A small motorboat with a single occupant was pulling away rapidly, already well beyond pistol range.
Pat was staggering down the sandy beach toward the water’s edge. There was a sharp, angry spat from the motorboat, and Pat’s giant body quivered as though a shot of electricity passed through him. He sank to his knees, then fell flat on his belly with his face in the damp sand.
Remaining crouched in the underbrush, Shayne’s features contorted into hard lines. If Gene had handled the rifle that morning he wouldn’t have missed the easy target Shayne made at the window of his hotel bedroom.
When the motorboat whipped around an arm of the shore-line and slid from view Shayne dragged himself to his car and drove away.
CHAPTER
9
IN THE EMERGENCY WARD AT THE HOSPITAL Shayne gritted his teeth and winced when the doctor drew a strip of adhesive tape tight about his chest. “Does it have to be that tight, Doc?”
“It does. You’ve got a couple of cracked ribs to be held in place,” the doctor told him.
“Only two?” Shayne grinned. “I thought they were all busted on the right side.”
“It will likely feel that way for several days,” the doctor informed him cheerfully.
Shayne swung his legs painfully from the operating table. He could hear Will Gentry stamping around the reception room, and he grinned ruefully as he went out.
Gentry was savagely chewing on the butt of an unlit cigar. When they were in the corridor, he burst out:
“You’ve got to come clean, Mike. This is too big for one man. You can see that now.” He glared at Shayne’s mottled face.
Shayne’s lips were puffed and there was a purple bruise under his right eye. He said, “I thought I was doing all right playing it my way.”
“All right?” Gentry sputtered. “What have you accomplished except to try to get yourself killed and to look like hell?”
“I’ve got them worried,” Shayne argued. “They’re coming to me, just as I knew they would.”
“Yeh… they’re coming to you, all right. The next time will be the charm. You can’t go on shooting the triggers off guns.”
Shayne tried out another grin. He pushed the DOWN button for the elevator and said, “Something’s bound to break soon.”
“For the love of God,” Gentry pleaded, “let me take over, Mike. Tell me what you’ve got.”
Shayne shook his head stubbornly. “That would ruin everything. Right now they’re plenty panicked. They’ll quit trying to kill me after a while and come across with a proposition.”
Gentry took the cigar butt from his
As he lay there fighting for breath he witnessed an amazing thing.
In spite of three steel-jacketed bullets in his body, Pat was getting to his feet. He came up slowly, a look of childish hurt and disappointment on his broad, flat face. He whined, “Gene… don’ leave me, Gene,” and began dragging himself toward the sound of the motor.
Shayne lay on his side and watched the big man’s faltering progress. Twice he fell on his face, twice he dragged himself up and went on.
A complete sense of lassitude enveloped Shayne. Why had Gene taken it on the lam instead of finishing him off with the .45? None of it made any sense.
He rolled over and painfully drew himself to a sitting position. Sunlight glinted from Gene’s heavy automatic near his feet. He picked it up and let his breath out in a low whistle when he saw the trigger of the automatic smashed back against the guard, rendering the weapon useless.
As he stared in amazement, examining the weapon carefully, he realized that his one unaimed shot had struck the pistol at a vulnerable point. It was pure luck. He could not repeat such a performance in a thousand shots by taking careful aim. One of those once-in-a-lifetime accidents… and it had saved his life.
He rocked to his knees and stood up. When he broke through the underbrush fringing the shore, he stopped. A small motorboat with a single occupant was pulling away rapidly, already well beyond pistol range.
Pat was staggering down the sandy beach toward the water’s edge. There was a sharp, angry spat from the motorboat, and Pat’s giant body quivered as though a shot of electricity passed through him. He sank to his knees, then fell flat on his belly with his face in the damp sand.
Remaining crouched in the underbrush, Shayne’s features contorted into hard lines. If Gene had handled the rifle that morning he wouldn’t have missed the easy target Shayne made at the window of his hotel bedroom.
When the motorboat whipped around an arm of the shore-line and slid from view Shayne dragged himself to his car and drove away.
CHAPTER
9
IN THE EMERGENCY WARD AT THE HOSPITAL Shayne gritted his teeth and winced when the doctor drew a strip of adhesive tape tight about his chest. “Does it have to be that tight, Doc?”
“It does. You’ve got a couple of cracked ribs to be held in place,” the doctor told him.
“Only two?” Shayne grinned. “I thought they were all busted on the right side.”
“It will likely feel that way for several days,” the doctor informed him cheerfully.
Shayne swung his legs painfully from the operating table. He could hear Will Gentry stamping around the reception room, and he grinned ruefully as he went out.
Gentry was savagely chewing on the butt of an unlit cigar. When they were in the corridor, he burst out:
“You’ve got to come clean, Mike. This is too big for one man. You can see that now.” He glared at Shayne’s mottled face.
Shayne’s lips were puffed and there was a purple bruise under his right eye. He said, “I thought I was doing all right playing it my way.”
“All right?” Gentry sputtered. “What have you accomplished except to try to get yourself killed and to look like hell?”
“I’ve got them worried,” Shayne argued. “They’re coming to me, just as I knew they would.”
“Yeh… they’re coming to you, all right. The next time will be the charm. You can’t go on shooting the triggers off guns.”
Shayne tried out another grin. He pushed the DOWN button for the elevator and said, “Something’s bound to break soon.”
“For the love of God,” Gentry pleaded, “let me take over, Mike. Tell me what you’ve got.”
Shayne shook his head stubbornly. “That would ruin everything. Right now they’re plenty panicked. They’ll quit trying to kill me after a while and come across with a proposition.”
Gentry took the cigar butt from his
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