He counted doors, remembering the layout of the wing as he had seen it from outside. He stopped and exchanged a look with Powys. The Englishman tapped his pipe against his heel and stuck it into his breast pocket.
Shayne turned the knob slowly, holding it in both hands. His shoulder muscles were knotted. When the knob was all the way around, freeing the latch, he drew back slightly and slammed his shoulder hard against the door. It came open violently. The man on the other side was hurled forward, and the chair fell on top of him.
Shayne left him to Powys. On the bed, Jose’s face had gone blank with surprise. Martha, too, halfway between the bed and the door, had frozen as Shayne burst in. The redhead had to break stride to go around her, giving Jose the fraction of a second he needed. He scrambled up higher on the bed, but didn’t have time to get out of a sitting position. As Shayne came around the bed he rolled forward and kicked out hard with his right foot.
The pointed toe of his shoe caught the detective in the side with stunning force. Six inches farther forward, and Shayne would have gone nowhere the rest of the night under his own power. He was probably unconscious for a moment. He fell, landing across the smaller man’s body, and his fingers fastened in the front of Jose’s coat. Momentum carried him across the bed. As he fell to the floor he dragged Jose with him.
His brain cleared in time to see that Jose had managed to take out a gun. This wasn’t Martha’s little automatic, but an ugly short-barrelled revolver. Shayne grabbed for his arm, but he was rolling away, bringing the gun up between them. Shayne let go of Jose’s coat and batted him awkwardly across the head with his loosely clenched fist. It was more of a push than a blow, but it knocked the Latin’s head back against the metal framework of the bed, dazing him for an instant.
In that instant Shayne recovered. He clamped a crushing grip on Jose’s right wrist. Jose stabbed out at his eyes with his free hand, his fingers bunched and rigid, but Shayne jerked his head and the dangerous fingers passed harmlessly across his cheekbone. He had discovered that he couldn’t lift his left arm. He increased the pressure with his right as Jose tried to get away. Straining against each other, they came to their feet slowly. Jose’s face was contorted with effort. Jose managed to turn so Shayne was behind him. Shayne was putting forth his full strength to keep the small man from twisting his wrist upward.
No more than several seconds had elapsed. The fat-faced youth, who had been sitting tipped back against the door, now lay sprawled on his back, arms and legs outflung. He was unconscious, and it seemed to Shayne that his jaw was broken. Powys was sucking the knuckles of his left hand. He stooped swiftly and took a gun from somewhere inside the unconscious man’s clothes. There were running footsteps outside in the corridor. Turning, Powys ran out, holding the gun behind his leg.
Jose squirmed, kicking back viciously at the detective’s leg. Shayne was slowly forcing his adversary in against the bed, smothering him with his superior weight and size. But his left arm still dangled uselessly.
“Michael, you’re hurt!” Martha cried.
“Get back,” Shayne grated through his clenched teeth.
Martha looked desperately for something to use as a weapon. Jose spat out something in Spanish. In the next bedroom, the Louis Armstrong record came to a blazing climax, and an American with a Georgia accent began telling his listeners how easy it was to borrow money from the friendly finance company that was sponsoring the program. Sweat poured down Shayne’s face, and his hand began to slip.
A man appeared in the bedroom doorway-Pedro, Jose’s brother. He looked stupidly at the scene, and it took him a moment to understand the meaning of what he saw: Michael Shayne, left bound and gagged behind the Half Moon for the police, no longer behind the Half Moon or in jail, but struggling with Jose for a gun. He started forward, shouting, and at that same instant Shayne’s hand slipped on Jose’s wrist, the gun came up and fired.
Shayne chopped at Jose’s head with his right. He was able to put a little beef behind this blow, and it caught the small man on the ear and sent him sprawling. Shayne stamped at the gun. He missed. He tried again, moving quickly, and his foot came down hard on Jose’s hand. Jose’s finger was still curled around the trigger guard. He screamed as the finger broke. He had one knee beneath him, trying to rise. Martha ran across a room, lifting a lamp over her head. She brought it down. It shattered over his shoulders; the heavy bronze base caught the top of his head and he went over sidewards.
Shayne kicked the gun out of his hand. He whirled, crouching. Jose’s brother was still standing in the middle of the room. The stupid look was back on his face, and he clutched his breast with both hands. Before Shayne could reach him his knees sagged and he folded forward. His coat came open, and Shayne saw the red stain on his shirt.
Martha’s hands were over her eyes. She was trembling violently. Shayne strode up to her and took her by the shoulders. She looked at him, her eyes wide with shock.
“Michael, I’m going to faint.”
“The hell you are,” he said roughly. “You’re going to stay on your feet and get their guns. Toss them over the embankment. Then clear out.” He thrust a set of car-keys at her. “If we aren’t out in five minutes, go down the road and call Vivienne.”
“Who?” she said.
“Vivienne. And then get some cops out here. Have you got it?”
She shook her head. “I can’t leave Paul.”
“Goddamn it!” Shayne shouted. “Do what I tell you!”
She shook her head again, returning his look firmly. Her eyes had cleared. Shayne could see that she meant to stay, no matter what he said to her. He put the keys back in his pocket, snatched up Jose’s revolver and ran out of the bedroom.
He had put both hands on her shoulders, he remembered, so his left arm must be working again. He tried it. He could bend the elbow, but couldn’t bring it out from his side.
The cab driver had heard the shot, and was looking out cautiously. Shayne gave him one look, his lips peeled back from his teeth. The cigar dropped from the man’s mouth. He popped back into the bedroom and slammed the door.
Shayne ran into the dining room as Al came through the folding doors at the opposite end. Al had his big gun up, but he didn’t fire. Shayne stopped. For a long moment the two men looked at each other. The revolver was pointed at Al’s feet. Al’s gun was pointed over Shayne’s head.
“You want to watch what you do from now on,” the redhead said quietly. “You don’t want to wind up as the guy who takes the fall for these bastards.”
He began to walk forward slowly. The cards were still laid out at the end of the table. Al was planted solidly in front of the doorway, looking as though it would take a bulldozer to move him.
Shayne said, “It’s a Mexican stand-off. You haven’t been playing solitaire. You heard what they’ve been saying. They’ve got each other sewed up. The Camel’s connections don’t stretch as far as murder. When he goes, the rest of his people go with him, and that includes you, Al. Don’t forget you’re a foreigner here. You won’t get any help from the American consul.”
Confused sounds came from beyond the folding door. The volume on the cab driver’s radio was still up very high but the music was now cool jazz, played by a small group of calm musicians.
“You were in on a kidnapping,” Shayne went on, still walking forward. “It wasn’t handled too well. Too many people in on it-very sloppy. If you think back, you’ll remember that the cops had me for a while, and I gave them all the names.”