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

It was becoming obvious to Shayne that Forbes-Robertson wasn’t who he said he was. He was also now convinced that the Englishman and Stephanie Scott not only knew each other well but were planning to double-cross Mary Su Lin and himself. But what sort of game they were playing he couldn’t be sure.

Mary Su Lin’s temporary safety, however, must be his immediate concern.

The seaman, still grinning, opened the steel door to the left hand stateroom. It was sparsely furnished with a single porthole in the hull of the ship — there was no deck outside — but the double bunks were made up, there was a washstand, a toilet and the stateroom, unlike the rest of the rusty tramp steamer, was relatively clean.

The steel door, he noticed, had a new bolt affixed so it could only be locked from the passageway.

Shayne took Mary Su Lin’s elbow and guided her over the threshold but stayed in the passageway himself. He gave her a brief hug and whispered, “I’ve work to do, honey, but you’ll be safe here.”

She nodded understanding.

The stocky seaman’s grin faded to a frown. Shayne swung around to face him. “Do you understand any English?”

The man shook his head, obviously undecided what to do. Shayne closed and bolted the stateroom door, then asked, “Pidgin?”

“Me catch small pidgin.”

During the Korean War Shayne had picked up “small pidgin” himself on the Pusan docks. He opened the door of the opposite stateroom and waved the seaman to step inside.

“You good fellow, no want to be kill-kill.” Shayne’s Colt was in his hand. “Other fellow tell you lie.”

The seaman’s dark eyes focused on the weapon in Shayne’s hand, then widened with fright. Shayne’s free hand on his chest gently pushed him deeper into the stateroom.

“By-and-bye you fellow stay here,” he said. Reaching into his pocket he pressed a handful of silver into the seaman’s hand. Tenting his hands against his cheek Shayne said, “You fellow sleep?”

The seaman bobbed his head, his grin back.

Shayne closed the stateroom door and heard the Chinese seaman bolt it from the inside. He moved forward in the passageway until he stepped out on the amidships deck.

From the position of the sun Shayne realized they were now on a western course toward the Chinese mainland. Other Chinese crewmen were about their business securing the ship now it was at sea and paid no attention to him as he prowled toward the bridge, certain he would fine Forbes-Robertson and Stephanie up there, as well as the ship’s captain.

Shayne climbed the outside ladder to the starboard flying bridge and found that he had been correct, Forbes-Robertson and Stephanie Scott had their backs to him and were holding a rapt conversation.

As Shayne stepped through the open doorway, the pair spun around to face him, consternation printed on Stephanie’s face, a startled look on Forbes-Robertson’s.

“Shayne, old chap!” Forbes-Robertson regained his composure first. “We were just talking about you.”

Shayne’s hand hovered near his bolstered weapon. “I find that interesting,” he said in an even voice, but Forbes-Robertson caught the glint of anger in the big detective’s eyes. “What did you have in mind for me, a third share when you sell the Golden Buddha in Macao or Hong Kong?”

Forbes-Robertson smiled brightly. “That is our general idea, old fellow.”

“The hell it is!” Stephanie flared.

The Oriental Trader’s captain was framed in the doorway to the chartroom behind the bridge. He was a powerful man with a full black beard and, to Shayne’s surprise, an occidental.

“You’re on my bridge without permission,” the captain growled at Shay he. American, Shayne decided, from his accent. “What is your business here, sir?”

“I request permission,” Shayne said.

Stephanie was livid with anger.

“Granted,” the captain said, glancing from Shayne to Forbes-Robertson to Stephanie, then back at the detective. “What is your business?”

Forbes-Robertson was discomfited and Shayne realized they’d probably conned the captain into taking his ship to a mainland port instead of San Francisco.

“Where are we bound on your present course?” Shayne asked the captain.

“Macao. My first port of call.”

“Shayne, for God’s sake! Let’s discuss this privately,” Forbes-Robertson pleaded. “He doesn’t understand our last minute change of plans,” he told the captain.

“Damn you!” Stephanie lunged toward Shayne before either the captain or Forbes-Robertson could intervene, the dagger was in her raised hand.

Shayne had only time enough to sidestep her charge and missed catching her wrist when she stumbled past him. Stephanie spun around, sheer madness staring at the three men through her eyes, and they backed away.

The frightened helmsman stared over his shoulder.

“Bloody hell!” Forbes-Robertson backed toward the open doorway leading to the port flying bridge. “She’d gone stark, staring mad!”

Backing out onto the bridge he slammed the door shut. The captain had retreated to the chart-room doorway. Shayne, poised on the balls of his feet, confronting Stephanie, said, “I’d better handle this, captain.”