Kill as Directed

Twenty-Two

Through Dr. Harry Brown’s vacant head ran the clear, cold, futile thought, He’s surprised. Whoever the man is, he expected anything but the hotel guest on his feet with an inquiring look and a visitor sitting in an armchair.

“Mr. Curtis,” the giant said. He had a bass voice, rusty-sounding as if from disuse. “Everything all right?”

“All right?” repeated Kurt Gresham. “Why, certainly, Mr. O’Brien. Come in.”

The giant stepped further into the room and the millionaire reached around him and shut the door.

“Why the pistol, Mr. O’Brien?” Gresham said. “Would you mind putting it away? I have a weak heart.”

The giant looked foolish. Harry thought, He’s a wrestler, or an old-time fighter. The broken nose, the impossible spread of shoulder, the stupid little pig-eyes under the lumpy ridges of bone, the gorilla’s jaw...

“Oh, Doctor,” said Kurt Gresham. “This is Mr. O’Brien, the Starhurst’s house detective. My doctor, Dr. Brown.”

“Your doctor?” O’Brien said. He breathed noisily through the broken nose. “Well, how do, Doc.”

Harry nodded.

“What happened, Mr. O’Brien?” the millionaire asked, frowning.

“I dunno,” the house detective growled. “Somebody’s idea of a joke, I guess, Mr. Curtis. I got a call in my office. Some dame talking fast and hysterical-like, said she heard shooting in Suite 101. She hung up before I could ask her who she was or what room she was calling from. I had no time to check.”

“What time did she call?” murmured Gresham.

“Five minutes to seven on the nose — you know, Mr. Curtis, I got that wall clock right facing my desk in my office? — and I guess I made it up here in ninety seconds flat — took me only a few seconds to arrange to stop the elevators and seal off the exits.”

“That was quick work,” the millionaire said. “It makes me feel a lot safer, knowing there’s a man like you on duty around here. I’ll see you won’t regret it, even though it was a hoax of some sort. Let’s say a Christmas present?”

“Thanks, Mr. Curtis,” said the giant bashfully. “It’s a fact that if this’d been a real shooting, the guy would be sewed up tighter than a drum. I’d have got him hands down... Well, excuse the interruption, gents. I got to go get the elevators started again and the boys off the doors.”

There was a rap on the door just as the house detective put his enormous hand on the knob. O’Brien glanced at Gresham, and the millionaire nodded.

“I’m expecting somebody, Mr. O’Brien. It’s all right.”

O’Brien opened the door. A tall conservatively dressed man stood outside. He was carrying a brief case. The man’s eyes flickered at sight of O’Brien.

Harry automatically glanced at his wristwatch. He stared and stared at it. It wasn’t possible. The hands stood precisely at seven o’clock. Only five minutes had passed since he had come through the revolving door downstairs.

“If it’s inconvenient for you, Mr. Curtis...” the man with the brief case said. He had a neutral sort of voice, a voice to forget.

“No, no, come in. Mr. O’Brien is just leaving.” Kurt Gresham waved warmly to the house detective as the giant stepped out of the room, simultaneously giving the tall man a curt nod.

The man stepped in, shutting the door. He held onto the brief case. He glanced without expression at Harry. He said nothing more.

Gresham took the brief case from him and laid it on the bed. He went into the bathroom, came out with a brief case that was the identical twin of the one on the bed, handed it to the tall man.

“That’s all for today, Monte,” the millionaire said in his ordinary precise voice. “We’ll defer the accounting to another time. By the way, this place is finished as of tonight. I’ll let you know the new place and schedule over the weekend.” Gresham opened the door, and smiled. “Pleasant trip.”

The tall man went out without a word.