Graveyard Plots

Cain’s Mark

The first thing Cain did when he arrived in San Francisco was steal a car.

He stepped off the through-Portland bus at the Seventh Street Terminal, carrying a blue airline overnight bag; it was a few minutes after midnight. He walked through the terminal, without haste, turning south to Mission Street and then east along there to a shadowed, unattended parking lot between Sixth and Seventh. He prowled among the scattered few cars still parked there until he found a dark blue, late-model sedan that satisfied him. From the pocket of his tan overcoat he took a thin piece of stiff, oddly shaped wire and bent to the door lock. Moments later, he slipped in beneath the wheel, placing the overnight bag on the seat beside him. He probed the ignition slot with the wire, and after a few moments more the sedan’s engine began rumbling softly. The entire operation had taken perhaps two minutes; if anyone had been watching, it would have looked like he was entering his own car with his own set of keys.

Cain put the sedan in gear, switched on the headlights, and drove out of the lot, crossing the double yellow lines illegally to turn west on Mission. He picked up Bayshore Freeway South at Tenth and Bryant, eight blocks away. Traffic was light at this hour, but Cain remained in the center of the three lanes, maintaining a moderate speed.

Some twenty minutes later, he left the freeway at the Poplar Street exit in San Mateo. He drove through the dark, quiet, deserted streets, crossed El Camino Real, and entered the prosperous, well-landscaped community of Hillsborough. On Devaney Way, Cain made a left turn and went three blocks. In the middle of the fourth, he eased the sedan to the curb in front of a sprawling, two-story red-brick home with ornate grillwork balconies. On the left side of the house, just ahead of where Cain had parked, was a crushed, white-gravel drive, bordered on both sides by a six-foot hedge. He could not see the front door of the home because the hedge extended down to parallel the street in front, broken only by a grillwork gate to the rear of where he was parked. But he could see the open, empty garage clearly; a pale, hooded light burned over the door.

Cain shut off the headlights, but left the engine running. It was an extremely quiet engine, and he had to strain to hear it himself; he was sure no one in the red-brick house — or in any of the adjacent or facing houses — could hear it. He set the parking brake, and then slid across the seat to the passenger side. He wound down the window there, then lifted the blue overnight bag onto his lap and zippered it open and took the .45-caliber automatic from inside.

He held the automatic on his right thigh and looked at the luminescent dial of his wristwatch. One-ten. Cain slid down in the seat until his eyes were on a level with the sill of the open window.

At twenty-seven minutes past one, headlights appeared on Devaney Way, coming toward him. Cain drifted lower on the seat. A red directional signal, indicating a left turn, came on below the headlights as the car — a cream-colored Cadillac — approached. Cain nodded once in the darkness, his fingers tightening around the butt of the automatic on his thigh.

The Cadillac turned smoothly onto the white-gravel drive, red stop lights winking. Cain watched as the driver — the lone occupant — maneuvered the car into the open garage. Cain, ears straining, heard the faint slam of a car door moments later.

He raised up on the seat, placing his arm on the window sill, the automatic extended toward the garage. A shadowed figure emerged from inside, stopped, and there was a faint whirring sound as the automatic garage door began to slide down. Then the man turned and Cain could see him clearly in the pale light from above the door.

He squeezed the trigger on the automatic three times, sighting along the barrel. Each of the three shots went exactly where Cain had intended them to go: into the garage wall above and slightly to the left of the man there.

The man threw himself to the white-gravel drive, rolling swiftly toward the green hedge on his right. Cain dropped the automatic into the overnight bag, slid over under the wheel; with his left hand he released the parking brake, with his right he dropped the automatic transmission into Drive. The rear tires on the sedan screamed against the pavement, as Cain’s foot bore down on the accelerator. He had time for one quick glance in the direction of the garage; the man lay partially hidden in the shadow of the hedge, head raised slightly, looking toward him. And then the sedan was moving away, gathering speed. In his rearview mirror, Cain could see lights being flicked on in neighboring houses. He took the first corner, left, and when he had cleared the intersection he switched on his headlights. Two more blocks and a right turn, and Cain reduced his speed to the legal limit of twenty-five.

Just short of half an hour later, he reentered the San Francisco city and county limits. He exited the Bayshore Freeway at Army Street, turning right off there on Harrison, and parked the sedan in front of a warehouse driveway. He got out then, taking the overnight bag, and walked quickly up three blocks to Mission Street; he caught, almost immediately, a Municipal Railway Bus downtown.

He left the Muni at Sixth and walked up to cross Market. On the corner of Taylor and Geary, he entered the Graceling Hotel, registered under the name of Philip Storm, and was given a room on the third floor. Inside the room, he removed the gun from the bag, oiled and cleaned it, and reloaded the clip from a box of shells. When he finished, he replaced the automatic in the bag, put it under the bed, and lay down on top of the sheets.

It was almost dawn before he finally slept.

The man who had been shot at in Hillsborough was named James Agenrood.

Following the shooting, he sat in his mahogany-paneled, book-lined study. He was alone; his wife, who had been badly frightened, had taken several sleeping pills and gone to bed.

Agenrood poured brandy from a crystal decanter into an expensive snifter and tasted it without his usual enjoyment of the imported liquor. He had regained his composure, but his nerves were still agitated.

He tasted the brandy again, and then slid the telephone toward him across the desk, dialed a number. It rang several times; finally, a sleepy voice said, “Hello?”

“Len?”

“Yes?”

“Jim.”

“This is a hell of a time of night to be calling anybody, Jim,” the sleepy voice said irritably.

Agenrood took a measured breath. “Somebody tried to kill me tonight,” he said.

“What!”

“Yes. About an hour ago.”

There was silence for a moment, and then the voice, which was no longer sleepy, said, “Do you have any idea who it was?”

“No.”

“Professional?”

“I’d say so. He seemed to know my habits, that I always go to the Club on Wednesday nights, and that I usually get home around one-thirty. He was waiting out on the street.”

“Just one man?”

“I think so.”

“Did you get a look at him?”

“It was too dark.”

“How about the car?”

“Dark sedan, maybe last year’s,” Agenrood said. “I saw part of the license plate. DRD.”

“Did you call the police?”

“No. I made sure the neighbors didn’t either.”

“I’ll get somebody on it right away.”

“I’d appreciate it, Len.”

“Listen, Jim, whoever it was isn’t affiliated with us. You know your standing with the National Office.”

“I didn’t think he was.”

“Just so you know.”

“Thanks, Len.”

“I’ll drop by your office tomorrow.”

“All right.”

“And Jim... be careful, will you?”

Agenrood laughed, but there was no trace of humor in his gray eyes. “I’ll do that, don’t worry.”

He cradled the receiver, lifted the decanter of brandy again; he poured another drink — his fifth since the shooting. He sat staring into the snifter. His face, in the pale light from his desk lamp, was an inscrutable mask etched of solid stone.

Cain awoke at eleven the next morning, dressed leisurely, and then called room service and ordered a pot of coffee and some buttered toast. When it arrived, he carried it to the small writing desk. In one of its drawers he found notepaper and plain white envelopes and several soft-lead pencils.

He printed a short, two-paragraph note on one of the pieces of paper, folded it, and slipped it into an envelope. He addressed the envelope, sealed it, finished his breakfast, put on his overcoat, and went out to the elevator.

In a drugstore two blocks from the Graceling Hotel, Cain bought a twenty-two-cent stamp. There was a mailbox on the opposite corner, and he dropped the envelope inside after noting on the front the times that mail was picked up there.

Before returning to the Graceling, Cain bought a newspaper from one of the sidewalk vendors. In his room, he read it carefully. There was no mention of the episode in Hillsborough. Cain had not expected that there would be; for one thing it had happened well past midnight, too late for the morning editions; for another, and more importantly, he knew that Agenrood would not have called in the police. But he read the paper thoroughly just the same.

He lay on his bed, thinking, for the remainder of the afternoon. At five o’clock, he went out to a nearby restaurant and ate a light supper. On the way back from there, he stopped at a parking garage that had a telephone booth. He inserted a dime and dialed a number from memory. A man’s voice answered.

“Hello?”

Cain did not say anything.

“Hello?” the voice repeated.

Cain held the receiver away from his ear.

“Hello? Hello? Who is this?”

Cain hung up and left the garage.

The distinguished-looking man who sat in James Agenrood’s private office at Consolidated Trades, Incorporated, tamped the dottle from his briar pipe and said, “Let’s have a look at this note, Jim.”

Wordlessly, Agenrood passed a folded sheet of paper across his marble-topped desk. The distinguished man picked it up, unfolded it, and read:

The distinguished man folded the paper again and laid it carefully on Agenrood’s desk. “No signature,” he said.

“Did you expect there to be one?”

“Easy, Jim.”

“I’m all right.”

The distinguished man refilled his pipe. “What do you think he means?”

“It’s obvious, isn’t it?”

“Maybe.”

“He wasn’t trying to kill me the other night at all. He’s not a professional assassin.”

“Unless he’s freelancing.”

“That’s possible, I suppose,” Agenrood said. “In any case, he knows a lot about me. I don’t know how, but he’s got my private telephone number at home.”

“He called you?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Last night.”

“What did he say?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all. I could hear him breathing on the other end of the line, and then he hung up.”

“How do you know it was him?”

“It was him,” Agenrood said.

“You haven’t talked to the police, have you?”

“I’m not a fool, Len.”

“I didn’t mean to imply that,” the distinguished man, Len, said.

“I’ve put Reilly and Pordenza on it. They’re good men.”

“Sure.”

“They learned that a dark blue sedan was abandoned in the Mission District some time Wednesday night. It had been stolen earlier in the evening from a downtown parking lot. First three letters on the plate were DRD. It looks like that was the one he used.”

“That bases him in San Francisco,” Agenrood said. “The envelope this note came in was postmarked there.”

Len nodded.

Agenrood said, “Did Reilly and Pordenza learn anything else?”

“No.”

“Well, whoever he is, he’s got to be known to the National Office,” Agenrood said. “Only somebody within the Circle could find out as much about me as he seems to know.”

Len rubbed his nose with an index finger. “Can you think of anybody who has a grudge against you? Anybody you pushed, no matter how lightly, at one time or another?”

“None that would try anything like this.”

“Give me their names anyway.”

Agenrood wrote several names on a sheet of paper from his desk and gave the list to Len. He glanced at it briefly and tucked it into the pocket of his olive silk suit. “Are you staying home this weekend?”

“What else can I do?”

“I can put a couple of men on your house in case he tries something.”

“No, Len,” Agenrood said. “How would that look?”

Len nodded slowly. “Yes, I see what you mean.”

“I don’t think he’ll do anything until after he talks to me,” Agenrood said. “I’ll be all right.”

“If he calls, you let me know right away.”

“I will.”

Len stood. “Try not to worry, will you? We’ll find him before long.”

Agenrood did not speak. The two men went to the door. When Len had gone, Agenrood closed the door and stood looking at it for a long moment.

“I hope so,” he said finally, in a whispering voice. “I sincerely hope so.”

On Saturday night, shortly past eight, Cain left the Graceling Hotel for the first time since Thursday evening. There was an icy wind off the bay, blowing ethereal wisps of fog overhead; he walked quickly. On Pine Street, near Powell, he entered a quiet, dark cocktail lounge. He ordered a draft beer from the red-vested barman, and then carried it with him into the rear of the lounge to where a public telephone booth stood between the rest room doors.

Inside the booth, Cain set the glass on the little shelf beneath the phone and dialed the same number that he had on Thursday night.

Presently, there was a soft click and a man’s voice said guardedly, “Yes?”

“Agenrood?”

A brief pause. “Yes?”

“Did you get my note?”

Another pause, longer this time. Then, “I received it.”

“Did you understand it?”

“I think I did.”

“Good,” Cain said. “I thought you would.”

“Just who are you?”

“You don’t really expect me to tell you that, do you?”

“All right, then. How much do you want?”

“Two hundred thousand dollars.”

Cain heard Agenrood suck in his breath.

“Did you hear me, Agenrood?”

“I heard you.”

“Well?”

“I don’t keep that kind of money.”

“But you can get it readily enough.”

“Suppose I don’t agree?”

“What do you think?”

“You’re making a large mistake,” Agenrood said. “I represent—”

“I know who you represent.”

“Then you’re a fool.”

“Two hundred thousand dollars,” Cain said.

“If I pay it, you won’t live to spend it.”

“If you don’t,” Cain said, “you won’t live. Period.”

There was a long silence.

“Well. Agenrood?”

“I’ll have to think it over.”

Cain smiled. “You do that.”

“How can I get in touch with you?”

Cain continued to smile. “Stay by your phone, Agenrood,” he said, and replaced the receiver.

James Agenrood paced the wine-colored carpet in his study nervously. He said, “He called about eight tonight, Len.”

The distinguished man stood holding a snifter of brandy by Agenrood’s desk. His features were grim. “And?”

“He wants two hundred thousand dollars.”

Len said, “My God!”

“He’s deadly serious. It was plain in his voice.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know,” Agenrood said. “That’s why I asked you to come by.”

Len rolled the brandy snifter between his hands. “If you pay him,” he said slowly, “it won’t be the last time. If he knows you’re worried, worried enough to come up with the money once, he’ll be back. Again and again.”

“Yes. I was thinking the same thing.”

“I’d like to say Reilly and Pordenza have something further,” Len said. “Or that somebody on that list you gave me checks out as possible.”

“But there’s nothing, is there?”

“Nothing at all.”

“Then I’ve got to pay him,” Agenrood said. “Either that, or—” He left it there, moistening his lips.

Len walked across to the wine-colored drapes covering a large picture window. He stood with his back to Agenrood. After a time he said, “That would be very dangerous, Jim.”

“I know.”

“You’re established now, both here and with the National Office. And you’re important to us, Jim. Very important. I think you realize what I mean. If something went wrong...”

“I know that, too,” Agenrood said.

Len turned and met Agenrood’s eyes. “I don’t advise that alternative,” he said.

“Do you think I like the idea of it any better? But it doesn’t look like I have much choice, does it?”

Len did not say anything.

“Will you help me, Len?” Agenrood asked.

“I don’t know.”

“I’ve never asked you for a favor before.”

“No, you haven’t.”

“I want two men, that’s all.”

The distinguished man worried his lower lip. “How do you know he’ll leave himself open? He’s done the rest of it very shrewdly.”

“If he doesn’t, I can arrange it.”

“Are you sure?”

“No,” Agenrood said. “I’m not sure.”

“When is he supposed to contact you again?”

“He didn’t say. I don’t think it will be too long, though.”

“I see.”

The two men stood quietly for several minutes. Agenrood said then, “More brandy, Len?”

“Yes.”

Agenrood poured more brandy for each of them. They stood drinking in silence. Finally, Len said, “All right, Jim. If you can arrange a quiet place, out of the way. If you can do that.”

Agenrood inclined his head and, wordlessly, they continued to stand drinking their brandy in the dark study.

The telephone booth in the lobby of the San Francisco Hilton Hotel smelled of lime-scented after-shave lotion. Cain did not like the smell, but he kept the door shut nonetheless. He said into the receiver, “What’s your decision, Agenrood?”

“All right,” Agenrood said. “I don’t have any other alternative, do I?”

“You’re a wise man,” Cain told him. “When can you have the money?”

“By Tuesday.”

“Fine.”

“How do you want to pick it up?”

“You bring it to me. Personally.”

“There’s no need for that.”

“There’s a need for it,” Cain said.

There was a long silence, and then Agenrood said, “Whatever you say.”

“If you don’t come yourself, I’ll know it.”

“I’ll come myself.”

Cain nodded in the booth.

Agenrood said, “Where do I go?”

“Are you familiar with the Coast Highway, just south of Rockaway Beach?”

“Yes.”

“There’s a Standard station on the highway there that has gone out of business,” Cain said. “Loy Brophy’s is the name of it. Park in there, by the pumps, at midnight Tuesday. When you see headlights swing in off the highway, and they blink off and then back on again, follow the car. Have you got all that, Agenrood?”

“Yes. Is that all?”

“Just one more thing.”

“Yes?”

“Make sure you’re alone.”

Cain left the Hilton Hotel. A block away, he hailed a taxicab and told the driver where he wanted to go. The driver looked at him curiously for a moment, and then shrugged and edged out into the light Sunday afternoon traffic. Cain settled back against the rear seat, lit a cigarette, and thought out carefully what he was going to say when he arrived at his destination.

James Agenrood said, “That’s all of it, Len. Just as he told it to me on the telephone.”

The distinguished man shifted in his chair. He took the briar pipe from his suit pocket and looked at it for a moment. “It sounds like he’s covering himself from all angles.”

“Not quite.”

“No,” Len agreed. “Not quite.”

“He won’t be able to see inside my car unless he pulls right up next to me at the pumps. And even if he does that, it will be dark enough in the back seat to hide anybody down on the floorboards. He’d have to get out and walk right up to the car, and he’s not going to do that, not there on the highway. He’s got some other place in mind.”

“Suppose that other place is one that’s well-lighted, with a lot of people around?”

“I don’t think so, Len,” Agenrood said. “If that was his idea, he wouldn’t have set it up for Rockaway Beach; that’s a pretty dark and sparsely populated area. And he wouldn’t go through all that business about blinking his headlights off an on, and then leaving with me following him.”

Len nodded thoughtfully. “Maybe you’re right.”

“I think I am.”

“Why do you suppose he wants you to bring the money personally? You’ll see his face that way.”

“I don’t know,” Agenrood admitted. “He has to be a little crazy to try something like this in the first place, and there’s no way of telling what could be going through his mind. Maybe it’s just a precaution against a trap and he’s covering himself the way you said.”

“Maybe,” Len said. “And maybe he intends, once he has the money, to finish what he started Wednesday night.”

“Yes,” Agenrood said, taking a breath. “But it doesn’t really matter, does it? If that’s what he plans to do, he won’t have the chance.”

“I don’t like it. It’s damned risky.”

“No riskier than turning him down, and then having to look over my shoulder every time I go out for a package of cigarettes until you locate him. If you locate him.”

Len filled his pipe. When he had gotten it lighted, he said, “Reilly and Pordenza?”

“I know Pordenza. He’s very capable.”

“So is Reilly.”

“All right, then.”

“He told you he’d know if you didn’t come yourself?”

“That’s what he said.”

“He might plan on watching your house, then.”

“I thought of that.”

“But we can’t do anything there.”

“No.”

“How do we get Reilly and Pordenza into your car?”

“They can come across the rear of my property and slip in through the back entrance to the garage. I’ll have the garage door closed, and if he’s out on the street somewhere he won’t be able to see inside. They can get in and out of sight before I come out.”

“That sounds okay.”

“I guess that’s it, then.”

“Yes, that’s it. But listen, Jim, I don’t want to lose you, and neither does the National Office. Go easy Tuesday night.”

“I plan on doing just that,” Agenrood said. “Everything is going to turn out just fine.”

“I hope so. Because if there’s any trouble, I can’t help you, Jim. As much as the National Office likes you, they won’t go to bat for you if there’s a foul-up.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“Good luck, then.”

Agenrood smiled faintly. “And good hunting?”

“Yes,” Len said. “And good hunting.”

At twenty minutes past nine on Tuesday night, Cain left the Graceling Hotel and walked to the corner of Taylor and Eddy streets. There, he entered a gray stone building; over the building’s entrance was a yellow-and-black sign that read: RIGHT-WAY RENT-A-CAR — $25 PER DAY, 5¢ PER MILE.

It was five minutes till ten when he emerged from an adjacent parking facility, driving a new, light brown, two-door hardtop. He had had no difficulties.

The luminescent dial of Cain’s wristwatch read ten-forty when he parked the hardtop less than half a block beyond James Agenrood’s red brick home on Devaney Way in Hillsborough. He eased his body down on the seat, remaining beneath the wheel; he adjusted the rearview mirror until he could see clearly Agenrood’s garage, and the pale light that burned above its electronic door. He was not worried about being seen there, or of anything happening to him so near Agenrood’s home; but he kept his right hand on the automatic in the pocket of his overcoat just the same.

Agenrood came out at eleven-thirteen; Cain saw his face clearly in the garage light. He was alone. He disappeared into the garage, and moments later the cream-colored Cadillac began to glide backward to the street. Headlights washed over the hardtop, but Cain was low enough on the seat so that he was sure Agenrood could not see him. The Cadillac swept past, and through the windshield now he watched it turn the corner at the first intersection and then vanish from sight.

Cain remained where he was for five minutes, timing it by his watch. Then he straightened on the seat, started the hardtop, and drove off in the direction Agenrood had taken.

Cain turned off Sharp Park Road, south onto the Coast Highway, at twenty minutes before twelve. He drove through Pacifica and Rockaway Beach; the Pacific Ocean lay smooth and hushed and cold on his right, like a great limitless pool of quicksilver in the shine from the three-quarter moon overhead.

He began to slow down when he saw the black-shadowed shape of the closed Standard station ahead of him. He came parallel to it and then made a left-hand turn across the highway and swung up onto the square of asphalt in front of the station. The cream-colored Cadillac sat dark and silent by the forward pumps. Cain touched the headlight switch, shutting the beams off; immediately, he flicked them back on again. He drove across to the opposite side of the asphalt square, waited there to allow a large truck to pass, and then swung out onto the Coast Highway again, resuming a southerly direction.

He looked up into his rearview mirror and saw Agenrood come out of the Standard station and fall in behind him.

Inside the cream-colored Cadillac, one of the two men hunched down on the floor of the back seat — Pordenza — said, “Where do you think he’s heading?”

James Agenrood’s hands were slick on the steering wheel. “I don’t know,” he answered.

“Well, I hope he gets there damned quick,” Pordenza said. “I’ve got a charley horse in my leg.”

“Just stay out of sight.”

“Don’t worry, Mr. Agenrood.”

“We know what we’re doing,” Reilly put in quietly.

Agenrood watched the crimson lights two hundred yards ahead of him. A fine sheen of perspiration beaded his wide forehead. They continued for another mile, and then the left directional signal on the hardtop winked on; the car began to reduce its speed.

Agenrood said, “He’s going to turn.”

“Where?” Pordenza asked.

“There’s a narrow dirt road up ahead. It winds up into the hills, to some private homes scattered across the tops.”

“Anything between the highway and those homes?”

“No.”

“That’s it,” Reilly said.

The hardtop turned onto the dirt road. Agenrood followed. They began to climb steadily; the road twisted an irregular path, with several doglegs and a sharp curve now and then. High wisps of fog began to shred in Agenrood’s headlights, and he could see that at the crests of the hills, where the private homes were, it was thick and blanketing.

The hardtop came around one of the doglegs and its stop lights went on, flashing blood-red in the gray-black night. Agenrood said, “There’s a turnout up ahead. I think he’s going in there.”

The hardtop edged into the turnout, parallel to the upper end, where a slope was grown thickly with bushes and scrub cypress. “He’s stopping,” Agenrood said.

“Pull up behind him,” Pordenza directed from the floor of the back seat. “Leave a car’s length between you.”

Agenrood complied. When he saw the headlights on the hardtop go out, he shut his own off. It was dark then, but the moonlight — though dimmed now and then by the tendrils of fog — bathed the turnout with sufficient light to see by.

“What’s he doing?” Pordenza asked.

“Just sitting there.”

“When he gets out of the car, let him get clear of it by a few steps. Not too many. Then let us know.”

Agenrood could hear faint stirrings in the back seat. He knew Reilly and Pordenza had moved one to each of the rear doors. They were waiting there now, with one hand on the door handles and the other wrapped around their guns.

“When we go,” Reilly breathed from the back seat, “you get down on the front seat. Just in case.”

“All right,” Agenrood said, and the sweat on him was oily and cold now, flowing wetly along his body.

Cain sat very still beneath the wheel of the hardtop, his eyes lifted to the rearview mirror. There was no movement from inside the Cadillac; at least, none that he could see.

With his right hand, he took the automatic from the pocket of his overcoat and held it tightly in his fingers. He put his left hand on the door latch, and then took a long, deep breath, released it, and opened the door and stepped out onto the dusty surface of the turnout. He held the automatic low and slightly behind him, so that it was hidden from Agenrood’s view by his leg.

Cain’s muscles tensed, grew rigid. His eyes, unblinking, never left the Cadillac. He took one step away from the car, another, a third step toward the Cadillac.

Three things happened simultaneously.

There was a hoarse, muffled cry from inside the Cadillac; Agenrood’s body disappeared, falling sideways; the rear doors of the Cadillac flew open and two men came out, very fast, guns extended in their hands.

Cain threw himself to the ground, rolled once, twice, came up on his knees, bracing himself. Twin flashes came from either side of the Cadillac; the two explosions were so close together the sound of them became one. Dust splashed up to one side of Cain; at the same instant, he felt a jarring impact high on the left side of his chest, a quick cut of pain, then the area went numb. But he did not lose his balance, and his eyes were clear. The automatic bucked twice, loudly, in his hand. He saw the man on the driver’s side of the Cadillac whirl and fall, crying out.

The second man ducked behind the fender on the passenger side. Cain tried to turn his body there and couldn’t; his entire left side was without feeling now. The man on the passenger side rose up cautiously, extending his gun, aiming, and then three rapid shots sounded from the scrub cypress on the slope. The second man stood up briefly, pirouetted, and vanished from sight.

The automatic dropped from Cain’s fingers and he let his body sag forward until he lay huddled in the cold dust. He heard the whirring whine of the Cadillac’s starter; then there were several shouts and the sound of running feet. A door was wrenched open. The Cadillac became silent again.

Cain tried to smile, but he was unable to move his facial muscles. He closed his eyes. A single pair of running feet approached him, and he felt a hand on his shoulder and heard somebody speaking to him. He could not understand the words.

Blackness began to unfold behind his eyes, and then there were no more sounds at all.

The private hospital room in Pacifica had greenish walls and smelled of ether and antiseptic and, faintly, of the day nurse’s rosewater perfume. Cain sat propped up by several pillows on the single bed; his chest was bare, and the upper half of it was swathed in bandages.

There were two other men in the room. One was tall and had a long, thin neck; the other was short and studious-appearing, and wore a large pair of horn-rimmed glasses. They sat on two white metal chairs at the foot of the bed.

The studious-appearing man said, “You’re a damned fool, Cain. You know that, don’t you?”

“Am I?” Cain said briefly. He was looking out of the window; it was a warm, clear day and he could see the Pacific Ocean, glass-smooth in the distance.

The studious man opened a leather briefcase on his lap and removed several sheets of paper filled with neat lines of typing, single-spaced. The man looked at Cain, then looked back at the papers. “Do you know what this is?”

“No,” Cain said.

“It’s a report on one Steven Cain,” the studious man told him. “A very comprehensive report we had compiled.”

Cain continued to look out of the window.

“It says you were a colonel in the Marines during the Second World War, twice decorated for valor on Leyte and Okinawa. It says that you graduated at the top of your class at the University of California, where you majored in law enforcement following the war. It says that you joined the San Francisco Police Force in 1949 and while you were a patrolman in the Mission District you once captured four men in the act of robbing a factory payroll. It says that you were the youngest man in San Francisco police history to be promoted to the Detective Squad, and the second youngest to make division lieutenant.” The studious man paused, looking up at Cain again. “There’s more, a lot more. It’s a very impressive record you’ve got, Cain.”

Cain did not answer.

“Impressive enough to indicate an acute intelligence,” the studious man said. “But I don’t see any sign of intelligence in this crazy stunt you pulled off here. I don’t see anything at all of the man this report covers.”

Again, Cain did not answer.

“It was because of your daughter, wasn’t it, Cain?” the man with the long neck said suddenly, speaking for the first time. “Because of what happened to Doreen?”

Cain brought his eyes away from the window and let them rest on the man with the long neck. He kept his lips pressed tightly together.

“It’s all there in the report,” the man with the long neck said. “About how you raised the girl after your wife died twelve years ago, how you were devoted to her. And it’s in there, too, about how she was run down and killed by a car on an afternoon eight months ago when she was coming home from high school; how a patrol unit nearby saw the hit-and-run and chased the car and caught it a few blocks away; how the driver pulled a gun when they approached and one of the officers was forced to shoot him in self-defense, killing him instantly; how that driver turned out to be a twenty-three-year-old drug addict and convicted felon; and how they found almost half a kilo of heroin under the dashboard of the car—”

“That’s enough!” Cain was leaning forward on the bed, oblivious to the sharp pain that the sudden movement had caused in his chest; his jaw was set grimly and his eyes were flashing.

The man with the long neck seemed not to hear him. “For all intents and purposes, you went just a little crazy when you heard the news, Cain. You needed somebody to strike out at, somebody to blame for your daughter’s death. The kid was dead, so it had to be somebody else. That somebody was James Agenrood, the Organization’s head of narcotics distribution in this area.

“You began a one-man crusade to get Agenrood; at first, you went through official channels and the newspapers agreed to play down the investigation — which was why Agenrood never knew your name. You dug up or bought or intimidated every scrap of knowledge available on Agenrood. But at the end of it all, you hadn’t uncovered a thing on him that could put him away; he was, officially, a respectable citizen, President of Consolidated Trades, Inc., and untouchable. You just couldn’t let go of it, though. Getting Agenrood became an obsession; you neglected your official duties in the pursuit of it. The Commissioner had to call you in finally and order you to cease. But you refused, and he had no alternative but to suspend you. A week later, you resigned. Shortly after that, you moved to Portland to live with a married sister and everybody here was maybe a little glad to see you go because they thought that finally you were through with it.

“But you weren’t through. You had to get Agenrood, one way or another. You couldn’t commit murder; you’d been an honest, dedicated cop too long to resort to that. So you went up to Portland and thought it all out, looking for another way, and then you came back here last Wednesday and stole a car to make the fake attempt on Agenrood’s life look professional. You knew he would never pay the kind of money you asked him for; you knew there was only one other thing he could do. You made sure he would be there when it was tried, and then you contacted us. You knew we were as eager to get something on Agenrood as you were, and you told us just enough to get us interested — but not enough so we knew what you were planning — so that we would agree to send a couple of men up to that road to wait. And it worked out okay, at least to your way of thinking. We’ve got Agenrood on a charge of conspiracy to commit murder, among other things; he’s through with the Organization, because they won’t take the chance of becoming involved by jumping to his defense. So you got him, Cain. You got your revenge, all right.”

Cain had slumped back against the pillows. But his jaw remained grim. He did not say anything.

“But was it worth it?” the man with the long neck went on finally. “Was it really worth it, Cain? Was it worth the prison sentence you’re facing on a list of charges that range from car theft to carrying a concealed weapon? What the hell have you actually gained by all this? Why didn’t you let us handle it? We’d have gotten Agenrood sooner or later. We always get them sooner or later.”

The man with the long neck stopped speaking then, and it became very quiet in the room. After a long time, Cain said, “Maybe you would have gotten him, and maybe you wouldn’t. I couldn’t take the chance, don’t you see? Agenrood killed my daughter, just as sure as if he put a gun to her head and pulled the trigger. I had to be the one; it was up to me. I had to get him for Doreen. Don’t you understand that?”

The two men looked at Cain, and then at one another. The room was silent again for several minutes. Then the two men stood, walked to the door.

“Don’t you?” Cain said to them, softly.

“Yes,” the studious man answered, just as softly. He put his hand on the knob and opened the door. “Yes, Cain, we understand.”

Cain, lying in the bed, staring at the closed door after they had gone, wondered if they really understood at all. But after a while, when he had been alone for some time, he decided that it did not matter, one way or the other.