Felicia nodded.
“I don’t believe any of it!” Linda said. “She’s just making all this up to save Dan.”
“Oh, no,” the old lady assured her. “I know they received it all right — the police.”
“How do you know that?” Edwin stood stiffly over my grandmother as if he were about to strike her. I watched my chance with Philip, who had moved off from me. His gun was drooping, his eyes were on his uncle.
Grandmother Owen smiled sweetly up at Edwin.
“They told me they received it when I telephoned them, not ten minutes ago. They ought to be here by now.”
At that instant, I sliced my hand down on Phil’s wrist and the gun went clattering to the floor. Then I had it in my hand, and the good guys had the lead.
Edwin faced me with a face white and twitching as grandmother held up one thin hand. “Yes, I think I hear them now, Edwin.”
There came the screech of brakes in the driveway, and then a couple of shots, and, during the brief time that Edwin’s guards took their work seriously, only three things happened in the room.
Edwin started cursing.
Felicia gave me a little hug.
And, from across the room, Grandmother Owen winked at me affectionately.
The Sitting Duck
by Arthur Moore
It was a ship of brooding death, and every shadow could have framed the shape of my killer. Could I find him in time — and could I strike before he got me first.
“Relax, Arnie,” Johnny said. “Nutchy’ll never think of looking for you here.”
The kid had been saying that all morning, Arnie reflected.
“Turn it over,” he replied, “You played that side.”
“I mean it,” Johnny said, wrinkling his smooth young forehead. He got up as the all ashore gongs sounded. “Only a little while now.” He glanced out the river side porthole. “In a coupla weeks we’ll be in Rio. Nutchy’ll never—”
“All right, all right,” Arnie sighed. He was a tall man, gray hair, business looking if you didn’t county the ugly scar below his right ear, conservative clothes and a thin, rather hawk profile.
He was very pale. His first look at the sun in about three weeks had been that morning when Johnny had picked him up for the drive to the pier. As Johnny so tiresomely kept saying, Nutchy would never think of looking for him on a cruise ship.
Nutchy was turning the town upside down looking for him because Arnie had managed to divert a huge shipment of heroin from Nutchy to a guy in Chicago. The guy in Chicago had arranged for a satisfyingly large amount of money to be deposited to Arnie Warga’s account in Buenos Aires. It was all very neat and business-like except that Nutchy had been double-crossed, and Nutchy had always loathed that kind of thing.
So a contract had gone out on him, Arnie Warga.
Arnie had expected it. He had holed up like a beaver. He had waited till the arrangements had been made and now he was on the ship; and the ship would be sailing in a few minutes.
“I’m going out on deck and watch the send-off,” Johnny said. “You better stay in here.”
“Yeah,” Arnie said automatically. Picking up a cigarette, he heard the door to the suite slam. Johnny had never been on a ship before. The kid was just a bodyguard, hired for the cruise, and he’d been nervous and fussy all morning.
Arnie lit the cigarette and frowned. Why had Johnny said, ‘You better stay in here’?
He shook his head. He was getting jumpy too, picking up on any little thing. But it was a funny thing to say, especially since Johnny had been repeating all morning, ‘Nutchy’ll never find you here.’ Did Johnny know something?
Arnie dropped the cigarette into a tray and slipped out into the corridor. It was jammed with people, stewards with telegrams, a few porters pushing trolleys piled with luggage, visitors straggling to the gangways. He turned right, went up the stairs to the promenade deck and looked around for Johnny. The kid ought to be making sure their bags arrived promptly.
It was noisy. Hundreds of people were shouting, some crying, and most were tossing colorful paper streamers to those on shore. Arnie wedged himself into a place by the rail, drawn into the excitement of sailing despite himself. The hundreds of streamers seemed to tie the great ship to the pier. People were crowding the gangways; the ‘all ashore’ gongs sounded again. A band was playing Auld Lang Syne...
Arnie allowed himself a small thin smile. Nutchy’s boys had been watching the bus stations, the airports, the depots for several weeks, expecting him to make a break for it. And Nutchy probably had feelers in all the big towns to see where he, Arnie, showed up. But how would it occur to Nutchy that he’d buy a ticket on a cruise ship with a lot of fat tourists? Nutchy wouldn’t think that kind of a ship would be a getaway vehicle. He didn’t think that way. Nutchy was slick and very clever, but he’d expect Arnie to go by plane, maybe a private plane, but fast.
This cruise ship was slow as cold glue.
As Arnie watched, the last visitors shouted, waved and ran. The gangways were hoisted and swung outboard. He could hear the sirens, the booming, deep-toned blast of the ship’s salute. They were moving! He took a deep, relieved breath as the paper tape began to break and curl, much of it falling into the widening green water gap. People yelled and waved — and then he saw Johnny.
Arnie stiffened. Johnny was off the ship! He was standing in the shadow of the gray Customs shed, smiling at the crowds.
It took a second for the thought to percolate, and Arnie’s blood ran icy. Johnny was on shore — and the guy beside him was Nutchy! No doubt about it at all; he knew Nutchy from way back. As he stared, the two of them turned and disappeared inside the building.
The ship was a trap.
Arnie left the rail, his mind in a daze. Johnny had sold out to Nutchy! Damn the kid! Johnny had seen him on board, luggage and all, then had walked off with the last visitors. Now Arnie Warga was a sitting duck... because that meant there was a hit guy on board.
Some one of the passengers was a professional killer.
Otherwise Nutchy would never have let him sail. And now he couldn’t get off the ship until Bermuda, at least, a tiny little place. What he’d thought was a perfect getaway had turned into a trap. Arnie went across the ship and clung to the rail, dully watching the tugs nosing the liner into the stream. Come out of it, he told himself, you have often had shocks before.
But it was a terrible shock-seeing the kid, Johnny, there on the dock talking to his enemy. Johnny had come from out of town. How had Nutchy got to him? Nutchy was a slick one, all right. Well, he’d sweat it out, because Nutchy was forgetting one thing. He, Arnie, had once been a hit guy too. He could strike back.
Arnie went to his suite before the Statue of Liberty slid past. There was only one thing he could do. Get the killer before the guy got him. That was first. Of course he had to figure out which one, among all the passengers, was the one. He had a drink and thought about it. It shouldn’t be that hard to spot the guy. Most of the passengers, he had seen hundreds of them, were fat, middle-aged, hung with cameras, had fat wives or skinny wives and not one had the look. It took a special kind of guy to be a triggerman. He knew a lot of them and none were fat and dumpy middle-aged types.
He rang for Bates, the steward, requesting a passenger list and a run-down on all the names. He gave Bates a fifty and the steward smiled and disappeared.
The light was fading when the Sandy Hook light slid by and the ship’s motion began to change. They came round and headed southeast into the Atlantic. At the porthole, Arnie stared at the cold sea. He could make it very tough for Nutchy’s guy by staying in the cabin, having his meals there even — but it wouldn’t solve anything. The guy would stick to him like a poor relation because he wouldn’t get the rest of his dough till Arnie was planted.