Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 44, No. 4, April 1980

Shayne was smiling to himself because Stephanie had given up trying to come on to him half an hour ago and bedded down with Mary Su Lin.

“Damn it all, Shayne!” Stephanie had finally exploded. “I’d rather be sitting up with a cigar store Indian than you.”

“Why don’t you get some sleep then?” Shayne asked. “We’ve had a busy day here and tomorrow may be just as busy.”

“I’m not used to being sent off to bed alone,” Stephanie sulked.

Shayne gave her bottom a sharp pat. “Have sweet dreams.”

“You’re impossible!” Stephanie said.

“That’s because I try harder,” he told her.

Stephanie had flounced into the lodge.

There were no familiar night sounds this high on the mountain. No birds rustled on their perches; if there were crickets they were silent. The only sounds were the low whistle of the night wind and the just-distinguishable murmur of the spring and creek. It was a moonless night with unblinking stars punched out of the dark sky canopy.

Shayne’s thoughts wandered back to Miami Beach and Lucy Hamilton, Will Gentry and Tim Rourke. He wondered whether it was day or night there, yesterday or tomorrow.

Far down the road he saw two tiny spots of light. They disappeared, appeared again, were gone, then resolved themselves, when he saw them once more into automobile headlights.

Shayne was on his feet. Was it Chung Lee and if so would he be coming up the mountain alone? Shayne moved from the porch to the turn-around in front of the lodge.

Crouched on his heels, he watched the car coming closer. It was coming up the final grade in low gear. Shayne moved back to the edge of the turn-around where the headlights wouldn’t catch him in their glare.

With a final surge the black Mercedes made it onto the gravel turn-around and stopped, the headlights bathing the empty porch in front of the lodge.

The driver stayed in the automobile, evidently puzzled by the absence of the guards, at least one of whom should have come out to meet him.

Shayne silently approached the car at an angle and from behind, careful that his image wouldn’t be caught in the rearview mirrors. There was only the driver in the Mercedes.

The headlights were turned off.

“Just keep both hands on the wheel,” Shayne ordered in a low voice, pressing the machine pistol’s cold muzzle to the driver’s right ear.

There was a startled gasp.

“Now get out from behind the wheel,” Shayne told him, “but keep your hands in sight. I have a very itchy trigger finger.”

The driver did as he was told, drawing quick breaths but moving deliberately, while Shayne pressed the machine pistol muzzle against his spine between the shoulder blades.

“Hands on top of your head now,” Shayne snapped. “No wrong moves.”

The man obeyed and stood quietly while Shayne frisked him to find his own .45 Colt carried in its underarm rig. Shayne was glad to have the familiar heft of his weapon back in his hands and tucked the machine pistol in his belt.

“Can I turn around now, Governor?” the driver asked with a plaintive British accent.

Shayne had been so certain it was Chung Lee who’d driven the Mercedes up the mountain that he nearly dropped his .45.

“Just who the hell are you?” Shayne wanted to know. He found himself facing a slight man with pleasant snub-nosed features and a blond moustache. “What’s happened to Chung Lee?”

“Donald Forbes-Robertson is my name, or I guess you Americans would call it my moniker.” The Englishman eyed the weapon Shayne still leveled at him. “Do you mind very much, old boy?” he asked. “Firearms pointed in my direction make me nervous and always have.”

“Let me have the shoulder rig,” Shayne said.

“Of course. I’ll have to slip out of this coat you know.”

“Go ahead.”

When Shayne was adjusting the straps to his larger fram with the .45 nestled in its worn holster, Forbes-Robertson said, “Chung Lee, I’m afraid has been a very naughty boy. By the way, I’m British Intelligence on loan to the Nationalists here on Taiwan. I’ve had a weather eye on friend Chung for quite sometime. This latest little ploy of his brought things to a head, as you Americans would say.”

“Where is he now?” Shayne asked.

“Unfortunately he’s flown the coop, as you...”

“Americans would say,” Shayne finished for Forbes-Robertson. “How did he manage to do that?”

“Hopped aboard a junk, as...” Forbes-Robertson’s quick grin was engaging. “I rather like the way you Americans express yourselves, as you may have gathered.” He lit a cigarette with a gold lighter. “That heathen Chinee must be half the distance to the mainland by this time. We do have a few failures in British Intel, although I must say our track record is much better than your CIA. That Bay of Pigs fiasco for example.”

For the moment Shayne was satisfied that Forbes-Robertson was who he said he was, and he could ask later how he just happened to have the Colt .45 Chung Lee had relieved him of, as well as the black Mercedes.

And why he’d come alone to the lodge when he must have known they would be well guarded.

“Where are the birds?” Forbes-Robertson asked.

“Sleeping,” Shayne said.