public attention with some kind of action against Crowther, maybe they’ll stir up enough of a stink so the deal will be canceled.”
A few more pieces of the puzzle snapped into place. Biscayne Bay was beneath them. They began to glide in for a landing.
“They wouldn’t need many men to burn a warehouse,” Shayne said. “That could be it.”
“And a shooting or an attempted shooting would make a nice diversion. Mike, do this. Stay with us. If you see anybody who looks remotely like Camilla Steele, yell. Let’s get Crowther into the ballroom. That’s the first thing. Then I’ll call the airport and have Turner move one of his companies into the warehouse area. Here’s a direct question, and I have to get a direct answer. Do you know of any reason to change our arrangements for getting Crowther in and out of the hotel?”
Shayne met his eyes. “He doesn’t smoke or drink. I think he’ll outlive everybody.”
The helicopter was hanging above the cleared stretch of beach in front of the St. Albans. Using binoculars, Berger checked the beach and then swept the hotel facade. He said mildly, “And if you’re holding out on me, Mike, for whatever reason, I’m in a position where I can do some damage. I can lift your license, for openers.”
“That’s happened before, Abe. I’ve been thinking about taking a vacation.”
“This could be a long one.”
Berger tossed the binoculars on an empty seat. “Take her down,” he called.
The helicopter descended slowly. He waited until the second helicopter, bringing the rest of the entourage, settled alongside. He swung down, conferred with the officer in command of the waiting escort, then gave the signal to dismount.
Vacationers in bathing suits watched curiously as the new arrivals, all in suits and neckties, poured out of the two helicopters. The instant Crowther stepped onto the loose sand the party began to move, with Crowther himself and two aides packed tightly inside a cluster of soldiers and Secret Service men. Crowther was waving gaily, and some of the vacationers returned the waves and shouted approval and encouragement, while the other crowd, out of sight on the far side of the hotel, bayed angrily.
A siren howled in the distance. Photographers backed away in front of the moving group, taking pictures. The hotel manager was waiting at the front entrance to shake hands with his guest, but Berger kept everybody in motion.
“Come on, Mike. Keep up.”
A local politician and his wife squeezed into the elevator with them.
“Mr. Crowther, I want to congratulate you on your strong position against Latin American Communism,” the politician declared. “We’ve been too patient with those people. What’s the point in having power if we’re scared to use it? The people of Miami Beach are with you, sir,
This was heady stuff, but Berger interrupted before he could answer.
“Stay in the car, if you don’t mind, Mr. Crowther. I want to be sure everything’s lined up in the ballroom.”
“Abe, you’re turning into a fussy old woman,” Crowther complained. “I don’t object to reasonable precautions, but can’t we relax a little? As I understand it, the people up here have all bought tickets.”
“Which have been on public sale for weeks.”
Crowther wagged his head wryly at the politician. “Why do we do it? Not for the salary!”
The elevator doors opened, and they saw a clamorous crowd, bathed in television light. Berger and another Secret Service man stepped out into the confusion. Press photographers spotted Crowther and began taking pictures. Shayne saw Tim Rourke. Catching Shayne’s eye, Rourke shook his head and shrugged. Crowther chatted easily with the politician until Berger returned.
“All right, Mr. Crowther.”
The group moved out of the elevator. Crowther reached past the nearest Secret Service man to shake a hand. Everybody here except the media people and the police had paid $6.50 for the privilege of having lunch with him, and they wanted him to realize that in spite of the newspaper attacks, they were behind him. He was exhilarated by the welcome. He saw local friends, and shouldered past the Secret Service men to return their hugs and handshakes, and to kiss their women. The group moved slowly.
The night before, Shayne had stepped out a circle at the end of the corridor, inside which Camilla would have to stand to make the bullet holes in the opposite wall seem plausible. The television platform had been brought forward, contracting the circle slightly. All three cameras were in action. He looked into the blaze of light.
Crowther worked slowly forward, approaching the table where ticket-holders had their names checked off and were given lapel badges. The three women who presided at this table were standing, to get a view of Crowther. Like everybody else, they were screaming happily. Shayne was jostled from behind, and a red-faced man tried to knock him out of the way so he could touch Crowther’s hand. Shayne moved him aside.
One of the women at the table turned gracefully, and the movement reminded Shayne briefly of Camilla Steele. But she was too old. Her face was swollen, and oddly mottled. Shayne was concentrating on his imaginary circle, shading his eyes against the glare of the TV lights. He still saw no one there who looked like Camilla. Crowther, a few feet behind Shayne, was giving his hands-over-his-head gesture, turning completely around. The Secret Service men struggled to keep him moving. Berger swung his elbows, swearing.
Again something pulled Shayne’s eyes to one side. The woman he had noticed had stepped backward toward the elevators. Her shoulders were tense. Shayne pulled around sharply. But it was impossible. If she fired from there the bullet holes wouldn’t line up. Nonetheless, she raised a scarf she was holding, brought both hands together, and fired through the scarf.
The scarf flared out and fell away, exposing an automatic pistol equipped with a silencer. Shayne, looking directly at her, saw the recoil, but no one else seemed to notice the shot. She fired twice more, smiling. Then she felt behind her and opened the elevator door, which had been blocked with something to keep it from closing.
For an instant, alone in the lighted car with the door open, she was vulnerable. Abe Berger had seen her. He had his gun out, his left hand shielding his eyes. Shayne slapped at the gun-barrel. In the same quick motion, almost a reflex, he brought his right fist up hard. Berger was wide open, coming forward. The punch exploded at the hinge of his jaw. His head snapped around. He was unconscious before he hit the floor.
Crowther watched the elevator door slide shut, an expression of disbelief on his handsome face. He clutched his neck, as though choking. He tried to move forward, clawing out in front of him with one hand. As he turned, Shayne saw that part of his face was shot away.
He lurched forward and collapsed on top of Berger.
CHAPTER 12
Shayne scooped up Berger’s gun, lying on the carpet a few inches from his outstretched hand. As he went backward he worked the slide. The nearest Secret Service man reached inside his coat, but the expression on Shayne’s face froze him in place.
The disturbance had been confined to one tiny section of the corridor, but ripples of shock and alarm were already radiating outward. Somebody screamed. One of the TV cameras toppled over. The elevator which Crowther and the others had used was still at that floor, with a Secret Service man in the doorway. Shayne stepped in and showed him Berger’s gun.
“Out. Out.”
The man looked toward the ballroom.
Shayne hit him with the gun, gave him a hard push and stabbed the Down button. Tim Rourke, a few feet away, was staring at him.
“Real bullets. Man, that’s trouble.”
“Yeah,” Shayne said as the door closed.
He dropped the gun in his pocket, his face hard and dangerous. He had been fooled, and there was only one person who could tell him how it had been done. That was Camilla Steele. Trouble was a mild word to describe the situation. Berger had had a good shot at Camilla while the elevator’s electronic brain was deciding to close the door. Shayne had interfered. As soon as Berger was conscious again, it would be clear to everybody that Shayne
