"It's not dope," said the figure on the cot: a tired, automatic
protest. "It's only pod."
"Never mind that. If you don't like the law, write your Congressman.
Where's the dope?"
"They'll kill me if--"
"What use is your life to you right now?" asked Yamamura scornfully.
It had not seemed possible Guido could shrink further into himself.
"That dressing table over there," he whimpered.
Yamamura opened the drawer, flipped out a small parcel, and tore a
corner. "Uh-huh," he said.
"Well?" said Kintyre.
"Well, by rights we should turn this and the kid in. It could mean a
stretch in a Federal prison, since he crossed a border. It could even
mean a loss of citizenship, he being naturalized. Dope is a hysterical
issue."
Corinna did not speak.
Yamamura continued, in an almost idle tone: "However, it's true enough
that this isn't a really vicious drug. I could heave it into the
nearest garbage can and there'd be an end of the matter. If you think
he's had a little sense beaten into him."
Kintyre said: "That's my guess, Trig." Yamamura slipped the package
into a coat pocket. Corinna shuddered, her fingers closed about
Kintyre's.
Yamamura knocked the dottle from his pipe, which had gone cold between
his teeth, and said, "Let's assume for now that he is telling the
truth. Then what have we got?"
"A couple of murderers still hanging around," said Kintyre. "Why?
Surely not to collect their hashish. That was just a gimmick to make
Guido, their decoy, leave town, and make it damn near impossible for
him to explain why. Whether or not a murder charge could have been made
to stick, it would certainly confuse the issue long enough for this job
to be finished, for the killers to go safely home again, and for the
one who hired them to cover his tracks completely."
"You imply their job is not yet finished," said Yamamura.
"I sure do. There's no other sane reason for them to stay around,
risking detection and arrest. Only--who's next?"
"Guido?" It was Corinna who asked it, firmly.
"I doubt that, at least as far as the original plan went. Who wants a
dead red herring? Of course, now they may indeed go for him, afraid of
what he has spilled. I think we'd better take him across the bay."
Yamamura nodded. "Let's get moving," he said. "Up there, lad." He
stepped to the cot, took Guido under the arms and hauled him erect. "We
can go out the back door."
Guido shambled, leaning heavily on the detective. Kintyre and Corinna
followed. "He must be telling the truth," she said. "I know him! And
that package--"
"Does tend to bear out his yarn," said Kintyre. "I want to believe in
his essential innocence myself. The trouble is, if his story is true,
then who hired the killers?"
"That Mr. Clayton?"
"Not if Guido has given us a full and fair account. I've explained to
you that the Michaelises are out. Who's left?"
"I've heard of a writer. Owens, is that his name?"
"I don't know. I plain don't. And yet I'm nagged by a feeling that
I already have the answer--and I can't name it! Things have been
happening too fast." Kintyre scowled. "And until we can identify the
one who hired the killers--the real murderer; the others are only a
deodand--he's free to murder someone else."
They had come down the stairs now, slowly, and stepped into the alley
behind the building. Windowless brick walls closed three sides: it was
a cul-de-sac thick with shadows, opening on a wanly lit trafficless
street of hooded shops.
The man by the alley entrance stepped a little closer. There was
just light enough to show that he was not tall, that he had sloping
shoulders, and that he carried an automatic pistol. He stopped three
yards from the door, too far off for a leap.
"Hold it," he said.
15
Yamamura and Guido had come out first. Guido's legs seemed to go fluid;
only the arm around his waist held him up.
"Jimmy," he bleated.
Kintyre's hand swung backward in an arc, shoving Corinna behind him. He
said aloud--very loudly, "What the devil do you want?"
"Quiet, there," said the man called Jimmy. "This thing has a silencer
on it." He waved the gun. "I want to see Lombardi."
"It isn't nothing, Jimmy," chattered Guido. "Before God, Jimmy, they're
just friends of mine!"
"Yeh. You can tell us all about it. The rest of you stand back against
the door. Come on, Guido. I got a car waiting."
Yamamura eased his burden to the ground. Guido huddled on hands and
knees, retching. "He'll never make it," said the detective. "He's
scared spitless."
"I just want to talk with him," said Jimmy. "I was supposed to see him
here tonight, only they said he'd gone upstairs. I figured if it was
just for a nap or something, he'd be down again to finish his act and
I'd catch him later. Only if he wanted to skip out this way instead, it
would be soon and he might not come back. I didn't want to miss him, so
I figured I'd wait here a while."
It was not meant as an explanation. It was an indictment, nailed word
by word on the man who tried to stand up.
"Well," said Yamamura, "let me help him."
Jimmy laughed under his hat. "I'm not that simple-minded. Stay put."
With shrillness: "Come on, Guido. Or do you want to get drilled right
here and now?"
Guido began to drag himself forward, as if a bullet had already smashed
his spine. The sound of it, and of his breath going in and out an open
mouth, and the nearby clamor of automobiles filled with meek taxpayers,
was all that Kintyre could hear.
He wondered if he could let Guido be taken from him, by the same
instrument which had taken Bruce, and call himself male. Two or three
jumps should reach Jimmy. But Jimmy was no amateur, he wouldn't miss
if he shot. But there were many cases on record of men being hit once,
twice, being filled with lead, and still coming on. But Guido wasn't
worth anybody's time. But Guido was brother to Bruce and Corinna,
therefore worth a great deal of time. But a possible forty years?
But a deeper shadow filled the open end of the brick gut. It ran
forward in total silence, light touched its glassy uplifted club and
its flowing hair.
As the bottle came down on Jimmy's head, Kintyre started to move.
Yamamura beat him to it, arriving a second after Jimmy lurched forward
from the impact on his skull. The sound had been a shattering; Kintyre
heard the tinkles that followed the blow. Yamamura knocked the gun from
Jimmy's hand with an edge-on palm, seized his lapel, and applied a
scissor strangle.
Jimmy fell, as if the bones had been sucked from him. Corinna swayed
over his form, still holding the broken beer bottle. Almost, she fell
too. Kintyre caught her.
She held him closely, shuddering. It was not necessary, he thought
beneath his own pulse. She fought herself, and grew worn down thereby.
Her physical output had been negligible. Clearly she had slipped back
through the door, unobserved (that was the chance she took, but chance
had a way of favoring those who acted boldly). Picking up an empty
bottle on the way, tucking it inconspicuously under an arm, she had
gone out past the bar, out the main door (doubtless noticed, maybe
wondered about, but not stopped and soon forgotten) and around the
building. Then she took off her shoes and ran up behind Jimmy and hit
him.
That was all. There was no reason to grow exhausted. But God damn all
smug judokas, hadn't she earned the right?
"You clopped him a good one," said Yamamura, squatting to look.
"It's as well he had a hat on. A cut scalp could get very messy.
Congratulations."
"Did you say there was a cop in the bar?" asked Kintyre.
"Beyond doubt," said Yamamura. "Or we can phone, of course. Only I'm
carrying a parcel of smoke, and the neighborhood will be searched quite
thoroughly if our friend here mentions it." He sat on his heels, chin
in hand, for what seemed like a long time. Jimmy moaned, but did not
stir.
"Bob," asked Yamamura finally, "do you know anyone living on this side
who's mixed up in the affair?"
"Just Guido, if we rule out the Michaelises."
"So the big chief--and his next victim--are probably in the Eastbay.
If another murder is to be forestalled, I wonder if we ought to spend
time here chatting with a lot of well intentioned policemen who will
first have to be convinced the Michaelises are innocent and this wasn't
a simple stick-up. Especially when the papers will tell the big chief
exactly what's happened. Or, even if they can be made to keep quiet,
Jimmy will fail to report in; the gang will try to check for him in the
San Francisco pokey, first of all; so we could do some trail-covering
of our own."
"You mean to take this character to Berkeley, then? Isn't that pretty
irregular? You don't want to jeopardize your license."
"It's as irregular as a German verb, and the police are going to be
annoyed. But I do think we can flange up enough excuses to get by
with it. Of course, the Berkeley force will call up the San Francisco
force immediately, but that'll go on a higher level, chief to chief I
imagine; we can explain the need for secrecy, as much secrecy as the
law allows, and--Hell, Bob, let's stop mincing words. What we need is
time to construct a story that'll cover Guido. And you."
Kintyre felt how the stone-rigid body he held began to come alive
again. "Blessings," he murmured.
"We'll go to your place first, and then decide what's next."
"Can you finagle Jimmy across the bridge?"
"Him and Guido both," grinned Yamamura. "Which will leave you a clear
field when you take the lady home."
"I'm coming," said Corinna. She pulled herself away from Kintyre,
gently.
"You are not," he answered. Seeing in the dirty gray half-light how
her face grew mutinous, he went on: "There are enough complications
already. What could you do over there, except be one more element we
have to explain away--or one more target for the gang? At present, only
Jimmy knows you have any concern with this business, and he'll get no
chance to talk of it."
She thought on his words for a little. Then: "Yes. You're right. But
don't drive me all the way. A taxi will--"
"Shut up!" he laughed, shakily, and took her arm.
They had to wait, guarding a half-conscious prisoner, while Yamamura
went after his car. Guido sat on the pavement, knees drawn up under his
chin. After a while he took out a cigarette and lit it.
Corinna leaned over him. "Go with them," she said. "They're the only
real friends you've got."
"Besides you, sis," he muttered. Then, barking a sort of laugh: "Next
week, East Lynne."
She sighed, like an old woman, and stood back again.
Yamamura returned and bound Jimmy's wrists with Jimmy's tie. He and
Kintyre frogmarched their captive to the Volkswagen and put him in back
on the floor. Yamamura secured his ankles with his belt. "Toss me your
house key, Bob, I'll see you there. Hop in, Guido. Cheerio."
Kintyre and Corinna walked hand in hand back toward his own car. They
stopped to pick up her shoes. "I'm afraid you ruined your stockings,"
he said inanely.
"You don't have to talk," she said. "I don't need it."
He was grateful for that. The silence in which they drove home (she did
not lean against him, but she sat close by) was somehow like--memory
groped--like Bruce's music which Margery had played for him a few
centuries ago. He wondered if she had heard it yet.
"I hope you'll be able to sleep," he said at her door.
"Oh, yes, I think so." She considered him and asked gravely: "Why are
you doing this for us?"
"I can't stop now," he said. "I'm in up to the eyebrows."
"But why did you begin? Not for Bruce's sake, surely. He wouldn't have
cared about being avenged."
"Which is what the police are for, anyway. I don't like this evading
them that we've been forced into."
"Well?" she continued.
"Why do you want to know?" he dodged.