Shandor glanced at his watch. "About 3:00 this morning, I think. We can
take your car."
They talked for a while, and a call took the doctor away. Shandor slept
a little, then made some black coffee. Shortly before three the two men
left the Hospital by the Physicians' entrance, and Prex's little beat-up
Dartmouth slid smoothly into the desultory traffic for the suburbs.
* * * * *
The apartment was small and neatly furnished. Shandor and the Doctor had
been admitted by a sleepy doorman who had been jolted to sudden
attention by Tom's PIB card, and after five minutes pounding on the
apartment door, a sleepy-eyed man opened the door a crack. "Say, what's
the idea pounding on a man's door at this time of night? Haven't you--"
Shandor gave the door a shove with his shoulder, driving it open into
the room. "Shut up," he said bluntly. He turned so the light struck his
face, and the little man's jaw dropped in astonishment. "Shandor!" he
whispered.
Frank Mariel looked like a weasel--sallow, sunken-cheeked, with a
yellowish cast to his skin that contrasted unpleasantly with the coal
black hair. "That's right," said Shandor. "We've come for a little talk.
Meet the doctor."
Mariel's eyes shifted momentarily to Prex's stoney face, then back to
Shandor, ghosts of fear creeping across his face. "What do you want?"
"I've come for the files."
The little man scowled. "You've come to the wrong man. I don't have any
files."
Prex carefully took a small black case from his pocket, unsnapped a
hinge, and a small, shiny instrument fell out in his hand. "The files,"
said Shandor. "Who has them?"
"I--I don't know--"
Shandor smashed a fist into the man's face, viciously, knocking him
reeling to the floor. "You tried to kill me tonight," he snarled. "You
should have done it up right. You should stick to magazine editing and
keep your nose out of dirty games, Mariel. Who has the files?"
Mariel picked himself up, trembling, met Shandor's fist, and sprawled
again, a trickle of blood appearing at his mouth. "Harry Dartmouth has
the files," he groaned. "They're probably in Chicago now."
"What do you know about Harry Dartmouth?"
Mariel gained a chair this time before Shandor hit him. "I've only met
him a couple of times. He's the president of Dartmouth Bearing
Corporation and he's my boss--Dartmouth Bearing publishes '_Fighting
World_.' I do what he tells me."
Shandor's eyes flared. "Including murder, is that right?" Mariel's eyes
were sullen. "Come on, talk! Why did Dartmouth want Ingersoll's personal
files?"
The man just stared sullenly at the floor. Prex pressed a stud on the
side of the shiny instrument, and a purple flash caught Mariel's little
finger. Mariel jerked and squealed with pain. "Speak up," said Shandor.
"I didn't hear you."
"Probably about the bonds," Mariel whimpered. His face was ashen, and he
eyed Prex with undisguised pleading. "Look, tell him to put that thing
away--"
Shandor grinned without humor. "You don't like scalders, eh? Get a big
enough dose, and you're dead, Mariel--but I guess you know that, don't
you? Think about it. But don't think too long. What about the bonds?"
"Ingersoll has been trying to get Dartmouth Bearing Corporation on legal
grounds for years. Something about the government bonds they held,
bought during the China wars. You know, surplus profits--Dartmouth
Bearing could beat the taxes by buying bonds. Harry Dartmouth thought
Ingersoll's files had some legal dope against them--he was afraid you'd
try to make trouble for the company--"
"So he hired his little pixie, eh? Seems to me you'd have enough on your
hands editing that rag--"
Mariel shot him an injured look. "'_Fighting World_' has the second
largest magazine circulation in the country. It's a good magazine."
"It's a warmonger propaganda rag," snapped Shandor. He glared at the
little man. "What's your relation to Ingersoll?"
"I hated his guts. He was carrying his lily-livered pacifism right to
the White House, and I couldn't see it. So I fought him every inch of
the way. I'll fight what he stands for now he's dead--"
Shandor's eyes narrowed. "That was a mistake, Mariel. You weren't
supposed to know he is dead." He walked over to the little man, whose
face was a shade whiter yet. "Funny," said Shandor quietly. "You say you
hated him, but I didn't get that impression at all."