Music to Murder By

Part 6

Howdy folks, and welcome back. This is Part 6, the conclusion of Music to Murder By. I hope you enjoy! If this is your first time here, you might like to start with Part 1.

Music to Murder By

Micki Marteau

I crouched low, and ran into the maze of freight standing ready on the pier. Fortunately, whatever noise my heeled boots might have made on the cobbles drowned in the gunfire as the erstwhile allies traded shots. The first few seconds had been carnage and devastation, but once everyone had gotten under cover, it ground into a stalemate.

That was no good. I wanted those plans back.

"Schießen! Hol sie dir!"

It seemed they were Germans, after all. Not that that made much difference. Half the country were. Hell, in my hometown, the Lutheran church still had its early service in German. But if these were German Americans, they took their allegiances too lightly for my taste. If they were foreign nationals, well, I prowled around a stack of sacked cornmeal, and found a place where I could see four of them at once. I picked two, and laid a buffalo nickel front sight on each of their backs and started pulling triggers.

I know. It's just trick shooting. But my Aunt Pheobe-Ann taught me how, and I will be damned if it don't come in handy now and again. It's only about twice as hard to shoot with your left as with your right. A little bit of practice and it can be done. It's about four times as hard to shoot left and right. But that's what practice is for, after all. Doing things that's hard.

And a one...and a two… No sax this time, just percussion.

I put a pair of big lead slugs in each German back, and a feral grin twisted my lips. The second pair noticed something, but were just looking around when I cut them down. Two moon faces disappeared in red ruin. Warms a girl right through, that does. I broke the guns and grabbed two more six-packs from my handbag.

Rounds slammed into my cornmeal. While I dropped the shells in, I realized I'd just taken the pressure off the Japanese. Some fired at me. Some were pulling back. Running for their ship's ramp, or gangway, or gang plank. Whatever they called it.

That would never do. I had the guns stoked again. The left I holstered, and used both hands to steady the other.

Crack.

Aim. Breathe.

Crack.

I aimed again, this time for the man with the briefcase. The man and his briefcase blurred. The front sight was the only thing left in the world. I squeezed through the long, heavy trigger—

And stopped. Something was wrong. I let my focus snap back, and realized what it was. Matt Slade. The damned fool. Blocking my shot again.

He had his own gun, a big Government Colt automatic, leveled at the Japanese with the case. He didn't seem to be making the same impression he had with Uncle Joe. The dark little man just calmly walked for the gangway.

"Slade!" I called. "Look out behind!"

Too late. One of the sailors darted up behind the investigator and caught him in a flying tackle. I could hear the hammering thud of the steamer alongside. She was just waiting for the precious cargo in that case. The case that was even now being carried up the gangplank.

Slade was strong. Old man strength, I thought. He hadn't fallen, more's the pity. He still stood there, fighting like a maddened bull worried by dogs as two more of the sailors piled on. I couldn't help thinking if he fell, he'd make my night a lot easier. The front sight still rested on his back… But no. I shook myself loose of the murderous thought.

I found a stack of crates two rows further up. I climbed to the top, and could just see the lead Japanese past Slade's head. I couldn't risk it. Not yet.

Some luck came my way at last, though. The gangplank was a ramp. A steep one. The man got higher with every step he took. And further. I estimated the range at just under a hundred yards. I waited. Too long. That damned old man Slade fought free of the sailors and started up the gangway.

Again I aimed. I popped the front sight all the way up. The slight bulge of silver solder joining sight to barrel rested on the man's shoulders, framed by the ears of the rear sight. Breathed. Then Slade was there. They were almost to the rail. I couldn’t risk it. I dropped my aim minutely and fired. Slade fell. I steadied, fired once more. Twice. I thought I’d winged the little dark man. It was long range for a revolver. Even my Aunt Pheobe would have struggled.

The gun clicked on four. Devil take it, I hadn't reloaded! I didn't think I'd ever had so much trouble killing one man. I reached for the other gun just as the ship surged into motion. The gangplank clattered and splashed into the river. The little man fell with it. I couldn’t see the case with the plans.

I jumped down from my perch and ran.

I broke both guns again as I went, reloading. I made it to the pier side just in time. The three sailors Slade had slipped were gathered by the water’s edge, one taking potshots at whatever was down there. They’d hardly be shooting at their own employer, I reckoned. That meant Slade was down there.

At this range—only a dozen yards or so—the only challenge was my own heaving breath. I set that aside and shot the three men deliberately in the backs of their heads. I broke the gun and fished for another moon clip, then leathered up. Slade looked like a cheap grade of hamburger floating there in the filth of the docks.

In the blackness, I couldn’t see whether he was alive or dead. If he was alive, it wouldn’t be for much longer. The ship was well underway now, and without a tug to help, her screws boiled the water. In a few moments, Slade, or whatever was left of him, would be chopped to mincemeat.

I looked up and down the pier. There! An orange doughnut. I grabbed it, and holding fast to the line attached to it, threw it to the unmoving form in the water. My aim, as ever, was true. It landed on his back, prompting a sputtering and thrashing.

“Grab the ring!” I yelled. “It’s a life preserver!”

He grabbed, but then let go. The fool was actually swimming toward the boat. I couldn’t believe it. But then I saw what he was after. The case. The one with the crucial, all important plans.

Damn. Duty struck to the last. I pulled the line in, hand over hand, and threw again. As loudly as I could, I screamed “Grab hold, Slade! For your life!” The stern of the ship, and those great chopping, churning screws came closer every second.

He grabbed, and I hauled. I may have mentioned that Slade is a big man. I’m no shrinking violet, but I never worked as hard in a lifetime of hard work as I did in those few minutes, dragging him clear.

"You're a sight for sore eyes, doll," he said, when at last he was up and through heaving and gasping on the pier. “Sore in other places, too.” He massaged one buttock, and his hand came away red.

"You were supposed to stay. 'Don't block any bullets,' I said."

"Somebody shot me. I almost had the bastard. I'd have—"

"You have any idea how hard that was? Shooting you there, I mean?"

"You—"

"Let's just say you don't want to know."

"Can you help me up, doll? This seems…undignified. Looking up at you from down here, I mean."

I bent, and seized his arms. It took a couple of tries, but it wasn't much harder than standing up a stubborn cow. A wet, slimy, and stinking cow.

"Did you get 'em all?" he asked, looking around at the bloody shambles.

"All but one," I said tartly.

"Oh." He shuffled over to the pierside, and looked at the space where the ramp had rested so recently. If another body, one with an important case had been there, they were gone now. Obliterated by the passage of the freighter, now really getting the steam up in the main channel.

"And what on God's earth's happened here?" a high Irish voice asked behind us.

I turned. Somehow, with my ears muffled from gunfire I hadn't noticed the half dozen police form up behind us.

"Can you call the Coast Guard? Fort Mott? You've got to stop that ship! It's important, Navy depar—" I babbled.

The Irish voice, belonging to a big, sandy haired man in a sergeant's uniform, seemed even more incredulous. "Call the Coasties? Fort Who-zit? What ship? God save us, I don't see a ship. Lass, you and your pal here are under arrest. Just look at the blood!”

"Well, what's the worst that could happen?" Slade asked, as they patted us down. The Irish sergeant seemed impressed with my little arsenal, but that was small consolation.

"I don't know, Philly's your town. You tell me."

"Nah, don't sweat the bulls. If your friends can't get us sprung, I probably can. But it'll take phone calls, and favors...No, about the battleship. We—you—stopped the man. They didn’t get the plans. We didn’t get ‘em back, but…what were the Japs really gonna do? Build one even bigger?"

I looked over. I didn't know who he was fooling, me or himself, but it was a terrible job. His face had gone ghastly pale. "They might. They might do just that."

I pulled his arm over my shoulder, and helped him to the closest bollard.

“Stay where ye’re put young lady!” cried the sergeant.

“Can’t you see he’s been shot? He needs to sit down!”

“I don’t know when I’ll ever sit down again, Marteau.” We hobble-hopped over to the big iron cleat, with me as human crutch. “I’ve got this pain in my—”

I elbowed him in the ribs, but he just gave my shoulders a squeeze.

“No hard feelin’s?”