the look, and saw a man and a woman in a silent struggle at the edge of the water. The man was trying to break her grip on a long-barrelled pistol. It was Coddington.
There was a bright dancing haze behind them, and until they staggered further up on the sand Shayne didn’t recognize the woman.
“Esther Landau,” he said.
“Who?” Gold said sharply. “Who?”
14
Shayne had turned away from the struggling pair to look at Gold, and the old man’s tone told him one more thing he wanted to know: that the woman who had been calling herself Esther Landau was actually somebody else.
“That’s the one,” Shayne said. “All the way from Israel, looking for you, Murray.”
He slid out of the Buick and moved toward the water. There were muscles concealed under Coddington’s fat, and he was usually able to disarm a slightly built woman, even when she didn’t fight entirely fair. Her gun came around, and Shayne dodged. The pistol discharged harmlessly into the sand.
She brought her knee up hard. Coddington, though hurt, managed to hang on. An instant later the gun went flying. She lowered her head and butted him under the jaw. He fell away from her into the water.
She scrambled away, to get to the gun before Shayne arrived. She was wearing only one shoe, and the heel sank in the sand. Coddington caught her ankle and pulled her down beside him.
On his knees, he cuffed her twice, to set her up for the punch. She kicked him with her pointed toe, and the punch was never delivered. Grappling, they rolled down the incline. A breaking wave carried them out into less shallow water. Coddington, finally, managed to drive his fist into her face. But she seemed very strong.
Shayne decided that with only one usable arm, he would just get in the way. He watched for a moment, scraping his chin with his thumbnail, and went to retrieve the pistol. Her purse was further up the beach, in loose sand. He picked it up. He looked back, but the two people in the water were fully engaged with each other. He found a spare clip in the purse and chucked out the top round, finding, as he suspected, that the clip was loaded with blanks. He cleared the chamber and switched clips.
The man and the woman were still rolling, unable to break each other’s hold. It seemed to be a standoff. Coddington, blowing, got her face down in the wet sand, but his hands slipped and she wriggled free.
Shayne left the purse and the pistol at the water’s edge and waded out after a retreating wave. He seized the woman’s wrist with his one good hand and twisted. She snapped her teeth at him. When she understood who it was, the fight stopped abruptly. Coddington had a hard swing under way. It landed, and sent her down with a splash. He stayed on hands and knees, panting.
Another wave nearly knocked him over. Floundering, he said in disgust, “I’ll have to spend more time in the gym. A hundred and ten pound female. She damn near whipped me.”
“She’s had basic training,” Shayne said. “It’s all right, we’re all on the same side.”
Wincing, Coddington adjusted himself inside his wet clothes. “Why didn’t you tell me three minutes ago? I think she crippled me.”
He had lost his own gun during the fight. Shayne picked it out of the water and stuck it in his sling while Coddington was washing the blood off his face. The woman stood up, lost her footing and went down again. Then she stamped out onto dry sand, soaked to the skin and furious. She shook her wet hair, sending water flying. One of Coddington’s swings had caught her in the eye, and it was already beginning to puff.
“Why did you come jumping out on me like that?” she demanded. “Who are you? Who is he?” she asked Shayne. “Is that Murray Gold in your car?”
Her wet dress was molded to her body. Except for her injured eye, she looked very good.
“Well?” she said. “Is that Murray Gold? What is taking place here behind my back?”
“It’s Gold,” Shayne said. “But he’s been shot. He’s stopped running for the time being. How did you know where to look for me?”
She pulled at her dress to keep it from adhering so closely.
“My gun,” she said, dropping it in her purse. “I couldn’t fall asleep in the motel, after all. I did considerable telephoning. I learned about Homestead Beach from the mother of Helen. The moment I arrived, the guns went off. You drove away with Gold and the girl. That seemed peculiar to me, and it still seems peculiar! There he was, the evil man Gold, helpless, why didn’t you wait for the police? I really know nothing about you, do I? And the things one hears about American private detectives-Has he offered you a bribe to let him escape? Have you accepted? When you stopped here, talking, I became impatient and tried to come close on foot, so I could hear. And then this man-”
“Henry Coddington,” Shayne said. “Miami Police Department, plainclothes. Reasonably honest, as far as I know.”
“Thanks,” Coddington said. “If I spoiled anything here, I’m sorry. She had the gun out, and I thought I’d better grab her. Have you got my. 38?”
“Yeah,” Shayne said. “I’ll hold it for now. I don’t want anybody else shot.”
They were returning in a group to Shayne’s car.
“Some crazy things have been happening,” Shayne told the woman. “Murray’s been having second thoughts, and I think he’s going to help us.”
They reached the Buick. Helen, crying hopelessly, was alone in the back seat. Murray Gold was gone.
“I thought things were going to be different,” Helen said, blaming Shayne. “It’s all going to be exactly the same. Just like before.”
“Not quite,” Shayne said. “You’ll be on probation if you’re lucky. If you aren’t lucky you’ll be in jail. Where’s Murray?”
The woman beside Shayne took a quick step, and saw the packages of money scattered about on the front and back seats. She turned on Shayne. “You let him buy you. Where is he?”
As though in answer to her question, an engine coughed and took hold. The sound came from around the bend to the north, and was followed by a shriek of tires as a car peeled out on the highway, being pushed to the extreme limit of the gear. Shayne and Coddington looked at each other.
“That sounds like my Mustang,” Coddington said. “She starts to shimmy at seventy. We can catch him.”
“Hell with it,” Shayne said. “We’ve got better things to do than chase an old man off the expressway. We can pick him up later.”
“He took one of the guns,” Helen said, “so you’d better watch out. He’s meaner than he looks.”
The woman said incredulously, “You’re letting him escape! So you can keep the money.”
“Money,” Helen said bitterly. “That’s a laugh.”
Suddenly furious, Shayne pulled the car door open. “You’re a mess. Climb the hell out and hit the road before I lose my temper and work you over.”
“You big tough men.”
Shayne grabbed her shirt and pulled hard. The others stayed out of it. Helen fell in the sand. He faked a kick and she moved out of range in a flurry of arms and legs. She stood up, wiping at her wet face.
“It’s so damned unfair. What’s the point of trying? All right, if that’s the way you feel.”
“Damn right it’s the way I feel. I don’t like you and I don’t like the rest of your family.”
She turned. Shayne aimed another kick at her, catching her neatly between the over-ripe buttocks, lifting her off the dirt and assisting her some inches in the direction of the highway. She yelped and ran.
“You’re forgetting something,” Shayne called.
He reached into the car for her Raggedy Ann doll and threw it after her. She came back to get it, ready to jump and dodge, and then started off along the road, crying. When a car approached she stuck up her thumb, but no sensible motorist would pick her up until she did something to improve her appearance.
While this was going on, the woman was gathering the packages of bills and stuffing them into the open satchel.
“I’ve been wanting to kick that girl since the minute I saw her,” Shayne said. “It’s the one satisfying thing I’ve
