Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 34, No. 5, April 1974

Nobody stirred on board the yacht. Seconds dragged into minutes.

Finally the two men went into the wheelhouse. Like the decks, it was deserted.

Mike Shayne called down the stairwell to the main cabin. There was no answer. No one was stirring on the big yacht. Apparently even the crew had all gone ashore.

“Do you suppose he’s hiding down below?” Rourke asked.

“I don’t think so,” Shayne said. “Come along.”

They went down the four steps into the main cabin aft. It was lit by a table lamp with three bulbs burning. The furnishings were luxurious, but here too there was no sign of anyone having been on board recently.

Even the ashtrays were clean and bare of any butts or other residue.

Shayne looked about carefully. The killer may have left a package or a bundle of money or even a note. He couldn’t find anything at all.

The big cabin was partly below and partly above the deck of the yacht. The part above was lined with windows which could be opened to give the passengers sun and air.

Suddenly one of the windows over the stern shattered with a crash. Glass fell into the cabin on the furnishings and carpet.

Tim Rourke jumped a foot. “My God, what was that?”

Mike Shayne yelled, “Get down, Tim. Flat on your face!” and went into action. He jumped across the cabin and pulled the lamp cord out of its socket to plunge them into darkness.

“What’s going on?”

“Somebody took a shot at us through the glass,” Shayne said. “I think he was either on shore or on another boat and using a rifle.”

“He just tried again,” Tim Rourke said.

He was right. They didn’t hear the rifle shot, but they did distinctly hear a bullet strike the stern of the yacht. Then another whined into the water right off the stern.

Mike Shayne was up the hatch and out on deck with a speed that was extraordinary for such a big man. He left his gun in its holster, but pulled the big, three-inch-blade pocket knife he always carried and got it open.

Even as he reached the stern, another bullet splashed white splinters from the thwart of the old skiff tied to the stern.

Mike Shayne slashed with his knife at the ancient rope with which the skiff was tied to the after rail. He cut through and the tide began to pull the skiff away from the yacht. As it drifted, Shayne ran back into the wheelhouse and threw himself flat on the deck inside.

Two more bullets hit the skiff as it drifted. Then, when it was a good fifty yards from the yacht, the distant marksman hit the target he’d been aiming at from the start. It was the innocent looking rusty five gallon gas can on the floor of the outboard skiff. The contents weren’t gas. When the bullet hit, the can blew the skiff to toothpicks and showered the yacht with water and debris. The blast shook windows on the causeway.

As the crash died away, Rourke ran up into the wheelhouse. “That was supposed to be us,” he yelled. “How did you ever know to cut that thing loose?”

“I almost didn’t,” Shayne said. “I knew it was crazy for him to shoot at us when we were down in the cabin. Once the light was out nobody but an idiot would expect to hit you or me, but he kept on shooting.

“That meant it wasn’t us he was shooting at. Then I remembered that outboard. It didn’t belong with a luxury craft like this. When we came out I figured the killer had used it to board, but he wasn’t on board. When the shot came, I guessed that it must have been left for a target. I decided to get rid of it. I guess it was none too soon.”

“Let’s get out of here.”

“Let’s not and pretend we did,” Shayne said. “Anybody sharp enough to rig this trap is also sharp enough to figure we just might survive the bomb. He’ll expect us to bolt in that case, and lie’ll be ready for it. You stay right where you are.”

Shayne went out on deck and climbed down into the fast runabout, the Dolly. He started the engine, cast off the line, climbed back onto the yacht and kicked the runabout clear of the larger boat.

The Dolly, its throttle wide open, started to roar away down the Bay.

The second runabout came in on a converging course to head it off. This one was painted black, and moved very fast. As it slid alongside the Dolly someone stood up for a second and tossed something inside, then cut wildly away.

The Dolly disintegrated in a fountain of flame and smoke.

IX

“I told you he’d have something up his sleeve,” Mike Shayne said as they watched the wreck of the Dolly go down into the dark water. “Sort of a single track mind though. Bombs and again bombs.”

“How are we going to get back to shore?”

“This boat is bound to have a ship-to-shore phone,” Shayne said. “Even if it didn’t, the Harbor Police will be closing in on the scene of two explosions that size. They’ll take us ashore.”

Tim Rourke had found a portable bar in the cabin, and the bar had a bottle of whiskey. He drank and passed the bottle over to big Mike Shayne.

“Our friend is a mixture of smart and dumb,” Shayne said as he wiped his mouth with the back of one big hand.

“How do you figure that?”