The Girl Hunters

"But what did he have to do with Leo?"

"I don't know," I told her. "His name has been coming up a little too often to be coincidental."

"Mike--" She bit her lip, thinking, then: "I have Leo's effects in the house. Do you think you might find something useful in them? They might make more sense to you than they do to me."

"It sure won't hurt to look." I held out my hand to help her up and that was as far as I got. The radio between us suddenly burst apart almost spontaneously and slammed backward into the pool.

I gave her a shove that threw her ten feet away, rolled the other way and got to my feet running like hell for the west side of the house. It had to have been a shot and from the direction the radio skidded I could figure the origin. It had to be a silenced blast from a pistol because a rifle would have had either Laura or me with no trouble at all. I skirted the trees, stopped and listened, and from almost directly ahead I heard a door slam and headed for it wishing I had kept the .45 on me and to hell with Pat. The bushes were too thick to break through so I had to cut down the driveway, the gravel crunching under my feet. I never had a chance. All I saw was the tail end of a dark blue Buick special pulling away to make a turn that hid it completely.

And now the picture was coming out a little clearer. It hadn't been a tired driver on the Thruway at all. The bastard had picked me up at Duck's stand, figured he had given me something when he had handed me the paper, probably hired a car the same time I did with plenty of time to do it in since I wasn't hurrying at all. He followed me until he was sure he knew where I was headed and waited me out.

Damn. It was too close. But what got me was, how many silenced shots had he fired before hitting that radio? He had been too far away for accurate shooting apparently, but he could have been plunking them all around us hoping for a hit until he got the radio. Damn!

And I was really important. He knew where I was heading. Even since I had started to operate I had had a tail on me and it had almost paid off for him. But if I were important dead, so was Laura, because now that killer could never be sure I hadn't let her in on the whole business. Another damn.

She stood over the wreckage of the portable she had fished from the pool, white showing at the corners of her mouth. Her hands trembled so that she clasped them in front of her and she breathed as though she had done the running, not me. Breathlessly, she said, "Mike--what was it? Please, Mike--"

I put my arm around her shoulder and with a queer sob she buried her face against me. When she looked up she had herself under control. "It was a shot, wasn't it?"

"That's right. A silenced gun."

"But--"

"It's the second time he's tried for me."

"Do you think--"

"He's gone for now," I said.

"But who was he?"

"I think he was The Dragon, sugar."

For a few seconds she didn't answer, then she turned her face up toward mine. "Who?"

"Nobody you know. He's an assassin. Up until now his record has been pretty good. He must be getting the jumps."

"My gracious, Mike, this is crazy! It's absolutely crazy."

I nodded in agreement. "You'll never know, but now we have a real problem. You're going to need protection."

"Me!"

"Anybody I'm close to is in trouble. The best thing we can do is call the local cops."

She gave me a dismayed glance. "But I can't--I have to be in Washington--Oh, Mike!"

"It won't be too bad in the city, kid, but out here you're too alone."

Laura thought about it, then shrugged. "I suppose you're right. After Leo was killed the police made me keep several guns handy. In fact, there's one in each room."

"Can you use them?"

Her smile was wan. "The policeman you met the last time showed me."

"Swell, but what about out here?"

"There's a shotgun in the corner of the bathhouse."

"Loaded?"

"Yes."

"A shotgun isn't exactly a handgun."

"Leo showed me how to use it. We used to shoot skeet together at the other end of the property."

"Police protection would still be your best bet."

"Can it be avoided?"

"Why stick your neck out?"

"Because from now on I'm going to be a very busy girl, Mike. Congress convenes this week and the race is on for hostess of the year."

"That stuff is a lot of crap."

"Maybe, but that's what Leo wanted."

"So he's leaving a dead hand around."

There was a hurt expression on her face. "Mike--I did love him. Please...?"

"Sorry, kid. I don't have much class. We bat in different leagues."

She touched me lightly, her fingers cool. "Perhaps not. I think we are really closer than you realize."

I grinned and squeezed her hand, then ran my palm along the soft swell of her flanks.

Laura smiled and said, "Are you going to--do anything about that shot?"

"Shall I?"

"It's up to you. This isn't my league now."

I made the decision quickly. "All right, we'll keep it quiet. If that slob has any sense he'll know we won't be stationary targets again. From now on I'll be doing some hunting myself."

"You sure, Mike?"

"I'm sure."

"Good. Then let's go through Leo's effects."

Inside she led me upstairs past the bedrooms to the end of the hall, opened a closet and pulled out a small trunk. I took it from her, carried it into the first bedroom and dumped the contents out on the dresser.

When you thought about it, it was funny how little a man actually accumulated during the most important years of his life. He could go through a whole war, live in foreign places with strange people, be called upon to do difficult and unnatural work, yet come away from those years with no more than he could put in a very small trunk.

Leo Knapp's 201 file was thick, proper and as military as could be. There was an attempt at a diary that ran into fifty pages, but the last third showed an obvious effort being made to overcome boredom, then the thing dwindled out. I went through every piece of paperwork there was, uncovering nothing, saving the photos until last.

Laura left me alone to work uninterruptedly, but the smell of her perfume was there in the room and from somewhere downstairs I could hear her talking on the phone. She was still tense from the experience outside and although I couldn't hear her conversation I could sense the strain in her voice. She came back in ten minutes later and sat on the edge of the bed, quiet, content just to be there, then she sighed and I knew the tension had gone out of her.

I don't know what I expected, but the results were a total negative. Of the hundreds of photos, half were taken by G.I. staff photogs and the rest an accumulation of camp and tourist shots that every soldier who ever came home had tucked away in his gear. When you were old and fat you could take them out, reminisce over the days when you were young and thin and wonder what had happened to all the rest in the picture before putting them back in storage for another decade.

Behind me Laura watched while I began putting things back in the trunk and I heard her ask, "Anything, Mike?"

"No." I half threw his medals in the pile. "Everything's as mundane as a mud pie."

"I'm sorry, Mike."

"Don't be sorry. Sometimes the mundane can hide some peculiar things. There's still a thread left to pull. If Leo had anything to do with Erlich I have a Fed for a friend who just might come up with the answer." I snapped the lock shut on the trunk. "It just gives me a pain to have everything come up so damn hard."

"Really?" Her voice laughed.

I glanced up into the mirror on the dresser and felt that wild warmth steal into my stomach like an ebullient catalyst that pulled me taut as a bowstring and left my breath hanging in my throat.

"Something should be made easy for you then," she said.

Laura was standing there now, tall and lovely, the sun still with her in the rich loamy color of her skin, the nearly bleached white tone of her hair.

At her feet the bikini made a small puddle of black like a shadow, then she walked away from it to me and I was waiting for her.

Chapter 9

Night and the rain had come back to New York, the air musty with dust driven up by the sudden surge of the downpour. The bars were filled, the sheltered areas under marquees crowded and an empty taxi a rare treasure to be fought over.

But it was a night to think in. There is a peculiar anonymity you can enjoy in the city on a rainy night. You're alone, yet not alone. The other people around you are merely motion and sound and the sign of life whose presence averts the panic of being truly alone, yet who observe the rules of the city and stay withdrawn and far away when they are close.

How many times had Velda and I walked in the rain? She was big and our shoulders almost touched. We'd deliberately walk out of step so that our inside legs would touch rhythmically and if her arm wasn't tucked underneath mine we'd hold hands. There was a ring I had given her. I'd feel it under my fingers and she'd look at me and smile because she knew what that ring meant.

Where was she now? What had really happened? Little hammers would go at me when I thought of the days and hours since they had dragged me into Richie Cole's room to watch him die, but could it have been any other way?

Maybe not seven years ago. Not then. I wouldn't have had a booze-soaked head then. I would have had a gun and a ticket that could get me in and out of places and hands that could take care of anybody.

But now. Now I was an almost-nothing. Not quite, because I still had years of experience going for me and a reason to push. I was coming back little by little, but unless I stayed cute about it all I could be a pushover for any hardcase.

What I had to do now was think. I still had a small edge, but how long it would last was anybody's guess. So think, Mike, old soldier. Get your head going the way it's supposed to. You know who the key is. You've known it all along. Cole died with her name on his lips and ever since then she's been the key. But why? But why?

How could she still be alive?

Seven years is a long time to hide. Too long. Why? Why?

So think, old soldier. Go over the possibilities.

The rain came down a little harder and began to run off the brim of my hat. In a little while it seeped through the top of the cheap trench coat and I could feel the cold of it on my shoulders. And then I had the streets all alone again and the night and the city belonged only to me. I walked, so I was king. The others who huddled in the doorways and watched me with tired eyes were the lesser ones. Those who ran for the taxis were the scared ones. So I walked and I was able to think about Velda again. She had suddenly become a case and it had to be that way. It had to be cold and logical, otherwise it would vaporize into incredibility and there would be nothing left except to go back to where I had come from.

Think.

Who saw her die? No one. It was an assumption. Well assumed, but an assumption nevertheless.

Then, after seven years, who saw her alive? Richie Cole.

Sure, he had reason to know her. They were friends. War buddies. They had worked together. Once a year they'd meet for supper and a show and talk over old times. Hell, I'd done it myself with George and Earle, Ray, Mason and the others. It was nothing you could talk about to anybody else, though. Death and destruction you took part in could be shared only with those in range of the same enemy guns. With them you couldn't brag or lie. You simply recounted and wondered that you were still alive and renewed a friendship.

Cole couldn't have made a mistake. He knew her.

And Cole had been a pro. Velda was a pro. He had come looking for me because she had told him I was a pro and he had been disappointed at what he had seen. He had taken a look at me and his reason for staying alive died right then. Whatever it was, he didn't think I could do it. He saw a damned drunken bum who had lost every bit of himself years before and he died thinking she was going to die too and he was loathing me with eyes starting to film over with the nonexistence of death.

Richie Cole just didn't know me very well at all.

He had a chance to say the magic word and that made all the difference.

Velda.

Would it still be the same? How will you look after seven years? Hell, you should see me. You should see the way I look. And what's inside you after a time span like that? Things happen in seven years; things build, things dissolve. What happens to people in love? Seven years ago that's the way we were. In Love. Capital L. Had we stayed together time would only have lent maturity and quality to that which it served to improve.

But my love, my love, how could you look at me, me after seven years? You knew what I had been and called for me at last, but I wasn't what you expected at all. That big one you knew and loved is gone, kid, long gone, and you can't come back that big any more. Hell, Velda, you know that. You can't come back...you should have known what would happen to me. Damn, you knew me well enough. And it happened. So how can you yell for me now? I know you knew what I'd be like, and you asked for me anyway.

I let out a little laugh and only the rain could enjoy it with me. She knew, all right. You can't come back just as big. Either lesser or bigger. There was no other answer. She just didn't know the odds against the right choice.

There was a new man on the elevator now. I signed the night book, nodded to him and gave him my floor. I got off at eight and went down the hall, watching my shadow grow longer and longer from the single light behind me.

I had my keys in my hand, but I didn't need them at all. The door to 808 stood wide open invitingly, the lights inside throwing a warm glow over the dust and the furniture and when I closed it behind me I went through the anteroom to my office where Art Rickerby was sitting and picked up the sandwich and Blue Ribbon beer he had waiting for me and sat down on the edge of the couch and didn't say a word until I had finished both.

Art said, "Your friend Nat Drutman gave me the key."

"It's okay."

"I pushed him a little."

"He's been pushed before. If he couldn't read you right you wouldn't have gotten the key. Don't sell him short."

"I figured as much."

I got up, took off the soggy coat and hat and threw them across a chair. "What's with the visit? I hope you're not getting too impatient."

"No. Patience is something inbred. Nothing I can do will bring Richie back. All I can do is play the angles, the curves, float along the stream of time, then, my friend, something will bite, even on an unbaited hook."

"Shit."

"You know it's like that. You're a cop."

"A long time ago."

He watched me, a funny smile on his face. "No. Now. I know the signs. I've been in this business too long."

"So what do you want here?"

Rickerby's smile broadened. "I told you once. I'll do anything to get Richie's killer."

"Oh?"

He reached in his pocket and brought out an envelope. I took it from him, tore it open and read the folded card it contained on all four of its sides, then slid it into my wallet and tucked it away.

"Now I can carry a gun," I said.

"Legally. In any state."

"Thanks. What did you give up to get it?"

"Not a thing. Favors were owed me too. Our department is very--wise."

"They think it's smart to let me carry a rod again?"

"There aren't any complaints. You have your--ticket."

"It's a little different from the last one this state gave me."

"Don't look a gift horse in the mouth, my friend."

"Okay. Thanks."

"No trouble. I'm being smug."

"Why?"

He took off his glasses again, wiped them and put them back on. "Because I have found out all about you a person could find. You're going to do something I can't possibly do because you have the key to it all and won't let it go. Whatever your motives are, they aren't mine, but they encompass what I want and that's enough for me. Sooner or later you're going to name Richie's killer and that's all I want. In the meantime, rather than interfere with your operation, I'll do everything I can to supplement it. Do you understand?"

"I think so," I said.

"Good. Then I'll wait you out." He smiled, but there was nothing pleasant in his expression. "Some people are different from others. You're a killer, Mike. You've always been a killer. Somehow your actions have been justified and I think righteously so, but nevertheless, you're a killer. You're on a hunt again and I'm going to help you. There's just one thing I ask."

"What?"

"If you do find Richie's murderer before me, don't kill him."

I looked up from the fists I had made. "Why?"

"I want him, Mike. Let him be mine."

"What will you do with him?"

Rickerby's grin was damn near inhuman. It was a look I had seen before on other people and never would have expected from him. "A quick kill would be too good, Mike," he told me slowly. "But the law--this supposedly just, merciful provision--this is the most cruel of all. It lets you rot in a death cell for months and deteriorate slowly until you're only an accumulation of living cells with the consciousness of knowing you are about to die; then the creature is tied in a chair and jazzed with a hot shot that wipes him from the face of the earth with one big jolt and that's that."

"Pleasant thought," I said.

"Isn't it, though? Too many people think the sudden kill is the perfect answer for revenge. Ah, no, my friend. It's the waiting. It's the knowing beforehand that even the merciful provisions of a public trial will only result in what you already know--more waiting and further contemplation of that little room where you spend your last days with death in an oaken chair only a few yards away. And do you know what? I'll see that killer every day. I'll savor his anguish like a fine drink and be there as a witness When he burns and he'll see me and know why I'm there and when he's finished I'll be satisfied."

"You got a mean streak a yard wide, Rickerby."

"But it doesn't quite match yours, Mike."

"The hell it doesn't."

"No--you'll see what I mean some day. You'll see yourself express the violence of thought and action in a way I'd never do. True violence isn't in the deed itself. It's the contemplation and enjoyment of the deed."

"Come off it."

Rickerby smiled, the intensity of hatred he was filled with a moment ago seeping out slowly. If it had been me I would have been shaking like a leaf, but now he casually reached out for the can of beer, sipped at it coolly and put it down.

"I have some information you requested," he told me.

While I waited I walked behind the desk, sat down and pulled open the lower drawer. The shoulder holster was still supple although it had lain there seven years. I took off my jacket, slipped it on and put my coat back.

Art said, "I--managed to find out about Gerald Erlich."

I could feel the pulse in my arm throb against the arm of the chair. I still waited.

"Erlich is dead, my friend."

I let my breath out slowly, hoping my face didn't show how I felt.

"He died five years ago and his body was positively identified."

Five years ago! But he was supposed to have died during the war!

"He was found shot in the head in the Eastern Zone of Germany. After the war he had been fingerprinted and classified along with other prisoners of note so there was no doubt as to his identity." Art stopped a moment, studied me, then went on. "Apparently this man was trying to make the Western Zone. On his person were papers and articles that showed he had come out of Russia, there were signs that he had been under severe punishment and if you want to speculate, you might say that he had escaped from a prison and was tracked down just yards from freedom."

"That's pretty good information to come out of the Eastern Zone," I said.

Rickerby nodded sagely. "We have people there. They purposely investigate things of this sort. There's nothing coincidental about it."

"There's more."

His eyes were funny. They had an oblique quality as if they watched something totally foreign, something they had never realized could exist before. They watched and waited. Then he said, "Erlich had an importance we really didn't understand until lately. He was the nucleus of an organization of espionage agents the like of which had never been developed before and whose importance remained intact even after the downfall of the Third Reich. It was an organization so ruthless that its members, in order to pursue their own ends, would go with any government they thought capable of winning a present global conflict and apparently they selected the Reds. To oppose them and us meant fighting two battles, so it would be better to support one until the other lost, then undermine that one until it could take over."

"Crazy," I said.

"Is it?"

"They can't win."

"But they can certainly bring on some incredible devastation."

"Then why kill Erlich?"

Art sat back and folded his hands together in a familiar way. "Simple. He defected. He wanted out. Let's say he got smart in his late years and realized the personal futility of pushing this thing any further. He wanted to spend a few years in peace."

It was reasonable in a way. I nodded.

"But he had to die," Art continued. "There was one thing he knew that was known only to the next in line in the chain of command, the ones taking over the organization."

"Like what?"

"He knew every agent in the group. He could bust the whole shebang up if he spilled his guts to the West and the idea of world conquest by the Reds or the others would go smack down the drain."

"This you know?" I asked.

He shook his head. "No. Let's say I'm sure of it, but I don't know it. At this point I really don't care. It's the rest of the story I pulled out of the hat I'm interested in." And now his eyes cocked themselves up at me again. "He was tracked down and killed by one known to the Reds as their chief assassin agent Gorlin, but to us as The Dragon."

If he could have had his hand on my chest, or even have touched me anywhere he would have known what was happening. My guts would knot and chum and my head was filled with a wild flushing sensation of blood almost bursting through their walls. But he didn't touch me and he couldn't tell from my face so his eyes looked at me even a little more obliquely expecting even the slightest reaction and getting none. None at all.

"You're a cold-blooded bastard," he nearly whispered.

"You said that before."

He blinked owlishly behind his glasses and stood up, his coat over his arm. "You know where to reach me."

"I know."

"Do you need anything?"

"Not now. Thanks for the ticket."

"No trouble. Will you promise me something?"

"Sure."

"Just don't use that gun on The Dragon."

"I won't kill him, Art."

"No. Leave that for me. Don't spoil my pleasure or yours either."

He went out, closing the door softly behind him. I pulled the center desk drawer out, got the extra clip and the box of shells from the niche and closed the drawer. The package I had mailed to myself was on the table by the door where Nat always put my packages when he had to take them from the mailman. I ripped it open, took out the .45, checked the action and dropped it in the holster.

Now it was just like old times.

I turned off the light in my office and went outside. I was reaching for the door when the phone on Velda's desk went off with a sudden jangling that shook me for a second before I could pick it up.

Her voice was rich and vibrant when she said hello and I wanted her right there with me right then. She knew it too, and her laugh rippled across the miles. She said, "Are you going to be busy tonight, Mike?"

Time was something I had too little of, but I had too little of her too. "Well--why?"

"Because I'm coming into your big city."

"Isn't it kind of late?"

"No. I have to be there at 10 P.M. to see a friend of yours and since I see no sense of wasting the evening I thought that whatever you have to do you can do it with me. Or can you?"

"It takes two to dance, baby."

She laughed again. "I didn't mean it that way."

"Sure, come on in. If I said not to I'd be lying. Who's my friend you have a date with?"

"An old friend and new enemy. Captain Chambers."

"What is this?"

"I don't know. He called and asked if I could come in. It would simplify things since his going out of his jurisdiction requires a lot of work."

"For Pete's sake--"

"Mike--I don't mind, really. If it has to do with Leo's death, well, I'll do anything. You know that."

"Yeah, but--"

"Besides, it gives me an excuse to see you even sooner than I hoped. Okay?"

"Okay."

"See you in a little while, Mike. Any special place?"

"Moriarty's at Sixth and Fifty-second." I'll be at the bar."

"Real quick," she said and hung up.

I held the disconnect bar down with my finger. Time. Seven years' worth just wasted and now there was none left. I let the bar up and dialed Hy Gardner's private number at the paper, hoping I'd be lucky enough to catch him in. I was.

He said, "Mike, if you're not doing anything, come on up here. I have to get my column out and I'll be done before you're here. I have something to show you."

"Important?"

"Brother, one word from you and everybody flips. Shake it up."

"Fifteen minutes."

"Good."

I hung up and pushed the phone back. When I did I uncovered a heart scratched in the surface with something sharp. Inside it was a V and an M. Velda and Mike. I pulled the phone back to cover it, climbed into my coat and went outside. Just to be sure I still had the night to myself I walked down, out the back way through the drugstore then headed south on Broadway toward Hy's office.

Marilyn opened the door and hugged me hello, a pretty grin lighting her face up. She said, "Hy's inside waiting for you. He won't tell me what it's all about."

"You're his wife now, not his secretary anymore. You don't work for him."

"The heck I don't. But he still won't tell me."

"It's man talk, sugar."

"All right, I'll let you be. I'll get some coffee--and Mike--" I turned around.

"It's good to have you back."

When I winked she blew me a kiss and scurried out the door.

Hy was at his desk inside with his glasses up on his forehead, frowning at some sheets in his hand. They were covered with penciled notations apparently culled from another batch beside his elbow.

I pulled up a chair, sat down and let Hy finish what he was doing. Finally he glanced up, pulling his glasses down. "I got your message across."

"So?"

"So it was like I dropped a bomb in HQ. Over there they seem to know things we don't read in the paper here." He leaned forward and tapped the sheets in his hand. "This bit of The Dragon is the hottest item in the cold war, buddy. Are you sure you know what you're up to?"

"Uh-huh."

"Okay, I'll go along with you. The Reds are engaged in an operation under code name REN. It's a chase thing. Behind the Iron Curtain there has been a little hell to pay the last few years. Somebody was loose back there who could rock the whole Soviet system and that one had to be eliminated. That's where The Dragon came in. This one has been on that chase and was close to making his hit. Nobody knows what the score really is." He stopped then, pushed his glasses back up and said seriously, "or do they, Mike?"

"They?"

I should have been shaking. I should have been feeling some emotion, some wildness like I used to. What had happened? But maybe it was better this way. I could feel the weight of the .45 against my side and tightened my arm down on it lovingly. "They're after Velda," I said. "It's her. They're hunting her."

Hy squeezed his mouth shut and didn't say anything for a full minute. He laid the papers down and leaned back in his chair. "Why, Mike?"

"I don't know, Hy. I don't know why at all."

"If what I heard is true she doesn't have a chance."

"She has a chance," I told him softly.

"Maybe it really isn't her at all, Mike."

I didn't answer him. Behind us the door opened and Marilyn came in. She flipped an envelope on Hy's desk and set down the coffee container. "Here's a picture that just came off the wires. Del said you requested it."

Hy looked at me a little too quickly, opened the envelope and took out the photo. He studied it, then passed it across.

It really wasn't a good picture at all. The original had been fuzzy to start with and transmission electrically hadn't improved it any. She stood outside a building, a tall girl with seemingly black hair longer than I remembered it, features not quite clear and whose shape and posture were hidden under bulky Eastern European style clothing. Still, there was that indefinable something, some subtlety in the way she stood, some trait that came through the clothing and poor photography that I couldn't help but see.

I handed the photo back. "It's Velda."

"My German friend said the picture was several years old."

"Who had it?"

"A Red agent who was killed in a skirmish with some West German cops. It came off his body. I'd say he had been assigned to REN too and the picture was for identification purposes."

"Is this common information?"

Hy shook his head. "I'd say no. Rather than classify this thing government sources simply refuse to admit it exists. We came on it separately."

I said, "The government knows it exists."

"You know too damn much, Mike."

"No, not enough. I don't know where she is now."

"I can tell you one thing," Hy said.

"Oh?"

"She isn't in Europe any longer. The locale of REN has changed. The Dragon has left Europe. His victim got away somehow and all indications point to them both being in this country."

Very slowly, I got up, put my coat and hat on and stretched the dampness out of my shoulders. I said, "Thanks, Hy."

"Don't you want your coffee?"

"Not now."

He opened a drawer, took out a thick Manila envelope and handed it to me. "Here. You might want to read up a little more on Senator Knapp. It's confidential stuff.. Gives you an idea of how big he was. Save it for me."

"Sure." I stuck it carelessly in my coat pocket. "Thanks."

Marilyn said, "You all right, Mike?"

I grinned at her a little crookedly. "I'm okay."

"You don't look right," she insisted.

Hy said, "Mike--"

And I cut him short. "I'll see you later, Hy." I grinned at him too. "And thanks. Don't worry about me." I patted the gun under my coat. "I have a friend along now. Legally."

While I waited, I read about just how great a guy Leo Knapp had been. His career had been cut short at a tragic spot because it was evident that in a few more years he would have been the big man on the political scene. It was very evident that here had been one of the true powers behind the throne, a man initially responsible for military progress and missile production in spite of opposition from the knotheaded liberals and "better-Red-than-dead" slobs. He had thwarted every attack and forced through the necessary programs and in his hands had been secrets of vital importance that made him a number one man in the Washington setup. His death came at a good time for the enemy. The bullet that killed him came from the gun of The Dragon. A bullet from the same gun killed Richie Cole and almost killed me twice. A bullet from that same gun was waiting to kill Velda.

She came in then, the night air still on her, shaking the rain from her hair, laughing when she saw me. Her hand was cool when she took mine and climbed on the stool next to me. John brought her a Martini and me another Blue Ribbon. We raised the glasses in a toast and drank the top off them.

"Good to see you," I said.

"You'll never know," she smiled.

"Where are you meeting Pat?"

She frowned, then, "Oh, Captain Chambers. Why, right here." She glanced at her watch. "In five minutes. Shall we sit at a table?"

"Let's." I picked up her glass and angled us across the room to the far wall.

"Does Pat know I'll be here?"

"I didn't mention it."

"Great. Just great."

Pat was punctual, as usual. He saw me but didn't change expression. When he said hello to Laura he sat beside her and only then looked at me. "I'm glad you're here too."

"That's nice."

He was a mean, cold cop if ever there was one, his face a mask you couldn't penetrate until you looked into his eyes and saw the hate and determination there. "Where do you find your connections, Mike?"

"Why?"

"It's peculiar how a busted private dick, a damn drunken pig in trouble up to his ears can get a gun-carrying privilege we can't break. How do you do it, punk?"

I shrugged, not feeling like arguing with him. Laura looked at the two of us, wondering what was going on.

"Well, you might need it at that if you keep getting shot at. By the way, I got a description of your back alley friend. He was seen by a rather observant kid in the full light of the street lamp. Big guy, about six-two with dark curly hair and a face with deep lines in the cheeks. His cheekbones were kind of high so he had kind of an Indian look. Ever see anybody like that?"

He was pushing me now, doing anything to set me off so he'd have a reason to get at me but sure, I saw a guy like that. He drove past me on the Thruway and I thought he was a tired driver, then he shot at me later and now I know damn well who he is. You call him The Dragon. He had a face I'd see again someday, a face I couldn't miss.

I said, "No, I don't know him." It wasn't quite a lie.

Pat smiled sardonically, "I have a feeling you will."

"So okay, I'll try to catch up with him for you."

"You do that, punk. Meanwhile I'll catch up with you. I'm putting you into this thing tighter than ever."

"Me?"

"That's right. That's why I'm glad you're here. It saves seeing you later." He had me curious now and knew it, and he was going to pull it out all the way. "There is a strange common denominator running throughout our little murder puzzle here. I'm trying to find out just what it all means."

"Please go on," Laura said.

"Gems. For some reason I can't get them out of my mind. Three times they cross in front of me." He looked at me, his eyes narrowed, "The first time when my old friend here let a girl die because of them, then when Senator Knapp was killed a batch of paste jewels were taken from the safe, and later a man known for his gem smuggling was killed with the same gun. It's a recurrent theme, isn't it, Mike? You're supposed to know about these things. In fact, it must have occurred to you too. You were quick enough about getting upstate to see Mrs. Knapp here."

"Listen, Pat."

"Shut up. There's more." He reached in his pocket and tugged at a cloth sack. "We're back to the gems again." He pulled the top open, spilled the sack upside down and watched the flood of rings, brooches and bracelets make a sparkling mound of brilliance on the table between us.

"Paste, pure paste, Mrs. Knapp, but I think they are yours."

Her hand was shaking when she reached out to touch them. She picked up the pieces one by one, examining them, then shaking her head. "Yes--they're mine! But where--"

"A pathetic old junkman was trying to peddle them in a pawnshop. The broker called the cops and we grabbed the guy. He said he found them in a garbage can a long time ago and kept them until now to sell. He figured they were stolen, all right, but didn't figure he'd get picked up like he did."

"Make your connection, Pat. So far all you showed was that a smart crook recognized paste jewelry and dumped it."

His eyes had a vicious cast to them this time. "I'm just wondering about the original gem robbery, the one your agency was hired to prevent. The name was Mr. and Mrs. Rudolph Civac. I'm wondering what kind of a deal was really pulled off there. "You sent in Velda but wouldn't go yourself. I'm thinking that maybe you turned sour away back there and tried for a big score and fouled yourself up in it somehow."

His hands weren't showing so I knew one was sitting on a gun butt. I could feel myself going around the edges but hung on anyway. "You're nuts," I said, "I never even saw Civac. He made the protection deal by phone. I never laid eyes on him."

Pat felt inside his jacket and came out with a four-by five glossy photo. "Well take a look at what your deceased customer looked like. I've been backtracking all over that case, even as cold as it is. Something's going to come up on it, buddy boy, and I hope you're square in the middle of it." He forgot me for a moment and turned to Laura. "Do you positively identify these, Mrs. Knapp?"

"Oh, yes. There's an accurate description of each piece on file and on the metal there's--"

"I saw the hallmarks."

"This ring was broken--see here where this prong is off--yes, these are mine."

"Fine. You can pick them up at my office tomorrow if you want to. I'll have to hold them until then though."

"That's all right."

He snatched the picture out of my fingers and put it back in his pocket. "You I'll be seeing soon," he told me.

I didn't answer him. I nodded, but that was all. He looked at me a moment, scowled, went to say something and changed his mind. He told Laura goodbye and walked to the door.

Fresh drinks came and I finished mine absently. Laura chuckled once and I glanced up. "You've been quiet a long time. Aren't we going to do the town?"

"Do you mind if we don't?"

She raised her eyebrows, surprised, but not at all unhappy. "No, do you want to do something else?"

"Yes. Think."

"Your place?" she asked mischievously.

"I don't have a place except my office."

"We've been there before," she teased.

But I had kissed Velda there too many times before too. "No," I said.

Laura leaned forward; serious now. "It's important, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"Then let's get out of the city entirely. Let's go back upstate to where it's cool and quiet and you can think right. Would you like to do that?"

"All right."

I paid the bill and we went outside to the night and the rain to flag down a cab to get us to the parking lot. She had to do it for me because the only thing I could think of was the face in that picture Pat had showed me.

Rudolph Civac was the same as Gerald Erlich.

Chapter 10

I couldn't remember the trip at all. I was asleep before we reached the West Side Drive and awakened only when she shook me. Her voice kept calling to me out of a fog and for a few seconds I thought it was Velda, then I opened my eyes and Laura was smiling at me. "We're home, Mike."

The rain had stopped, but in the stillness of the night I could hear the soft dripping from the shadows of the blue spruces around the house. Beyond them a porch and inside light threw out a pale yellow glow. "Won't your servants have something to say about me coming in?"

"No, I'm alone at night. The couple working for me come only during the day."

"I haven't seen them yet."

"Each time you were here they had the day off."

I made an annoyed grimace. "You're nuts, kid. You should keep somebody around all the time after what happened."

Her hand reached out and she traced a line around my mouth. "I'm trying to," she said. Then she leaned over and brushed me with lips that were gently damp and sweetly warm, the tip of her tongue a swift dart of flame, doing it too quickly for me to grab her to make it last.

"Quit brainwashing me," I said.

She laughed at me deep in her throat. "Never, Mister Man. I've been too long without you."

Rather than hear me answer she opened the door and slid out of the car. I came around from the other side and we went up the steps into the house together. It was a funny feeling, this coming home sensation. There was the house and the woman and the mutual desire, an instinctive demanding passion we shared, one for the other, yet realizing that there were other things that came first and not caring because there was always later.

There was a huge couch in the living room of soft, aged leather, a hidden hi-fi that played Dvorak, Beethoven and Tchaikovsky and somewhere in between Laura had gotten into yards of flowing nylon that did nothing to hide the warmth of her body or restrain the luscious bloom of her thighs and breasts. She lay there in my arms quietly, giving me all of the moment to enjoy as I pleased, only her sometimes-quickened breathing indicating her pleasure as I touched her lightly, caressing her with my fingertips. Her eyes were closed, a small satisfied smile touched the corners of her mouth and she snuggled into me with a sigh of contentment.

How long I sat there and thought about it I couldn't tell. I let it drift through my mind from beginning to end, the part I knew and the part I didn't know. Like always, a pattern was there. You can't have murder without a pattern. It weaves in and out, fabricating an artful tapestry, and while the background colors were apparent from the beginning it is only at the last that the picture itself emerges. But who was the weaver? Who sat invisibly behind the loom with shuttles of death in one hand and skeins of lives in the other? I fell asleep trying to peer behind the gigantic framework of that murder factory, a sleep so deep, after so long, that there was nothing I thought about or remembered afterward.

I was alone when the bright shaft of sunlight pouring in the room awakened me. I was stretched out comfortably, my shoes off, my tie loose and a light Indian blanket over me. I threw it off, put my shoes back on and stood up. It took me a while to figure out what was wrong, then I saw the .45 in the shoulder holster draped over the back of a chair with my coat over it and while I was reaching for it she came in with all the exuberance of a summer morning, a tray of coffee in her hands and blew me a kiss.

"Well hello," I said.

She put the tray down and poured the coffee. "You were hard to undress."

"Why bother?"

Laura looked up laughing. "It's not easy to sleep with a man wearing a gun." She held out a cup. "Here, have some coffee. Sugar and milk?"

"Both. And I'm glad it's milk and not cream."

She fixed my cup, stirring it too. "You're a snob, Mike. In your own way you're a snob." She made a face at me and grinned. "But I love snobs."

"You should be used to them. You travel in classy company."

"They aren't snobs like you. They're just scared people putting on a front. You're the real snob. Now kiss me good morning--or afternoon. It's one o'clock." She reached up offering her mouth and I took it briefly, but even that quick touch bringing back the desire again.

Laura slid her hand under my arm and walked me through the house to the porch and out to the lawn by the pool. The sun overhead was brilliant and hot, the air filled with the smell of the mountains. She said, "Can I get you something to eat?"

I tightened my arm on her hand. "You're enough for right now."

She nuzzled my shoulder, wrinkled her nose and grinned. We both pulled out aluminum and plastic chairs, and while she went inside for the coffeepot I settled down in mine.

Now maybe I could think.

She poured another cup, knowing what was going through my mind. When she sat down opposite me she said, "Mike, would it be any good to tell me about it? I'm a good listener. I'll be somebody you can aim hypothetical questions at. Leo did this with me constantly. He called me his sounding board. He could think out loud, but doing it alone he sounded foolish to himself so he'd do it with me." She paused, her eyes earnest, wanting to help. "I'm yours for anything if you want me, Mike."

"Thanks, kitten."

I finished the coffee and put the cup down.

"You're afraid of something," she said.

"Not of. For. Like for you, girl. I told you once I was a trouble character. Wherever I am there's trouble and when you play guns there are stray shots and I don't want you in the way of any."

"I've already been there, remember?"

"Only because I wasn't on my toes. I've slowed up. I've been away too damn long and I'm not careful."

"Are you careful now?"

My eyes reached hers across the few feet that separated us. "No. I'm being a damn fool again. I doubt if we were tailed here, but it's only a doubt. I have a gun in the house, but we could be dead before I reached it."

She shrugged unconcernedly. "There's the shotgun in the bathhouse."

"That's still no good. It's a pro game. There won't be any more second chances. You couldn't reach the shotgun either. It's around the pool and in the dark."

"So tell me about it, Mike. Think to me and maybe it will end even faster and we can have ourselves to ourselves. If you want to think, or be mad or need a reaction, think to me."

I said, "Don't you like living?"

A shadow passed across her face and the knuckles of her hand on the arms of the chair went white. "I stopped living when Leo died. I thought I'd never live again."

"Kid--"

"No, it's true, Mike. I know all the objections you can put up about our backgrounds and present situations but it still doesn't make any difference. It doesn't alter a simple fact that I knew days ago. I fell in love with you, Mike. I took one look at you and fell in love, knowing then that objections would come, troubles would be a heritage and you might not love me at all."

"Laura--"

"Mike--I started to live again. I thought I was dead and I started to live again. Have I pushed you into anything?"

"No."

"And I won't. You can't push a man. All you can do is try, but you just can't push a man and a woman should know that. It she can, then she doesn't have a man."

She waved me to be quiet and went on. "I don't care how you feel toward me. I hope, but that is all. I'm quite content knowing I can live again and no matter where you are you'll know that I love you. It's a peculiar kind of courtship, but these are peculiar times and I don't care if it has to be like this. Just be sure of one thing. You can have anything you want from me, Mike. Anything. There's nothing you can ask me to do that I won't do. Not one thing. That's how completely yours I am. There's a way to be sure. Just ask me. But I won't push you. If you ask me never to speak of it again, then I'll do that too. You see, Mike, it's a sort of hopeless love, but I'm living again, I'm loving, and you can't stop me from loving you. It's the only exception to what you can ask--I Won't stop loving you.

"But to answer your question, yes, I like living. You brought me alive. I was dead before."

There was a beauty about her then that was indescribable. I said, "Anything you know can be too much. You're a target now. I don't want you to be an even bigger one."

"I'll only die if you die," she said simply.

"Laura--"

She wouldn't let me finish. "Mike--do you love me--at all?"

The sun was a honeyed cloud in her hair, bouncing off the deep brown of her skin to bring out the classic loveliness of her features. She was so beautifully deep-breasted, her stomach molding itself hollow beneath the outline of her ribs, the taut fabric of the sleeveless playsuit accentuating the timeless quality that was Laura.

I said, "I think so, Laura. I don't know for sure. It's just that I--can't tell anymore."

"It's enough for now," she said. "That little bit will grow because it has to. You were in love before, weren't you?"

I thought of Charlotte and Velda and each was like being suddenly shot low down when knowledge precedes breathlessness and you know it will be a few seconds before the real pain hits.

"Yes," I told her.

"Was it the same?"

"It's never the same. You are--different."

She nodded. "I know, Mike. I know." She waited, then added, "It will be--the other one--or me, won't it?" There was no sense lying to her.

"That's right."

"Very well. I'm satisfied. So now do you want to talk to me? Shall I listen for you?"

I leaned back in the chair, let my face look at the sun with my eyes closed and tried to start at the beginning. Not the beginning the way it happened, but the beginning the way I thought it could have happened. It was quite a story. Now I had to see if it made sense.

I said:

"There are only principals in this case. They are odd persons, and out of it entirely are the police and the Washington agencies. The departments only know results, not causes, and although they suspect certain things they are not in a position to be sure of what they do. We eliminate them and get to basic things. They may be speculative, but they are basic and lead to conclusions.

"The story starts at the end of World War I with an espionage team headed by Gerald Erlich who, with others, had visions of a world empire. Oh, it wasn't a new dream. Before him there had been Alexander and Caesar and Napoleon so he was only picking up an established trend. So Erlich's prime mover was nullified and he took on another--Hitler. Under that regime he became great and his organization became more nearly perfected, and when Hitler died and the Third Reich became extinct this was nothing too, for now the world was more truly divided. Only two parts remained, the East and the West and he chose, for the moment, to side with the East. Gerald Erlich picked the Red Government as his next prime mover. He thought they would be the ultimate victors in the conquest of the world, then, when the time was right, he would take over from them.

"Ah, but how time and circumstances can change. He didn't know that the Commies were equal to him in their dreams of world empire. He didn't realize that they would find him out and use him while he thought they were in his hands. They took over his organization. Like they did the rest of the world they control, they took his corrupt group and corrupted it even further. But an organization they could control. The leader of the organization, a fanatical one, they knew they couldn't. He had to go. Like dead.

"However, Erlich wasn't quite that stupid. He saw the signs and read them right. He wasn't young any longer and his organization had been taken over. His personal visions of world conquest didn't seem quite so important anymore and the most important thing was to stay alive as best he could and the place to do it was in the States. So he came here. He married well under the assumed name of Rudy Civac to a rich widow and all was well in his private world for a time.

"Then, one day, they found him. His identity was revealed. He scrambled for cover. It was impossible to ask for police protection so he did the next best thing, he called a private detective agency and as a subterfuge, used his wife's jewels as the reason for needing security. Actually, he wanted guns around. He wanted shooting protection.

"Now, here the long arm of fate struck a second time. Not coincidence--but fate, pure unblemished fate. I sent Velda. During the war she had been young, beautiful, intelligent, a perfect agent to use against men. She was in the O.S.S., the O.S.I. and another highly secretive group and assigned to Operation Butterfly Two which was nailing Gerald Erlich and breaking down his organization. The war ended before it could happen, she was discharged, came with me into the agency because it was a work she knew and we stayed together until Rudy Civac called for protection. He expected me. He got her.

"Fate struck for sure when she saw him. She knew who he was. She knew that a man like that had to be stopped because he might still have his purposes going for him. There was the one thing she knew that made Gerald Erlich the most important man in the world right then. He knew the names and identities of every major agent he ever had working for him and these were such dedicated people they never stopped working--and now they were working for the Reds.

"Coincidence here. Or Fate. Either will do. This was the night the Red agents chose to act. They hit under the guise of burglars. They abducted Rudy Civac, his wife and Velda. They killed the wife, but they needed Rudy to find out exactly what he knew.

"And Velda played it smart. She made like she was part of Civac's group just to stay alive and it was conceivable that she had things they must know too. This we can't forget--Velda was a trained operative--she had prior experience even I didn't know about. Whatever she did she made it stick. They got Civac and her back into Europe and into Red territory and left the dead wife and the stolen jewels as a red herring that worked like a charm, and while Velda was in the goddamn Russian country I was drinking myself into a lousy pothole--"

She spoke for the first time. She said, "Mike--" and I squeezed open my eyes and looked at her.

"Thanks."

"It's all right. I understand."

I closed my eyes again and let the picture form.

"The Commies aren't the greatest brains in the world, though. Those stupid peasants forgot one thing. Both Civac--or Erlich--and Velda were pros. Someplace along the line they slipped and both of them cut out. They got loose inside the deep Iron Curtain and from then on the chase was on.

"Brother, I bet heads rolled after that. Anyway, when they knew two real hotshots were on the run they called in the top man to make the chase. The Dragon. Comrade Gorlin. But I like The Dragon better. I'll feel more like St. George when I kill him. And won't Art hate me for that, I thought.

"The chase took seven years. I think I know what happened during that time. Civac and Velda had to stay together to pool their escape resources. One way or another Velda was able to get things from Civac--or Erlich--and the big thing was those names. I'll bet she made him recount every one and she committed them to memory and carried them in her head all the way through so that she was fully as important now as Civac was.

"Don't underplay the Reds. They're filthy bastards, every one, but they're on the ball when it comes to thinking out the dirty work. They're so used to playing it themselves that it's second nature to them. Hell, they knew what happened. They knew Velda was as big as Erlich now--perhaps even bigger. Erlich's dreams were on the decline...what Velda knew would put us on the upswing again, so above all, she had to go.

"So The Dragon in his chase concentrated on those two. Eventually he caught up with Erlich and shot him. That left Velda. Now he ran into a problem. During her war years she made a lot of contacts. One of them was Richie Cole. They'd meet occasionally when he was off assignment and talk over the old days and stayed good friends. She knew he was in Europe and somehow or other made contact with him. There wasn't time enough to pass on what she had memorized and it wasn't safe to write it down, so the answer was to get Velda back to the States with her information. There wasn't even time to assign the job to a proper agency.

"Richie Cole broke orders and took it upon himself to protect Velda and came back to the States. He knew he was followed. He knew The Dragon would make him a target--he knew damn well there wouldn't be enough time to do the right thing, but Velda had given him a name. She gave him me and a contact to make with an old newsie we both knew well.

"Sure, Cole tried to make the contact, but The Dragon shot him. Trouble was, Cole didn't die. He told off until they got hold of me because Velda told him I was so damn big I could break the moon apart in my bare hands and he figured if she said it I really could. Then he saw me."

I put my face in my hands to rub out the picture. "Then he saw me!"

"Mike--"

"Let's face it, kid. I was a drunk."

"Mike--"

"Shut up. Let me talk."

Laura didn't answer, but her eyes hoped I wasn't going off the deep end, so I stopped a minute, poured some coffee, drank it, then started again.

"Once again those goddamn Reds were smart. They backtracked Velda and found out about me. They knew what Richie Cole was trying to do. Richie knew where Velda was and wanted to tell me. He died before he did. They thought he left the information with Old Dewey and killed the old man. They really thought I knew and they put a tail on me to see if I made a contact. They tore Dewey's place and my place apart looking for information they thought Cole might have passed to me. Hell, The Dragon even tried to kill me because he thought I wasn't really important at all and was better out of the way."

I leaned back in the chair, my insides feeling hollow all of a sudden. Laura asked, "Mike, what's the matter?"

"Something's missing. Something big."

"Please don't talk any more."

"It's not that. I'm just tired, I guess. It's hard to come back to normal this fast."

"If we took a swim it might help."

I opened my eyes and looked at her and grinned. "Sick of hearing hard luck stories?"

"No."

"Any questions?"

She nodded. "Leo. Who shot him?"

I said, "In this business guns can be found anywhere. I'm never surprised to see guns with the same ballistics used in different kills. Did you know the same gun that shot your husband and Richie Cole was used in some small kill out West?"

"No, I didn't know that."

"There seemed to be a connection through the jewels. Richie's cover was that of a sailor and smuggler. Your jewels were missing. Pat made that a common factor. I don't believe it."

"Could Leo's position in government--well, as you intimated--"

"There is a friend of mine who says no. He has reason to know the facts. I'll stick with him."

"Then Leo's death is no part of what you are looking for?"

"I don't think so. In a way I'm sorry. I wish I could help avenge him too. He was a great man."

"Yes, he was."

"I'll take you up on that swim."

"The suits are in the bathhouse."

"That should be fun," I said.

In the dim light that came through the ivy-screened windows we turned our backs and took off our clothes. When you do that deliberately with a woman, it's hard to talk and you are conscious only of the strange warmth and the brief, fiery contact when skin meets skin and a crazy desire to turn around and watch or to grab and hold or do anything except what you said you'd do when the modest moment was in reality a joke--but you didn't quite want it to be a joke at all.

Then before we could turn it into something else and while we could still treat it as a joke, we had the bathing suits on and she grinned as she passed by me. I reached for her, stopped her, then turned because I saw something else that left me cold for little ticks of time.

Laura said, "What is it, Mike?"

I picked the shotgun out of the corner of the room. The building had been laid up on an extension of the tennis court outside and the temporary floor was clay. Where the gun rested by the door water from the outside shower had seeped in and wet it down until it was a semi-firm substance, a blue putty you could mold in your hand.

She had put the shotgun down muzzle first and both barrels were plugged with clay and when I picked it up it was like somebody had taken a bite out of the blue glop with a cookie cutter two inches deep!

Before I opened it I asked her, "Loaded?"

"Yes."

I thumbed the lever and broke the gun. It fell open and I picked out the two twelve-gauge Double 0 shells, then slapped the barrels against my palm until the cores of clay emerged far enough for me to pull them out like the deadly plugs they were.

She saw the look on my face and frowned, not knowing what to say. So I said it instead. "Who put the gun here?"

"I did."

"I thought you knew how to handle it?" There was a rasp in my voice you could cut with a knife.

"Leo--showed me how to shoot it."

"He didn't show you how to handle it, apparently."

"Mike--"

"Listen, Laura, and you listen good. You play with guns and you damn well better know how to handle them. You went and stuck this baby's nose down in the muck and do you know what would happen if you ever tried to shoot it?"

Her eyes were frightened at what she saw in my face and she shook her head. "Well, damn it, you listen then. Without even thinking you stuck this gun in heavy clay and plugged both barrels. It's loaded with high-grade sporting ammunition of the best quality and if you ever pulled the trigger you would have had one infinitesimal span of life between the big then and the big now because when you did the back blast in that gun would have wiped you right off the face of the earth."

"Mike--"

"No--keep quiet and listen. It'll do you good. You won't make the mistake again. That barrel would unpeel like a tangerine and you'd get that whole charge right down your lovely throat and if ever you want to give a police medical examiner a job to gag a maggot, that's the way to do it. They'd have to go in and scrape your brains up with a silent butler and pick pieces of your skull out of the woodwork with needle-nosed pliers. I saw eyeballs stuck to a wall one time and if you want to really see a disgusting sight, try that. They're bigger than you would expect them to be and they leak fluid all the time they look at you trying to lift them off the boards and then you have no place to put them except in your hand and drop them in the bucket with the rest of the pieces. They float on top and keep watching you until you put on the lid."

"Mike!"

"Damn it, shut up! Don't play guns stupidly around me! You did it, now listen!"

Both hands covered her mouth and she was almost ready to vomit.

"The worst of all is the neck because the head is gone and the neck spurts blood for a little bit while the heart doesn't know its vital nerve center is gone--and do you know how high the blood can squirt? No? Then let me tell you. It doesn't just ooze. It goes up under pressure for a couple of feet and covers everything in the area and you wouldn't believe just how much blood the body has in it until you see a person suddenly become headless and watch what happens. I've been there. I've had it happen. Don't let it happen to you!"

She let her coffee go on the other side of the door and I didn't give a damn because anybody that careless with a shotgun or any other kind of a gun needs it like that to make them remember. I wiped the barrels clean, reloaded the gun and put it down in place, butt first.

When I came out Laura said, "Man, are you mean."

"It's not a new saying." I still wasn't over my mad. Her smile was a little cockeyed, but a smile nevertheless.

"Mike--I understand. Please?"

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Then you watch it. I play guns too much. It's my business. I hate to see them abused."

"Please, Mike?"

"Okay. I made my point."

"Nobly, to say the least. I usually have a strong stomach."

"Go have some coffee."

"Oh, Mike."

"So take a swim," I told her and grinned. It was the way I felt and the grin was the best I could do. She took a run and a dive and hit the water, came up stroking for the other side, then draped her arms on the edge of the drain and waited for me.

I went in slowly, walking up to the edge, then I dove in and stayed on the bottom until I got to the other side. The water made her legs fuzzy, distorting them to Amazonian proportions, enlarging the cleft and swells and declavities of her belly, then I came up to where all was real and shoved myself to concrete surface and reached down for Laura.

She said, "Better?" when I pulled her to the top.

I was looking past her absently. "Yes. I just remembered something."

"Not about the gun, Mike."

"No, not about the gun."

"Should I know?"

"It doesn't matter. I don't really know myself yet. It's just a point."

"Your eyes look terribly funny."

"I know."

"Mike--"

"What?"

"Can I help?"

"No."

"You're going to leave me now, aren't you?"

"Yes, I am."

"Will you come back?"

I couldn't answer her.

"It's between the two of us, isn't it?"

"The girl hunters are out," I said.

"But will you come back?"

My mind was far away, exploring the missing point. "Yes," I said, "I have to come back."

"You loved her."

"I did."

"Do you love me at all?"

I turned around and looked at this woman. She was mine now, beautiful, wise, the way a woman should be formed for a man like I was, lovely, always naked in my sight, always incredibly blonde and incredibly tanned, the difference in color--or was it comparison--a shocking, sensual thing. I said, "I love you, Laura. Can I be mistaken?"

She said, "No, you can't be mistaken."

"I have to find her first. She's being hunted. Everybody is hunting her. I loved her a long time ago so I owe her that much. She asked for me."

"Find her, Mike."

I nodded. I had the other key now. "I'll find her. She's the most important thing in this old world today. What she knows will decide the fate of nations. Yes, I'll find her."

"Then will you come back?"

"Then I'll come back," I said.

Her arms reached out and encircled me, her hands holding my head, her fingers tight in my hair. I could feel every inch of, her body pressed hard against mine, forcing itself to meet me, refusing to give at all.

"I'm going to fight her for you," she said.

"Why?"

"Because you're mine now."

"Girl," I said, "I'm no damn good to anybody. Look good and you'll see a corn ear husked, you know?"

"I know. So I eat husks."

"Damn it, don't fool around!"

"Mike!"

"Laura--"

"You say it nice, Mike--but there's something in your voice that's terrible and I can sense it. If you find her, what will you do?"

"I can't tell."

"Will you still come back?"

"Damn it, I don't know."

"Why don't you know, Mike?"

I looked down at her. "Because I don't know what I'm really like any more. Look--do you know what I was? Do you know that a judge and jury took me down and the whole world once ripped me to little bits? It was only Velda who stayed with me then."

"That was then. How long ago was it?"

"Nine years maybe."

"Were you married?"

"No."

"Then I can claim part of you. I've had part of you." She let go of me and stood back, her eyes calm as they looked into mine. "Find her, Mike. Make your decision. Find her and take her. Have you ever had her at all?"

"No."

"You've had me. Maybe you're more mine than hers."

"Maybe."

"Then find her." She stepped back, her hands at her side. "If what you said was true then she deserves this much. You find her, Mike. I'm willing to fight you for anybody--but not somebody you think is dead. Not somebody you think you owe a debt to. Let me love you my own way. It's enough for me at least. Do you understand that?"

For a while we stood there. I looked at her. I looked away. I said, "Yes, I understand."

"Come back when you've decided."

"You have all of Washington to entertain."

Laura shook her head. Her hair was a golden swirl and she said, "The hell with Washington. I'll be waiting for you."

Velda, Laura. The names were so similar. Which one? After seven years of nothingness, which one? Knowing what I did, which one? Yesterday was then. Today was now. Which one?

I said, "All right, Laura, I'll find out, then I'll come back."

"Take my car."

"Thanks."

And now I had to take her. My fingers grabbed her arms and pulled her close to where I could kiss her and taste the inside of her mouth and feel the sensuous writhing of her tongue against mine because this was the woman I knew I was coming back to.

The Girl Hunters. We all wanted the same one and for reasons of a long time ago. We would complete the hunt, but what would we do with the kill?

She said, "After that you shouldn't leave."

"I have to," I said.

"Why?"

"She had to get in this country someway. I think I know how."

"You'll find her then come back?"

"Yes," I said, and let my hands roam over her body so that she knew there could never be anybody else, and when I was done I held her off and made her stay there while I went inside to put on the gun and the coat and go back to the new Babylon that was the city.

Chapter 11

And once again it was night, the city coming into its nether life like a minion of Count Dracula. The bright light of day that could strip away the facade of sham and lay bare the coating of dirt was gone now, and to the onlooker the unreal became real, the dirt had changed into subtle colors under artificial lights and it was as if all of that vast pile of concrete and steel and glass had been built only to live at night.

I left the car at the Sportsmen's Parking Lot on the corner of Eighth and Fifty-second, called Hy Gardner and told him to meet me at the Blue Ribbon on Forty-fourth, then started my walk to the restaurant thinking of the little things I should have thought of earlier.

The whole thing didn't seem possible, all those years trapped in Europe. You could walk around the world half a dozen times in seven years. But you wouldn't be trapped then. The thing was, they were trapped. Had Velda or Erlich been amateurs they would have been captured without much trouble, but being pros they edged out. Almost. That made Velda even better than he had been.

Somehow, it didn't seem possible.

But it was.

Hy had reached the Blue Ribbon before me and, waited at a table sipping a stein of rich, dark beer. I nodded at the waiter and he went back for mine. We ordered, ate, and only then did Hy bother to give me his funny look over the cigar he lit up. "It's over?"

"It won't be long now."

"Do we talk about it here?"

"Here's as good as any. It's more than you can put in your column."

"You let me worry about space."

So he sat back and let me tell him what I had told Laura, making occasional notes, because now was the time to make notes. I told him what I knew and what I thought and where everybody stood, and every minute or so he'd glance up from his sheets with an expression of pure incredulity, shake his head and write some more. When the implications of the total picture began really to penetrate, his teeth clamped down on the cigar until it was half hanging out of his mouth unlit, then he threw it down on his plate and put a fresh one in its place.

When I finished, he said, "Mike--do you realize what you have hold of?"

"I know."

"How can you stay so damn calm?"

"Because the rough part has just started."

"Ye gods, man--"

"You know what's missing, don't you?"

"Sure. You're missing something in the head. You're trying to stand off a whole political scheme that comes at you with every force imaginable no matter where you are. Mike, you don't fight these guys alone!"

"Nuts. It looks like I have to. I'm not exactly an accredited type character. Who would listen to me?"

"Couldn't this Art Rickerby--"

"He has one purpose in mind. He wants whoever killed Richie Cole."

"That doesn't seem likely. He's a trained Federal agent."

"So what? When something hits you personally, patriotism can go by the boards awhile. There are plenty of other agents. He wants a killer and knows I'll eventually come up with him. Like Velda's a key to one thing, I'm a key to another. They think that I'm going to stumble over whatever it was Richie Cole left for me. I know what it was now. So do you, don't you?"

"Yes," Hy said. "It was Velda's location, wherever she is."

"That's right. They don't know if I know or if I'll find out. You can damn well bet that they know he stayed alive waiting for me to show. They can't even be sure if he just clued me. They can't be sure of anything, but they know that I have to stay alive if they want to find Velda too."

Hy's eyes went deep in thought. "Alive? They tried to shoot you twice, didn't they?"

"Fine, but neither shot connected and I can't see a top assassin missing a shot. Both times I was a perfect target."

"Why the attempt then?"

"I'll tell you why," I said. I leaned on the table feeling my hands go open and shut wanting to squeeze the life out of somebody. "Both tries were deliberately sour. They were pushing me. They wanted me to move fast, and if anything can stir a guy up it's getting shot at. If I had anything to hide or to work at, it would come out in a hurry."

"But you didn't bring anything out?"

I grinned at him and I could see my reflection in the glass facing of the autographed pictures behind his head. It wasn't a pretty face at all, teeth and hate and some wildness hard to describe. "No, I didn't. So now I'm a real target because I know too much. They know I don't have Velda's location and from now on I can only be trouble to them. I'll bet you that right now a hunt is on for me."

"Mike--if you called Pat--"

"Come off it. He's no friend anymore. He'll do anything to nail my ass down and don't you forget it."

"Does he know the facts?"

"No. The hell with him."

Hy pushed his glasses up on his head, frowning. "Well, what are you going to do?"

"Do, old buddy? I'll tell you what I'm going to do. I'm going after the missing piece. If I weren't so damn slow after all those years I would have caught it before. I'm going after the facts that can wrap up the ball game and you're going with me."

"But you said--"

"Uh-uh. I didn't say anything. I don't know where she is, but I do know a few other things. Richie Cole came blasting back into this country when he shouldn't have and ducked out to look for me. That had a big fat meaning and I muffed it. Damn it, I muffed it!"

"But how?"

"Come on, Hy--Richie was a sailor--he smuggled her on the ship he came in on. He never left her in Europe! He got her back in this country!"

He put the cigar down slowly, getting the implication.

I said, "He had to smuggle her out, otherwise they would have killed her. If they took a plane they would have blown it over the ocean, or if she sailed under an assumed name and cover identity they would have had enough time to locate her and a passenger would simply fall overboard. No, he smuggled her out. He got her on that ship and got her into this country."

"You make it sound easy."

"Sure it's easy! You think there wasn't some cooperation with others in the crew! Those boys love to outfox the captain and the customs. What would they care as long as it was on Cole's head? He was on a tramp steamer and they can do practically anything on those babies if they know how and want to. Look, you want me to cite you examples?"

"I know it could be done."

"All right, then here's the catch. Richie realized how close The Dragon was to Velda when they left. He had no time. He had to act on his own. This was a project bigger than any going in the world at the time, big enough to break regulations for. He got her out--but he didn't underestimate the enemy either. He knew they'd figure it and be waiting.

"They were, too," I continued. "The Dragon was there all right, and he followed Cole thinking he was going to an appointed place where he had already hidden Velda, but when he realized that Cole wasn't doing anything of the kind he figured the angles quickly. He shot Cole, had to leave because of the crowd that collected and didn't have a chance until later to reach Old Dewey, then found out about me. Don't ask me the details about how they can do it--they have resources at their fingertips everywhere. Later he went back, killed Dewey, didn't find the note Cole left and had to stick with me to see where I led him."

Hy was frowning again.

I said, "I couldn't lead him to Velda. I didn't know. But before long he'll figure out the same thing I did. Somebody else helped Cole get her off that boat and knows where she is!"

"What are you going to do?" His voice was quietly calm next to mine.

"Get on that ship and see who else was in on the deal."

"How?"

"Be my guest and I'll show you the seamier side of life."

"You know me," Hy said, standing up.

I paid the cabbie outside Benny Joe Grissi's bar and when Hy saw where we were he let out a low whistle and said he hoped I knew what I was doing. We went inside and Sugar Boy and his smaller friend were still at their accustomed places and when Sugar Boy saw me he got a little pasty around the mouth and looked toward the bar with a quick motion of his head.

Benny Joe gave the nod and we walked past without saying a word, and when I got to the bar I held out the card Art Rickerby had given me and let Benny Joe take a long look at it. "In case you get ideas like before, mister. I'll shoot this place apart and you with it."

"Say, Mike, I never--"

"Tone it down," I said. "Bayliss Henry here?"

"Pepper? Yeah. He went in the can."

"Wait here, Hy."

I went down the end to the door stenciled MEN and pushed on in. Old Bayliss was at the washstand drying his hands and saw me in the mirror, his eyes suddenly wary at the recognition. He turned around and put his hands on my chest. "Mike, my boy, no more. Whatever it is, I want none of it. The last time out taught me a lesson I won't forget. I'm old, I scare easy, and what life is left to me I want to enjoy. Okay?"

"Sure."

"Then forget whatever you came in here to ask me. Don't let me talk over my head about the old days or try and make like a reporter again."

"You won't get shot at."

Bayliss nodded and shrugged. "How can I argue with you? What do you want to know?"

"What ship was Richie Cole on?"

"The Vanessa."

"What pier?"

"She was at number twelve, but that won't do you any good now."

"Why not?"

"Hell, she sailed the day before yesterday."

What I had to say I did under my breath. Everything was right out the window because I thought too slow and a couple of days had made all the difference.

"What was on it, Mike?"

"I wanted to see a guy."

"Oh? I thought it was the ship. Well maybe you can still see some of the guys. You know the Vanessa was the ship they had the union trouble with. Everybody complained about the chow and half the guys wouldn't sign back on. The union really laid into 'em."

Then suddenly there was a chance again and I had to grab at it. "Listen, Bayliss--who did Cole hang around with on the ship?"

"Jeepers, Mike, out at sea--"

"Did he have any friends on board?"

"Well, no, I'd say."

"Come on, damn it, a guy doesn't sail for months and not make some kind of an acquaintance!"

"Yeah, I know--well, Cole was a chess player and there was this one guy--let's see, Red Markham--yeah, that's it, Red Markham. They'd have drinks together and play chess together because Red sure could play chess. One time--"

"Where can I find this guy?"

"You know where Annie Stein's pad is?"

"The flophouse?"

"Yeah. Well, you look for him there. He gets drunk daytimes and flops early."

"Suppose you go along."

"Mike, I told you--"

"Hy Gardner's outside."

Bayliss looked up and grinned. "Well, shoot. If he's along I'll damn well go. He was still running copy when I did the police beat."

Annie Stein's place was known as the Harbor Hotel. It was a dollar a night flop, pretty expensive as flops go, so the trade was limited to occasional workers and itinerant seamen. It was old and dirty and smelled of disinfectant and urine partially smothered by an old-man odor of defeat and decay.

The desk clerk froze when we walked in, spun the book around without asking, not wanting any trouble at all. Red Markham was in the third room on the second floor, his door half open, the sound and smell of him oozing into the corridor.

I pushed the door open and flipped on the light. Overhead a sixty-watt bulb turned everything yellow. He was curled on the cot, an empty pint bottle beside him, breathing heavily through his mouth. On the chair with his jacket and hat was a pocket-sized chessboard with pegged chessmen arranged in some intricate move.

It took ten minutes of cold wet towels and a lot of shaking to wake him up. His eyes still had a whiskey glassiness and he didn't know what we wanted at all. He was unintelligible for another thirty minutes, then little by little he began to come around, his face going through a succession of emotions. Until he saw Bayliss he seemed scared, but one look at the old man and he tried on a drunken grin, gagged and went into a spasm of dry heaves. Luckily, there was nothing in his stomach, so we didn't have to go through that kind of mess.

Hy brought in a glass of water and I made him sip at it. I said, "What's your name, feller?"

He hiccoughed. "You--cops?"

"No, a friend."

"Oh." His head wobbled, then he looked back to me again. "You play chess?"

"Sorry, Red, but I had a friend who could. Richie Cole."

Markham squinted and nodded solemnly, remembering. "He--pretty damn good. Yessir. Good guy."

I asked him, "Did you know about the girl on the ship?"

Very slowly, he scowled, his lips pursing out, then a bit of clarity returned to him and he leered with a drunken grimace. "Sure. Hell of--joke." He hiccoughed and grinned again. "Joke. Hid--her in--down in--hold."

We were getting close now. His eyes drooped sleepily and I wanted him to hang on. I said, "Where is she now, Red?"

He just looked at me foggily.

"Damn it, think about it!"

For a second he didn't like the way I yelled or my hand on his arm and he was about to balk, then Bayliss said, "Come on, Red, if you know where she is, tell us."

You'd think he was seeing Bayliss for the first time. "Pepper," he said happily, his eyes coming open.

"Come on, Red. The girl on the Vanessa. Richie's girl."

"Sure. Big--joke. You know?"

"We know, but tell us where she is."

His shrug was the elaborate gesture of the sodden drunk. "Dunno. I--got her--on deck."

Bayliss looked at me, not knowing where to go. It was all over his head and he was taking the lead from me. Then he got the pitch and shook Red's shoulder. "Is she on shore?"

Red chuckled and his head weaved. "On--shore. Sure--on shore." He laughed again, the picture coming back to his mind. "Dennis--Wallace packed her--in crate. Very funny."

I pushed Bayliss away and sat on the edge of the cot. "It sure was a good joke all right. Now where did the crate go?"

"Crate?"

"She was packed in the crate. This Dennis Wallace packed her in the crate, right?"

"Right!" he said assuredly, slobbering on himself.

"Then who got the crate?"

"Big joke."

"I know, now let us in on it. Who got the crate?"

He made another one of those shrugs. "I--dunno."

"Somebody picked it up," I reminded him.

Red's smile was real foolish, that of the drunk trying to be secretive. "Richie's--joke. He called--a friend. Dennis gave him--the crate." He laughed again. "Very funny."

Hy said, "Cute."

I nodded. "Yeah. Now we have to find this Dennis guy."

"He's got a place not far from here," Bayliss said.

"You know everybody?"

"I've been around a long time, Mike."

We went to leave Red Markham sitting there, but before we could reach the door he called out, "Hey, you."

Bayliss said, "What, Red?"

"How come--everybody wants--old Dennis?"

"I don't--"

My hand stopped the old guy and I walked back to the cot. "Who else wanted Dennis, Red?"

"Guy--gimme this pint." He reached for the bottle, but was unable to make immediate contact. When he did he sucked at the mouth of it, swallowed as though it was filled and put the bottle down.

"What did he look like, Red?"

"Oh--" he lolled back against the wall. "Big guy. Like you."

"Go on."

"Mean. Son of a--he was mean. You ever see--mean ones? Like a damn Indian. Something like Injun Pete on the Darby Standard--he--"

I didn't bother to hear him finish. I looked straight at Hy and felt cold all over. "The Dragon," I said. "He's one step up."

Hy had a quiet look on his face. "That's what I almost forgot to tell you about, Mike."

"What?"

"The Dragon. I got inside the code name from our people overseas. There may be two guys because The Dragon code breaks down to tooth and nail. When they operate as a team they're simply referred to as The Dragon."

"Great," I said. "Swell. That's all we need for odds." My mouth had a bad taste in it. "Show us Dennis's place, Bayliss. We can't stay here any longer."

"Not me," he said. "You guys go it alone. Whatever it is that's going on, I don't like it. I'll tell you where, but I'm not going in any more dark places with you. Right now I'm going back to Benny Joe Grissi's bar and get stinking drunk where you can't get at me and if anything happens I'll read about it in the papers tomorrow."

"Good enough, old-timer. Now where does Dennis live?"

The rooming house was a brownstone off Ninth Avenue, a firetrap like all the others on the block, a crummy joint filled with cubicles referred to as furnished rooms. The landlady came out of the front floor flat, looked at me and said, "I don't want no cops around here," and when Hy handed her the ten-spot her fat face made a brief smile and she added, "So I made a mistake. Cops don't give away the green. What're you after?"

"Dennis Wallace. He's a seaman and--"

"Top floor front. Go on up. He's got company."

I flashed Hy a nod, took the stairs with him behind me while I yanked the .45 out and reached the top floor in seconds. The old carpet under our feet puffed dust with every step but muffled them effectively and when I reached the door there was no sound from within and a pencil-thin line of light, seeped out at the sill. I tried the knob, pushed the door open and was ready to cut loose at anything that moved wrong.

But there was no need for any shooting, if the little guy on the floor with his hands tied behind him and his throat slit wide open was Dennis Wallace, for his killer was long gone.

The fat landlady screeched when she saw the body and told us it was Dennis all right. She waddled downstairs again and pointed to the wall phone and after trying four different numbers I got Pat and told him I was with another dead man. It wasn't anything startling, he was very proper about getting down the details and told me to stay right there. His voice had a fine tone of satisfaction to it that said he had me where he could make me sweat and maybe even break me like he had promised.

Hy came down as I hung up and tapped my shoulder. "You didn't notice something on the guy up there."

"What's that?"

"All that blood didn't come from his throat. His gut is all carved up and his mouth is taped shut. The blood obscures the tape."

"Tortured?"

"It sure looks that way."

The landlady was in her room taking a quick shot for her nerves and seemed to hate us for causing all the trouble. I asked her when Dennis' guest had arrived and she said a couple of hours ago. She hadn't heard him leave so she assumed he was still there. Her description was brief, but enough. He was a big mean-looking guy who reminded her of an Indian.

There was maybe another minute before a squad car would come along and I didn't want to be here when that happened. I pulled Hy out on the stoop and said, "I'm going to take off."

"Pat won't like it."

"There isn't time to talk about it. You can give him the poop."

"All of it?"

"Every bit. Lay it out for him."

"What about you?"

"Look, you saw what happened. The Dragon put it together the same way I did. He was here when the boat docked and Richie Cole knew it. So Richie called for a friend who knew the ropes, told him to pick up the crate with Velda in it and where to bring it. He left and figured right when he guessed anybody waiting would follow him. He pulled them away from the boat and tried to make contact with Old Dewey at the newsstand and what he had for Dewey was the location of where that friend was to bring the crate."

"Then there's one more step."

"That's right. The friend."

"You can't trace that call after all this time."

"I don't think I have to."

Hy shook his head. "If Cole was a top agent then he didn't have any friends."

"He had one," I said.

"Who?"

"Velda."

"But--"

"So he could just as well have another. Someone who was in the same game with him during the war, someone he knew would realize the gravity of the situation and act immediately and someone he knew would be capable of fulfilling the mission."

"Who, Mike?"

I didn't tell him. "I'll call you when it's over. You tell Pat."

Down the street a squad car turned the corner. I went down the steps and went in the other direction, walking casually, then when I reached Ninth, I flagged a cab and gave him the parking lot where I had left Laura's car.

Chapter 12

If I was wrong, the girl hunters would have Velda. She'd be dead. They wanted nothing of her except that she be dead. Damn their stinking hides anyway. Damn them and their philosophies! Death and destruction were the only things the Kremlin crowd was capable of. They knew the value of violence and death and used it over and over in a wild scheme to smash everything flat but their own kind.

But there was one thing they didn't know. They didn't know how to handle it when it came back to them and exploded in their own faces. Let her be dead, I thought, and I'll start a hunt of my own. They think they can hunt? Shit. They didn't know how to be really violent. Death? I'd get them, every one, no matter how big or little, or wherever they were. I'd cut them down like so many grapes in ways that would scare the living crap out of them and those next in line for my kill would never know a second's peace until their heads went flying every which way.

So I'd better not be wrong.

Dennis Wallace had known who was to pick up the crate. There wouldn't have been time for elaborate exchanges of coded recognition signals and if Dennis had known it was more than just a joke he might conceivably have backed out. No, it had to be quick and simple and not at all frightening. He had turned the crate over to a guy whose name had been given him and since it was big enough a truck would have been used in the delivery. He would have seen lettering on the truck, he would have been able to identify both it and the driver, and with some judicious knife work on his belly he would have had his memory jarred into remembering every single detail of the transaction.

I had to be right.

Art Rickerby had offered the clue.

The guy's name had to be Alex Bird, Richie's old war buddy in the O.S.S. who had a chicken farm up in Marlboro, New York, and who most likely had a pickup truck that could transport a crate. He would do the favor, keep his mouth shut and forget it the way he had been trained to, and it was just as likely he missed any newspaper squibs about Richie's death and so didn't show up to talk to the police when Richie was killed.

By the time I reached the George Washington Bridge the stars were wiped out of the night sky and you could smell the rain again. I took the Palisades Drive and where I turned off to pick up the Thruway the rain came down in fine slanting lines that laid a slick on the road and whipped in the window.

I liked a night like this. It could put a quiet on everything. Your feet walked softer and dogs never barked in the rain. It obscured visibility and overrode sounds that could give you away otherwise and sometimes was so soothing that you could be lulled into a death sleep. Yeah, I remembered other nights like this too. Death nights.

At Newburgh I turned off the Thruway, drove down 17K into town and turned north on 9W. I stopped at a gas station when I reached Marlboro and asked the attendant if he knew where Alex Bird lived.

Yes, he knew. He pointed the way out and just to be sure I sketched out the route then picked up the blacktop road that led back into the country.

I passed by it the first time, turned around at the crossroad cursing to myself, then eased back up the road looking for the mailbox. There was no name on it, just a big wooden cutout of a bird. It was in the shadow of a tree before, but now my lights picked it out and when they did I spotted the drive, turned in, angled off into a cut in the bushes and killed the engine.

The farmhouse stood an eighth of a mile back off the road, an old building restored to more modern taste. In back of it, dimly lit by the soft glow of night lights, were two long chicken houses, the manure odor of them hanging in the wet air. On the right, a hundred feet away, a two-story boxlike barn stood in deep shadow, totally dark.

Only one light was on in the house when I reached it, downstairs on the chimney side and obviously in a living room. I held there a minute, letting my eyes get adjusted to the place. There were no cars around, but that didn't count since there were too many places to hide one. I took out the .45, jacked a shell in the chamber and thumbed the hammer back.

But before I could move another light went on in the opposite downstairs room. Behind the curtains a shadow moved slowly, purposefully, passed the window several times then disappeared altogether. I waited, but the light didn't go out. Instead, one top-floor light came on, but too dimly to do more than vaguely outline the form of a person on the curtains.

Then it suddenly made sense to me and I ran across the distance to the door. Somebody was searching the house.

The door was locked and too heavy to kick in. I hoped the rain covered the racket I made, then laid my trench coat against the window and pushed. The glass shattered inward to the carpeted floor without much noise, I undid the catch, lifted the window and climbed over the sill.

Alex Bird would be the thin, balding guy tied to the straightback chair. His head slumped forward, his chin on his chest and when I tilted his head back his eyes stared at me lifelessly. There was a small lumpy bruise on the side of his head where he had been hit, but outside of a chafing of his wrists and ankles, there were no other marks on him. His body had the warmth of death only a few minutes old and I had seen too many heart-attack cases not to be able to diagnose this one.

The Dragon had reached Alex Bird, all right. He had him right where he could make him talk and the little guy's heart exploded on him. That meant just one thing. He hadn't talked. The Dragon was still searching. He didn't know where she was yet!

And right then, right that very second he was upstairs tearing the house apart!

The stairs were at a shallow angle reaching to the upper landing and I hugged the wall in the shadows until I could definitely place him from the sounds. I tried to keep from laughing out loud because I felt so good, and although I could hold back the laugh I couldn't suppress the grin. I could feel it stretch my face and felt the pull across my shoulders and back, then I got ready to go.

I knew when he felt it. When death is your business you have a feeling for it; an animal instinct can tell when it's close even when you can't see it or hear it. You just know it's there. And like he knew suddenly that I was there, I realized he knew it too.

Upstairs the sounds stopped abruptly. There was the smallest of metallic clicks that could have been made by a gun, but that was all. Both of us were waiting. Both of us knew we wouldn't wait long.

You can't play games when time is so important. You take a chance on being hit and maybe living through it just so you get one clean shot in where it counts. You have to end the play knowing one must die and sometimes two and there's no other way. For the first time you both know it's pro against pro, two cold, calm killers facing each other down and there's no such thing as sportsmanship and if an advantage is offered it will be taken and whoever offered it will be dead.

We came around the corners simultaneously with the rolling thunder of the .45 blanking out the rod in his hand and I felt a sudden torch along my side and another on my arm. It was immediate and unaimed diversionary fire until you could get the target lined up and in the space of four rapid-fire shots I saw him, huge at the top of the stairs, his high-cheek-boned face truly Indianlike, the black hair low on his forehead and his mouth twisted open in the sheer enjoyment of what he was doing.

Then my shot slammed the gun out of his hand and the advantage was his because he was up there, a crazy killer with a scream on his lips and like the animal he was he reacted instantly and dove headlong at me through the acrid fumes of the gunsmoke.

The impact knocked me flat on my back, smashing into a corner table so that the lamp shattered into a million pieces beside my head. I had my hands on him, his coat tore, a long tattered slice of it in my fingers, then he kicked free with a snarl and a guttural curse, rolling to his feet like an acrobat. The .45 had skittered out of my hand and lay up against the step. All it needed was a quick movement and it was mine. He saw the action, figured the odds and knew he couldn't reach me before I had the gun, and while I grabbed it up he was into the living room and out the front door. The slide was forward and the hammer back so there was still one shot left at least and he couldn't afford the chance of losing. I saw his blurred shadow racing toward the drive and when my shadow broke the shaft of light coming from the door he swerved into the darkness of the barn and I let a shot go at him and heard it smash into the woodwork.

It was my last. This time the slide stayed back. I dropped the gun in the grass, ran to the barn before he could pull the door closed and dived into the darkness.

He was on me like a cat, but he made a mistake in reaching for my right hand thinking I had the gun there. I got the other hand in his face and damn near tore it off. He didn't yell. He made a sound deep in his throat and went for my neck. He was big and strong and wild mean, but it was my kind of game too. I heaved up and threw him off, got to my feet and kicked out to where he was. I missed my aim, but my toe took him in the side and he grunted and came back with a vicious swipe of his hand I could only partially block. I felt his next move coming and let an old-time reflex take over. The judo bit is great if everything is going for you, but a terrible right cross to the face can destroy judo or karate or anything else if it gets there first.

My hand smashed into bone and flesh and with the meaty impact I could smell the blood and hear the gagging intake of his breath. He grabbed, his arms like great claws. He just held on and I knew if I couldn't break him loose he could kill me. He figured I'd start the knee coming up and turned to block it with a half-turn. But I did something worse, I grabbed him with my hands, squeezed and twisted and his scream was like a woman's, so high-pitched as almost to be noiseless, and in his frenzy of pain he shoved me so violently I lost that fanatical hold of what manhood I had left him, and with some blind hate driving him he came at me as I stumbled over something and fell on me like a wild beast, his teeth tearing at me, his hands searching and ripping and I felt the shock of incredible pain and ribs break under his pounding and I couldn't get him off no matter what I did, and he was holding me down and butting me with his head while he kept up that whistle-like screaming and in another minute it would be me dead and him alive, then Velda dead.

And when I thought of her name something happened, that little thing you have left over was there and I got my elbow up, smashed his head back unexpectedly, got a short one to his jaw again, then another, and another, and another, then I was on top of him and hitting, hitting, smashing--and he wasn't moving at all under me. He was breathing, but not moving.

I got up and found the doorway somehow, standing there to suck in great breaths of air. I could feel the blood running from my mouth and nose, wetting my shirt, and with each breath my side would wrench and tear. The two bullet burns were nothing compared to the rest. I had been squeezed dry, pulled apart, almost destroyed, but I had won. Now the son of a bitch would die.

Inside the door I found a light switch. It only threw on a small bulb overhead, but it was enough. I walked back to where he lay face up and then spat down on The Dragon. Mechanically, I searched his pockets, found nothing except money until I saw that one of my fists had torn his hair loose at the side and when I ripped the wig off there were several small strips of microfilm hidden there.

Hell, I didn't know what they were. I didn't care. I even grinned at the slob because he sure did look like an Indian now, only one that had been half scalped by an amateur. He was big, big. Cheekbones high, a Slavic cast to his eyes, his mouth a cruel slash, his eyebrows thick and black. Half bald, though, he wouldn't have looked too much like an Indian. Not our kind, anyway.

There was an ax on the wall, a long-handled, double-bitted ax with a finely honed edge and I picked it from the pegs and went back to The Dragon.

Just how did you kill a dragon? I could bury the ax in his belly. That would be fun, all right. Stick it right in the middle of his skull and it would look at lot better. They wouldn't come fooling around after seeing pictures of that. How about the neck? One whack and his head would roll like the Japs used to do. But nuts, why be that kind?

This guy was really going to die.

I looked at the big pig, put the ax down and nudged him with my toe. What was it Art had said? Like about suffering? I thought he was nuts, but he could be right. Yeah, he sure could be right. Still, there had to be some indication that people were left who treat those Commie slobs like they liked to treat people.

Some indication.

He was Gorlin now, Comrade Gorlin. Dragons just aren't dragons anymore when they're bubbling blood over their chins.

I walked around the building looking for an indication.

I found it on a workbench in the back.

A twenty-penny nail and a ball peen hammer. The nail seemed about four inches long and the head big as a dime. I went back and turned Comrade Gorlin over on his face.

I stretched his arm out palm down on the floor.

I tapped the planks until I found a floor beam and put his hand on it.

It was too bad he wasn't conscious.

Then I held the nail in the middle of the back of his hand and slammed it in with the hammer and slammed and slammed and slammed until the head of that nail dimpled his skin and he was so tightly pinned to the floor like a piece of equipment he'd never get loose until he was pried out and he wasn't going to do it with a ball peen. I threw the hammer down beside him and said, "Better'n handcuffs, buddy," but he didn't get the joke. He was still out.

Outside, the rain came down harder. It always does after a thing like that, trying to flush away the memory of it. I picked up my gun, took it in the house and dismantled it, wiped it dry and reassembled the piece.

Only then did I walk to the telephone and ask the operator to get me New York and the number I gave her was that of the Peerage Brokers.

Art Rickerby answered the phone himself. He said, "Mike?"

"Yes."

For several seconds there was silence. "Mike--"

"I have him for you. He's still alive."

It was as though I had merely told him the time. "Thank you," he said.

"You'll cover for me on this."

"It will be taken care of. Where is he?"

I told him. I gave him the story then too. I told him to call Pat and Hy and let it all loose at once. Everything tied in. It was almost all wrapped up.

Art said, "One thing, Mike."

"What?"

"Your problem."

"No trouble. It's over. I was standing here cleaning my gun and it all was like snapping my fingers. It was simple. If I had thought of it right away Dewey and Dennis Wallace and Alex Bird would still be alive. It was tragically simple. I could have found out where Velda was days ago."

"Mike--"

"I'll see you, Art. The rest of The Dragon has yet to fall."

"What?" He didn't understand me.

"Tooth and Nail. I just got Tooth--Nail is more subtle."

"We're going to need a statement."

"You'll get it."

"How will--"

I interrupted him with, "I'll call you."

Chapter 13

At daylight the rain stopped and the music of sunlight played off the trees and grass at dawn. The mountains glittered and shone and steamed a little, and as the sun rose the sheen stopped and the colors came through. I ate at an all-night drive-in, parking between the semis out front. I sat through half a dozen cups of coffee before paying the bill and going out to the day, ignoring the funny looks of the carhop.

I stopped again awhile by the Ashokan Reservoir and did nothing but look at the water and try to bring seven years into focus. It was a long time, that. You change in seven years.

You change in seven days too, I thought.

I was a bum Pat had dragged into a hospital to look at a dying man. Pat didn't know it, but I was almost as dead as the one on the bed. It depends on where you die. My dying had been almost done. The drying up, the withering, had taken place. Everything was gone except hopelessness and that is the almost death of living.

Remember, Velda, when we were big together? You must have remembered or you would never have asked for me. And all these years I had spent trying to forget you while you were trying to remember me.

I got up slowly and brushed off my pants, then walked back across the field to the car. During the night I had gotten it all muddy driving aimlessly on the back roads, but I didn't think Laura would mind.

The sun had climbed high until it was almost directly overhead. When you sit and think time can go by awfully fast. I turned the key, pulled out on the road and headed toward the mountains.

When I drove up, Laura heard me coming and ran out to meet me. She came into my arms with a rush of pure delight and did nothing for a few seconds except hold her arms around me, then she looked again, stepped back and said, "Mike--your face!"

"Trouble, baby. I told you I was trouble."

For the first time I noticed my clothes. My coat swung open and there was blood down my jacket and shirt and a jagged tear that was clotted with more blood at my side.

Her eyes went wide, not believing what she saw. "Mike! You're--you're all--"

"Shot down, kid. Rough night."

She shook her head. "It's not funny. I'm going to call a doctor!"

I took her hand. "No, you're not. It isn't that bad."

"Mike--"

"Favor, kitten. Let me lie in the sun like an old dog, okay? I don't want a damn medic. I'll heal. It's happened before. I just want to be left alone in the sun."

"Oh, Mike, you stubborn fool."

"Anybody home?" I asked her.

"No, you always pick an off day for the servants." She smiled again now. "You're clever and I'm glad."

I nodded. For some reason my side had started to ache and it was getting hard to breathe. There were other places that had pain areas all their own and they weren't going to get better. It had only just started. I said, "I'm tired."

So we went out back to the pool. She helped me off with my clothes and once more I put the trunks on, then eased down into a plastic contour chair and let the sun warm me. There were blue marks from my shoulders down and where the rib was broken a welt had raised, an angry red that arched from front to back. Laura found antiseptic and cleaned out the furrow where the two shots had grazed me and I thought back to the moment of getting them, realizing how lucky I was because the big jerk was too impatient, just like I had been, taking too much pleasure out of something that should have been strictly business.

I slept for a while. I felt the sun travel across my body from one side to the other, then I awoke abruptly because events had compacted themselves into my thoughts and I knew that there was still that one thing more to do.

Laura said, "You were talking in your sleep, Mike."

She had changed back into that black bikini and it was wet like her skin so she must have just come from the water. The tight band of black at her loins had rolled down some from the swim and fitted tightly into the crevasses of her body. The top half was like an artist's brush stroke, a quick motion of impatience at a critical sex-conscious world that concealed by reason of design only. She was more nearly naked dressed than nude.

How lovely.

Large, flowing thighs. Full, round calves. They blended into a softly concave stomach and emerged, higher, into proud, outthrust breasts. Her face and hair were a composite halo reaching for the perfection of beauty and she was smiling.

Lovely.

"What did I say, Laura?"

She stopped smiling then. "You were talking about dragons."

I nodded. "Today, I'm St. George."

"Mike--"

"Sit down, baby."

"Can we talk again?"

"Yes, we'll talk."

"Would you mind if I got dressed first? It's getting chilly out here now. You ought to get dressed yourself."

She was right. The sun was a thick red now, hanging just over the crest of a mountain. While one side was a blaze of green, the other was in the deep purple of the shadow.

I held out my hand and she helped me up, and together we walked around the pool to the bathhouse, touching each other, feeling the warmth of skin against skin, the motion of muscle against muscle. At the door she turned and I took her in my arms. "Back to back?" she said.

"Like prudes," I told her.

Her eyes grew soft and her lips wet her tongue. Slowly, with an insistent hunger, her mouth turned up to mine and I took it, tasting her again, knowing her, feeling the surge of desire go through me and through her too.

I let her go reluctantly and she went inside with me behind her. The setting sun threw long orange rays through the window, so there was no need of the overhead light. She went into the shower and turned on a soft drizzle while I got dressed slowly, aching and hurting as I pulled on my clothes.

She called out, "When will it all be over, Mike?"

"Today," I said quietly.

"Today?"

I heard her stop soaping herself in the shower. "Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"You were dreaming about dragons," she called out.

"About how they die, honey. They die hard. This one will die especially hard. You know, you wouldn't believe how things come about. Things that were planted long ago suddenly bear fruit now. Like what I told you. Remember all I told you about Velda?"

"Yes, Mike, I do."

"I had to revise and add to the story, Laura."

"Really?" She turned the shower off and stood there behind me soaping herself down, the sound of it so nice and natural I wanted to turn around and watch. I knew what she'd look like darkly beautiful, blondely beautiful, the sun having turned all of her hair white.

I said, "Pat was right and I was right. Your jewels did come into it. They were like Mrs. Civac's jewels and the fact that Richie Cole was a jewel smuggler."

"Oh?" That was all she said.

"They were all devices. Decoys. Red herrings. How would you like to hear the rest of what I think?"

"All right, Mike."

She didn't see me, but I nodded. "In the government are certain key men. Their importance is apparent to critical eyes long before it is to the public. Your husband was like that. It was evident that he was going to be a top dog one day and the kind of top dog our Red enemy could hardly afford to have up there.

"That was Leo Knapp, your husband. Mr. Missile Man. Mr. America. He sure was a big one. But our wary enemy knew his stuff. Kill him off and you had a public martyr or a great investigation that might lead to even greater international stuff and those Reds just aren't the kind who can stand the big push. Like it or not, they're still a lousy bunch of peasants who killed to control but who can be knocked into line by the likes of us. They're shouting slobs who'll run like hell when class shows and they know this inside their feeble little heads. So they didn't want Leo Knapp put on a pedestal.

"Control comes other ways, however. For instance, he could marry a woman who would listen to him as a sounding board and relay his thoughts and secrets to the right persons so that whatever he did could be quickly annulled by some other action. He could marry a woman who, as his official Washington hostess, had the ear of respected persons and could pick up things here and there that were as important to enemy ears as any sealed documents. He could find his work being stymied at every turn.

"Then one day he figured it all out. He pinpointed the enemy and found it within his own house. He baited a trap by planting supposedly important papers in his safe and one night while the enemy, his wife, was rifling his safe with her compatriot who was to photograph the papers and transport the photos to higher headquarters, he came downstairs. He saw her, accused her, but blundered into a game bigger than he was.

"Let's say she shot him. It doesn't really matter. She was just as guilty even if it was the other one. At least the other one carried the gun off--a pickup rod traceable to no one if it was thrown away printless. His wife delayed long enough so she and her compatriot could fake a robbery, let the guy get away, then call in the cops.

"Nor does it end there. The same wife still acts as the big Washington hostess with her same ear to the same ground and is an important and inexhaustible supply of information to the enemy. Let's say that she is so big as to even be part of The Dragon team. He was Tooth, she was Nail, both spies, both assassins, both deadly enemies of this country."

Behind me the water went on again, a downpour that would rinse the bubbles of soap from her body.

"All went well until Richie Cole was killed. Tooth went and used the same gun again. It tied things in. Like I told you when I let you be my sounding board--coincidence is a strange thing. I like the word 'fate' even better. Or is 'consequence' an even better one? Richie and Leo and Velda were all tied into the same big situation and for a long time I was too damn dumb to realize it.

"A guy like me doesn't stay dumb forever, though. Things change. You either die or smarten up. I had The Dragon on my back and when I think about it all the little things make sense too. At least I think so. Remember how when Gorlin shot the radio you shook with what I thought was fear? Hell, baby, that was rage. You were pissed off that he could pull such a stupid stunt and maybe put your hide in danger. Later you gave him hell on the phone, didn't you? That house is like an echo chamber, baby. Talk downstairs and you hear the tones all over. You were mad. I was too interested in going through your husband's effects to pay any attention, that was all.

"Now it's over. Tooth is nailed, but that's a joke you don't understand yet, baby. Let's just say that The Dragon is tethered. He'll sit in the chair and all the world will know why and nations will backtrack and lie and propaganda will tear up the knotheads in the Kremlin and maybe their satellite countries will wise up and blast loose and maybe we'll wise up and blast them, but however it goes, The Dragon is dead. It didn't find Velda. She'll talk, she'll open up the secrets of the greatest espionage organization the world has ever known and Communist philosophy will get the hell knocked out of it.

"You see, baby, I know where Velda is."

The shower stopped running and I could hear her hum as though she couldn't even hear me.

"The catch was this. Richie Cole did make his contact. He gave Old Dewey, the newsstand operator, a letter he had that told where Alex Bird would take Velda. It was a prepared place and she had orders to stay there until either he came for her or I came for her. He'll never come for her.

"Only me," I said. "Dewey put the letter in a magazine. Every month he holds certain magazines aside for me and to make sure I got it he put it inside my copy of Cavalier. It will be there when I go back to the city. I'll pick it up and it will tell me where Velda is."

I finished dressing, put on the empty gun and slid painfully into the jacket. The blood was crusty on my clothes, but it really didn't matter anymore.

I said, "It's all speculation. I might be wrong. I just can't take any chances. I've loved other women. I loved Velda. I've loved you and like you said, it's either you or her. I have to go for her, you know that. If she's alive I have to find her. The key is right there inside my copy of that magazine. It will have my name on it and Duck-Duck will hand it over and I'll know where she is."

She stopped humming and I knew she was listening. I heard her make a curious woman-sound like a sob.

"I may be wrong, Laura. I may see her and not want her. I may be wrongs about you, and if I am I'll be back, but I have to find out." The slanting beam of the sun struck the other side of the bathhouse leaving me in the shadow then. I knew what I had to do. It had to be a test. They either passed it or failed it. No in-betweens. I didn't want it on my head again.

I reached for the shotgun in the corner, turned it upside down and shoved the barrels deep into the blue clay and twisted them until I was sure both barrels were plugged just like a cookie cutter and I left it lying there and opened the door.

The mountains were in deep shadow, the sun out of sight and only its light flickering off the trees. It was a hundred miles into the city, but I'd take the car again and it wouldn't really be very long at all. I'd see Pat and we'd be friends again and Hy would get his story and Velda--Velda? What would it be like now?

I started up the still wet concrete walk away from the bathhouse and she called out, "Mike--_Mike!"_

I turned at the sound of her voice and there she stood in the naked, glossy, shimmering beauty of womanhood, the lovely tan of her skin blossoming and swelling in all the vast hillocks and curves that make a woman, the glinting blond hair throwing tiny lights back into the sunset and over it all those incredible gray eyes.

Incredible.

They watched me over the elongated barrels of the shotgun and seemed to twinkle and swirl in the fanatical delight of murder they come up with at the moment of the kill, the moment of truth.

But for whom? Truth will out, but for whom?

The muzzle of the gun was a pair of yawning chasms but there was no depth to their mouths. Down the length of the blued steel the blood crimson of her nails made a startling and symbolic contrast.

Death red, I thought. The fingers behind them should have been tan but weren't. They were a tense, drawing white and with another fraction of an inch the machinery of the gun would go into motion.

She said, "Mike--" and in that one word there was hate and desire, revenge and regret, but above all the timbre of duty long ago instilled into a truly mechanical mind.

I said, "So long, baby."

Then I turned and walked toward the outside and Velda and behind me I heard the unearthly roar as she pulled both triggers at once.