Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 41, No. 4, October 1977

“Don’t, Pete — please don’t hurt me,” she pleaded. “I didn’t know who he was and he didn’t tell me. I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you. Don’t hurt me. I don’t deserve it. I’ve been good to you. I did what you wanted, me to do, didn’t I? I ran your errands.” Then in a low voice, “I delivered all those packets of diamonds.”

“Sure, sure, but you lied to me. I know you did. Shayne told you his name. If you had told me that, we wouldn’t have remained in there,” he nodded toward the lounge. “The trouble with you, Ann, is that you are a liar. You lie in your teeth.

“You lie about things that don’t even matter, but you lie. You’ve lied to me a dozen times over, about that old lawyer in your building that you’ve been having an affair with, about everything else. I’ve had it with you. Get in the car or I’ll drop you right here.” He shoved her, hard.

She let out a wild scream. “Don’t! Don’t kill me!”

Shayne and Elfmont ran toward the car. Allegretti saw them, threw an armlock around Ann’s neck and put a heavy caliber pistol to her head.

“Come on, fuzz, and I’ll spill this broad’s brains, if she has any, on the ground Back off!”

Elfmont made a move toward the car. Allegretti fired a shot in the ground. Ann Waterman screamed and fainted. The slug struck about a foot from where Elfmont stood, ricocheted erratically and struck a building across the alley. Allegretti shoved Ann into the car.

“You fuzz want this broad alive, stay away from me or she gets it first.” He shoved the inert woman into the front seat, got in, started the car and drove north on Ocean Drive.

“What now?” Shayne asked.

“We’ll follows.” Elfmont got into his car, picked up the phone and called headquarters. “Lieutenant Elfmont. I want an APB on a black Lincoln Continental, four door, License number, Boy, Charles, two — seven — nine. Florida State. Traveling north on Ocean Drive. Occupants are a man and woman. The man is heavily armed and must be considered dangerous. Do not intercept. I repeat. Do not intercept. I want his destination. We will follow.”

Lieutenant Elfmont turned to the group. “I want it distinctly understood that I am in charge of this operation. I will give the order. The life of my wife is at stake. This is of paramount importance to me, so don’t any of you play hero. This hood may lead us to the boat where my wife is being held captive. So just let him run.”

Shayne said, “Lieutenant, there’s a woman in that car who is also in danger. I put her there. I want to be damned sure she gets out.”

Lieutenant Elfmont gave Shayne a hard look. “You feel guilty about it?”

“Shouldn’t I? Besides, she gave us the big lead, the first we’ve had. We could have been days running around in circles if not for her.”

Shayne’s feeling of guilt was deep. There was something about Ann Waterman that bothered him. The thought struck him that she very well might be more maligned than she deserved. At any rate, he was going to move every road in hell to rescue her. Elfmont was concerned about his wife. As it should be. Shayne was more concerned about Ann Waterman.

He ran to his own car, the officers ran to theirs.

Allegretti drove north, at speeds just within the legal limit, evidently certain in his mind that his pursuers would not chance hitting the woman beside him. Time enough to make his move when he got near the Dom Colletti mansion and the boat.

There was a long winding road that led to the house and the dock. It was shielded by a heavy growth of ferns and trees that shut out the view from the main road. Once he got past the curve over the bridge he would speed up and drive into Colletti’s road, to the dock, and get under way into the Atlantic to the next hideout.

In the car with Allegretti, Ann Waterman pleaded desperately for her life.

Ann said, “Please, Pete,” her voice shaking with emotion, her heart pounding. “Please let me go. Let me get out of the car. I’ll never do anything to hurt you. I didn’t know who that man was. If you kill me—”

The words came from her throat in a rasp as if there was a collection suddenly of all the terrible nightmares that had driven her into screaming wakefulness. Her fear of death, of physical injury and pain, had always lived with her. She was a naturally timid person. Threatened once by a burglar who had broken into her New York apartment, leered at her naked figure and decided to rape her, she had submitted under a threat of bodily harm, assuring the rapist and burglar that she would not cry out, that she would cooperate.

“Don’t hurt me, Pete,” Ann pleaded again, “please! Don’t kill me.” She began to cry.

Allegretti suddenly speeded up. Sixty, seventy, eighty miles an hour. He left his pursuers far behind. He approached the Colletti driveway and turned in expertly.

One of those amazing coincidences, an imponderable that worked in Allegretti’s favor, occurred. Ahead of him was a black Continental similar to the one he was driving. A man and a woman were in the front seat.