The Duchess had been a woman of her word, Ostby reflected, as he leaned
against the counter sipping his drink. Knowing full well who he was,
she had allowed him to leave, making no demands of him, and inviting
him back whenever he cared to come. She was quite a woman. Some day, if
and when he was able to clear up this business, he would return.
Now the time had come for him to change tactics. He had been able to
accomplish nothing by playing a lone hand. He needed help. When you
opposed the police the best place to seek help--he had decided--was
among others who broke the law. Thus he returned to the Flats, hangout
of the underworld.
To make his contact with the underworld the first step should be some
spectacular move that would focus their attention on him. "Fill it up,"
he said, sliding his glass along the bar. From his pocket he drew a
thick roll of bills, a thickness caused by paper padding.
He paid for his drink and laid the roll carelessly at his elbow.
A minute went by and he felt someone slide in beside him. From the
corner of his eye Ostby observed his companion. When he saw a hand
close over the bills, he reached swiftly over and gripped the wrist of
the hand that held the money. "Drop it," he said.
The thief's lips parted over stained teeth, but he said nothing. For a
moment he stared back, viciously, then he shifted his body slightly and
Ostby felt a knife point pierce the flesh of his right side and come
to rest against his ribs. "Let go, bud." The thief spoke low without
moving his lips.
Ostby hunched his shoulders and twisted his body around in a half
circle. As the thug went off balance Ostby pulled forward, still
gripping the wrist, and threw him over his shoulder. The thug struck
the floor on the flat of his back, and the wind left his lungs. He lay
for a moment, his body doubled up, and one leg kicking spasmodically,
as he fought for breath. Ostby bent over, picked up his money, and
leaned backward, with his elbows resting against the bar, and watched
the struggling man.
All the fight had left the thief by the time he regained his breath. He
cast one venomous look at Ostby as he climbed to his feet, and left the
drinking place.
The preliminaries were over. Now to await the main action. It was not
long in coming.
"That was pretty rough treatment," a coarse voice near Ostby said.
He turned his head. The man had a day's growth of whiskers, and a
long scar stretched his mouth into a permanent grin. Ostby shrugged
noncommittally and turned back to his drink.
"You a stranger in town?" the man persisted.
Ostby nodded, as he frowned and brought his attention back to the
harsh-voiced man.
"I'm not being nosey," the man said, "but you handle yourself like
a lad who's been around. And you must be afraid of the law or you
wouldn't be hanging out down here. Right?"
Ostby turned and faced the stranger squarely. "Is it any of your
business?" he asked belligerently.
The man held up his hand. "Take it easy," he said. "I'm looking for a
fellow like you. Do you have the guts to kill a man?"
* * * * *
Ostby found a cellar window unlocked. He crawled through and let his
legs hang down. When they touched a floor he pulled himself completely
in. He paused and let his eyes become adjusted to the semi-dark.
At the end of the cellar he could make out a short flight of stairs.
Ostby climbed the stairs and softly opened the door. Directly in front
of him, but half way across the room, a fat man sat in an over-stuffed
armchair. He sat so quietly that at first Ostby thought that he was
dead.
Only when he reached the fat man's side did he see that the slate gray
eyes of the man had been watching him since he entered.
"If you were able to get this far," the fat man said, still not moving
a muscle, "my guards have been bought off."
"You're Siggen?" Ostby asked.
"Who else?" Siggen twisted his lips into an ironic smile and bowed his
head. "I'm Siggen, head of the thieves of Yarr. And you're here to kill
me. May I ask who sent you?"
"Can't you guess?"
"Many men would like to see me dead. Most of them are afraid to try it
themselves. Just as the one who sent you is afraid. But don't bother
telling me who did it. Roka has coveted my place for a long time."
Ostby said nothing.
"I trusted too much in my guards," Siggen said, more to himself than
to Ostby. "My reputation must have sunk low if they allowed themselves
to be bought." He sighed. "Perhaps it's no use trying to save this old
hulk, but hope dies hard." For a moment his tired face showed stark
and very naked in the light of the lamp. And somehow Ostby felt a bond
of sympathy with the old man. "How much will you take to spare my life?"
"What will you pay?" Ostby asked.
"Roka probably paid you a thousand heds," Siggen answered. "I'll pay
you ten thousand."
"A fair enough exchange," Ostby said. "Except that I don't want money."
"Then what do you want?"
"I want help--to enter the Stalls. And to get out again with my life."
"A simple order, for Siggen." The fat man had his vanity. "Give me a
day to plan it. You have my word."
"Can I depend on it?"
"Men have said many things about Siggen, but never that his word was
not good."
"Then it's settled," Ostby said. "I'll be back tomorrow."
"Just a minute before you go." The old man unclasped his puffy hands.
"You are an unusual man and you intrigue me. Would you mind telling me
your name?"
"Not at all. It's James Ostby."
"Ostby ... Ostby ..." the fat man pondered slowly. Then his head came
up. "The Berserker!" he said. He whistled low, under his breath. "Tell
me," he said, "why have we never met before. Or, if not, why are we
meeting now?"