The Mourner

1

Menlo had been too excited, back there in Kapor’s house, too excited to think about checking the bodies and making sure the two of them were dead. And a derringer with .22 rim-fire cartridges isn’t very much of a gun...

Parker awoke to darkness, with something burning his side. He was lying on his back on a lot of rocks with an invisible flame searing his side. He moved, and the rocks made noises under him, scraping together, and then memory imploded into his mind.

They’d underestimated the fat bastard. They’d figured him to wait till they were clear of the house, maybe even clear of the city, and he’d second-guessed them. He’d dragged that crazy little gun out from somewhere, and now he was gone with the money and the mourner, and here Parker was lying on broken pieces of statues with a burning in his side.

He rolled over to the right because the pain was on the left side, and got his knees under him, then stabbed out with his hands till they hit a pedestal. Slowly he climbed up the pedestal till he was standing on his feet. He was weak and dizzy, and when he took a step it was bad footing because of all the broken pieces of statue everywhere on the carpet. He made it to a wall, and then felt his way along the wall to the end and made the turn, bumping into the bookcase. Now he knew where he was. He kept going around the wall till he got to the door and found the light switch. He flicked the light on.

Everything was a mess. The room was a mess, broken statues and tipped-over pedestals everywhere, the mourner and the suitcase both gone. His side was a mess, shirt and trousers cold and sticky with blood. And Handy, sprawled over there like a dummy dumped off a cliff, was an even worse mess. From the look of the blood on him, and his dead-white face, he was gut-shot.

Parker went over, still very shaky on his feet, and dropped to his knees beside him. Handy was still breathing, very slow and shallow. Both guns were still here, the .380 and the Terrier, lying on the floor among the broken statues. The fat bastard had been in a big hurry.

It was a good thing. If he’d taken his time, he might have done the job right.

Never underestimate the power of a smooth-talking amateur.

Parker gathered up the Terrier, got back on his feet, and lurched over to the door. He opened it, and saw light. Down at the far end of the hall there was a staircase — the front staircase, not the one they’d come up — and light was coming up from there. And, dimly, party noises.

Parker looked at his watch. Twenty to twelve. He’d been out for over three hours. Kapor was home, the party was going on.

He thought it out, came to a decision, and sat down on the floor next to the door. He kept the door slightly open, so he could hear when the party ended, be warned if anybody came upstairs.

When he pulled his shirt out of his trousers, so he could look at the wound, the pain suddenly intensified, almost blacking him out again. A kind of green darkness closed in all around him, like a camera lens closing. He leaned his back against the wall and breathed deeply until the green darkness went away. Then he looked at the wound.

The bullet had plowed a deep furrow in the flesh along his side, just above the belt. His whole side was discolored, gray and purplish and black, and sensitive to the touch, like a charley horse. The furrowed flesh was ragged, and smeared with dried blood. Fresh blood still oozed sluggishly from the wound. As far as he could tell, the bullet wasn’t in him, but had scored his side and kept on going.

So he’d come out better than Handy. All he had was a pain in the side. It wouldn’t even disable him badly, once a doctor had seen to it.

He looked at his watch again. Ten to twelve. The party was still going on. To his right he could hear the shallow, labored breathing of Handy. If the party lasted too long, Handy wouldn’t make it.

His left arm was stiffening up. The fingers wouldn’t work right. He transferred the Terrier to his left hand, so he could get out a cigarette, and the hand wouldn’t hold onto the gun. It fell to the carpet. Parker cursed under his breath, and left it there. He lit a cigarette, and leaned his head back against the wall, and sat there with the cigarette in his mouth, listening to the party noises and Handy’s uneven breathing. His feet were out in front of him, and his arms were hanging at his sides, the hands resting palm up on the floor. A pins-and-needles feeling kept running up and down his left side and down his left arm. His fingers on that side felt like sausages, thick and unresponsive.

The seconds limped by, dragging sacks, forming into long lines. Every line took forever to form, and then was only one more minute. Parker lit a fresh cigarette off the butt of the old one. Then that cigarette was smoked down, and he lit another fresh one. And again.

They were happy as hell downstairs.

This was six. Six times in his life he’d been shot. And this was the second time he’d been left for dead. The first time, it had been a heavier slug, and well aimed, but it had hit his belt buckle instead of his stomach, and he’d managed to crawl away from that one with only the loss of appetite for a while. In England, in forty-four, an MP had winged him when he’d taken a truckful of stolen tires through a roadblock. And three other times it had happened. He was almost as shot up as Tom Mix.

He tried to lift his left arm so he could look at his watch, but the arm felt as though it had been injected full of lead. He reached over with his right hand and grabbed his left wrist and lifted. It was a quarter after one. The sweep-second hand was in no hurry; the other two hands were just painted on.

They were too happy down there. Why the hell didn’t they go home?

What if Kapor decided to show somebody all his pretty statues?

Parker grimaced, and reached over with his right hand to pick up the Terrier. He held it in his lap, and smoked, and waited. Whenever he finished a cigarette, he butted it against the wall board. There weren’t any ashtrays handy.

Handy sounded like he was snoring. Blood in his throat, probably. So maybe he wouldn’t make it, and the fat bastard would be batting five hundred.

It was getting quieter downstairs. He lifted his hand again to look at his watch, and it was twenty to two. He felt as though he’d been sitting here for days. The burning had lessened in his side, and so had the pins and needles. Now there was a dull numbness, with a low throbbing pain behind it.

Quieter and quieter. He reached up and, grabbing the doorknob, pulled himself upright. The green darkness closed in again, and he waited, leaning against the wall next to the doorway, until slowly it faded away again. The cigarettes hadn’t helped; they’d just made him more lightheaded.

When he could take a chance on walking, he went through the doorway and lurched across to the opposite wall, so he could lean his right side against it. He moved along, more slowly than he wanted, until he got to the head of the stairs. He peered around the edge of the wall, and he was looking down at the big front hall, with a parquet floor. The front door was open, and people were leaving. Kapor was smiling and nodding, and telling them all good-bye. They were speaking a lot of different languages, French and German and some others. Nobody was speaking English.

It took them a long while to clear out. Two or three loud-mouthed women in furs took the longest. Then the front door closed at last, and only Kapor and his butler-bodyguard were left standing in the hall.

Kapor said something, and the bodyguard bowed and went away. They were both wearing formal dress, like waiters. Kapor yawned, patting his mouth with the back of his hand. Then he took out a flat gold cigarette case and took his time lighting a cigarette. When he finally had it going, he turned around and started up the stairs.

He was short and slender and a dandy, with a hawk face and ferret eyes. His hands and face were so pale they looked as though they’d been dusted with flour. He didn’t see Parker until he was all the way to the top of the stairs. When he saw Parker, and the gun, he opened his mouth wide without making any sound.

Parker said, “Keep it soft. Walk ahead of me to the trophy room.”

“The what?”

“The statues,” Parker said.

Sudden alarm showed on Kapor’s face, and then was wiped away again. “What are you doing here?”

“We’ll talk. In the trophy room.”

“Shall I shout for help?”

“You won’t shout twice. Move.”

Kapor hesitated, thinking it over, but his eyes kept flicking past Parker toward the room where the statues were. He wanted to know if the money was still in the Apollo. He shrugged and walked past Parker down the hall.

“Move slow.”

Kapor glanced back at him. “I see you’ve been wounded.”

“Just move slow and steady.”

Parker braced himself, and then staggered over to the opposite wall. He wanted to keep his right side as a support.

Kapor walked into the room first, and stopped short in the doorway staring at the wreckage. Then he saw the Apollo, with its head off. “What has hap—”

“That’s right,” Parker told him. “It’s gone.”

Parker followed him in, and closed the door. He leaned his back against it. He would have liked to sit down on the floor again, but it would have been wrong psychologically.

Then Kapor saw Handy lying there, breath still bubbling faintly in and out of him. “Is he the one who shot you?”

“No. You ever hear of Menlo?”

“Auguste Menlo?” Kapor looked surprised, and then frightened, and then artificially surprised. “What would the Inspector have to do with this?”

“We’re going to make a deal, Kapor.”

“We are? I don’t know yet what you’re talking about.”

“The hundred grand is gone. Go take a look in the statue. It’s gone.”

“I can see that.”

“I can get you half of it back.”

“Half?”

“That’s better than none.”

Kapor glanced at Handy. “He’s dying,” he said.

“If he dies, the deal’s off.”

“What deal? Say what you’ve got to say.”

“I can tell you things you want to know. And I can get you half the dough back. That’s what I do for you. What you do for me — you get a doctor who won’t make a police report on bullet wounds. In your job, you must know a doctor like that.”

Kapor nodded briefly. His eyes were wary.

“You also take care of my partner. Keep him here till he’s on his feet. When he’s well enough to travel, I give you your dough back.”

“How do I know you can get it back?”

“I know who’s got it, and where he’s going.”

“You seem sure.”

“I am sure. He’s too greedy not to go there.”

“Whatever that may mean. This other point. You said you could tell me something I might want to know. What would that be?”

“Is it a deal?”

“How do I know, until I’ve heard what you have to tell me?

“Forget that part. That’s bonus. For half the dough back, is it a deal?”

Kapor shrugged, and looked at Handy. “I think he will die anyway. Then you won’t get me the money.”

“So make up your mind quick. The sooner he sees a doctor, the better.”

“If he is going to die, and I get no money, why should I deal with you?”

“It’s worth the chance.”

“Possibly.”

“Definitely. You don’t have a week to think it over.”

“Very true. All right, it’s a deal.”

“I want a doctor. Fast. For him, to keep him alive. And for me, to tape me up so I can travel. If I can’t travel, I can’t get you your dough back.”

“Now, what do you have to tell me that I want to know?”

“After the doctor gets here. Where do I find a bed?”

“I see.” Kapor smiled thinly. “There is no trust wasted between us, eh? Am I permitted to know a name by which I may call you?”

“Pick one you like.”

“Of course. You may use the bedroom directly across the hall. As to your friend, I do not think we should move him without medical advice.”

“That’s right.”

Parker slid over until he was clear of the door, then opened it and went out to the hallway. He angled over to the opposite doorway, shoved the door open, found the light switch. He didn’t see anything else in the room at all, only the bed. He went over and dropped down onto it and rolled over onto his back. He kept the gun in his hand. He closed his eyes, because the ceiling light made them burn, but he wouldn’t let himself lose consciousness.

After a while, he heard a movement and opened his eyes. Kapor had come in. “I’ve called the doctor. I’ll have him look at your friend first, of course.” Kapor switched on a table lamp beside the bed, then went over and turned off the ceiling light. “That will be more restful,” he said. “When you see the doctor, it might be best to tell him nothing.”

“Don’t worry.”

“I seem to have much to worry about. But I will try to take your advice.”

He left, and Parker lay there, gripping the gun and holding to consciousness. The green darkness closed down around him again, leaving only one small opening in the center. He lay that way, suspended, not awake and not asleep, until the doctor came in.

The doctor was a stocky man with a brown mustache. He looked angry. He didn’t say anything at first, then he said, “Put that damn gun away.”

Parker said, “No.”

“No? Then take your finger off the trigger. I’m going to hurt you, and I don’t want to get shot for it.”

Parker’s right hand was now sluggish too. He had trouble making the fingers open, but they finally did, and the gun fell. He couldn’t find it again, but he knew it was on the bed somewhere.

“Don’t scream now, for God’s sake.” Then the doctor did something painful to Parker’s left side.

It woke him up. He went from the green darkness through complete awareness to a blazing red darkness on the other side. The pain subsided, and he slid softly back into the green. Then the doctor was at him again, and it was red again. He kept alternating between the two, but he didn’t scream.

The doctor, or somebody, had stripped him, and rolled him over this way and that. He felt total awareness just beyond his grasp, as though any second he might be perfectly all right, his old self again. But he could never quite make it that last fraction of an inch; he just kept shuttling back and forth.

It went on and on, and there were times when he was out completely. Then, from very far away, he heard the doctor say, “You’ll live. You’ll be stiff in the morning, but you’ll live.”

He tried to answer, but it wouldn’t work. He was falling down into the green again. The green got darker and darker, and then it was black, and then it wasn’t anything.

2

After breakfast, he smoked a Russian cigarette. It was about three times as long as a cigarette ought to be, but most of it was a hollow cardboard tube. By the time the smoke got from the tobacco to his mouth, it tasted exactly like cardboard tube.

The maid had said nothing to him when she’d brought the tray, and she was just as uncommunicative when she came to take it away again. It hadn’t taken Kapor long to replace Clara Stoper, and it hadn’t taken the replacement long to learn to be a dummy.

After she took the tray, Parker stubbed out the Russian cigarette and tried getting out of bed. Practically his whole torso was taped, giving him a tight, corseted feeling, and his left arm still felt heavier and more sluggish than usual. He felt faint twinges in his left side when he swung his legs over, a minute of dizziness when he got to his feet, and his whole body was stiff, as though he’d been given a workover by experts. He took a step away from the bed, and then stopped when he saw the two suitcases standing there at the foot of the bed. One belonged to him, the other belonged to Handy.

He was still standing there looking at them when the door opened and Kapor came in “Ah! You’re up and about. Very good.”

Parker was wearing only shorts and bandages. “What happened to my suit?” he asked.

“All of your clothing was burned last night, except for your socks and shoes, there at the foot of the bed. The suit and shirt were ruined.”

“Where’d the luggage come from?”

“Your motel room, of course. I found the key in your pocket, and sent someone there this morning to check you out. You seem to carry identification under several different names. I assume none of the names is accurate.”

“You went through my stuff?”

“Of course,” Kapor shrugged. “Could you expect anything else? Perhaps you’d better sit down for a while.”

Parker thought the same thing. He sank down on the edge of the bed. “What about my partner?”

“The doctor is with him now. He says he can’t tell one way or the other until the bullet is removed, and it couldn’t be last night because your friend was in shock. The doctor returned this morning. He is doing what he can to ready your friend for the operation.”

“All right.”

“He is a good man, I assure you. If your friend’s life can be saved, he will save it.”

“That’s good.”

“And now,” Kapor said, “perhaps it is time we talked.”

“I want some clothes on first.”

“Of course. I apologize. I confess I’ve been thinking more about my own loss than of yours. Which bag is yours?”

Parker pointed. “That one.”

Kapor lifted it and put it on the bed. “Do you feel capable of walking?”

“Yes.”

“Then, when you are ready, you’ll find me downstairs. Down the front staircase, and to your left.”

“All right. Wait. Where’s my gun?”

“Both guns are in the top dresser drawer. I put them there to avoid alarming the help.”

“O.K.”

Kapor smiled thinly, bowed, and left the room.

Parker dressed slowly, hampered by his stiffness and weakness. He needed a shave, and wanted to wash his face, but that could wait. He went out to the hall and downstairs, feeling better the more he moved. He turned left at the foot of the stairs and through a tall doorway into a large sitting room with a bar at the far end. Kapor was there, mixing himself something complicated, with sugar. He looked over. “Ah, there you are. Would you care for a drink?”

“Bourbon.”

“Medicinally. Of course.”

Kapor brought him a glass, waved him to a leather armchair, and sat down in another facing him. “Now,” he said, “if you think the time has come, I am willing to listen.”

“Menlo was sent here by his Ministry. They’re onto you, skimming the cream off the dough you handle. They figure you’ve stolen around a hundred G by now.”

Kapor’s smile disappeared, and his eyes narrowed. “The Ministry seems to have chosen an odd way to handle the situation.”

“They sent Menlo here to rub you out, quick and quiet. Find the money if he could, but mainly get rid of you. They did it that way, because any other way it might have leaked. There’s a big wad of cash due here soon, and they figured you were waiting for that before you took off.”

“More perspicacity than I had expected,” Kapor said, grim-faced.

“They’ve been holding it up on purpose, to keep you here till Menlo could get to you.”

“How charming.” Kapor unsheathed his gold cigarette case. “Cigarette?”

“Thanks.”

Kapor lit them both. “I still don’t understand what happened last night. What connection have you with Auguste Menlo?”

“He’d decided to take the dough himself.”

“Auguste Menlo? Incredible. He has a reputation for honesty that passes belief.”

“He was never offered a hundred G before.”

“Ah, so.” Kapor’s thin-lipped smile flashed again. “We are all human after all, eh?”

“We were in it with him. There’s a lot more to it than that, but that’s the way it winds up. We were in it with him. Also, a guy named Spannick got killed when he tipped to what Menlo was up to.”

“Ahh! I’d heard of his death, of course. He was at some unlikely address — But go on.”

“Menlo found out where you’d stashed the dough.”

“How?”

“Your maid, Clara Stoper.”

“I see. She hasn’t been here the last few days.”

“She’s dead.”

“So much violence going on, all around me, and I never knew. And I was its target all along. It’s a frightening thought. So you came here last night and Menlo double-crossed you.”

“That’s it.”

“And now you say you know where to find him?”

“Right.”

“How?”

“That’s my business.”

“Ah. Of course.” Kapor settled back in his chair, smoking and gazing thoughtfully over Parker’s head. “If I want any of my money at all, I suppose I had best go along with you.”

“That’s right.”

“I imagine you plan to kill Menlo?”

“Yes.”

“Please do a better job on him than he did on you.”

“Don’t worry.”

“Not about that, no. But about this other matter. How long do I have before the Ministry decides to send someone else?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are they aware of Menlo’s change of heart?”

“I don’t think so. Spannick found out, but he’s dead. Menlo claimed Spannick wouldn’t have reported to them until he’d taken care of things.”

“That sounds logical. Spannick was the ultimate egotist. But how did he find out in the first place? If he did, won’t others?”

“No. It was an earlier double-cross, before my partner and I came in on it.”

“It sounds so complex. I have the feeling I’ve heard barely a quarter of the story.”

Parker shrugged. “You heard all of your part.”

“Yes. Economy in all things. I assume Menlo has left Washington?”

“Yes.”

“Do you feel strong enough to travel?”

“I think so.”

“Will you want anyone with you? I can offer you one or two willing helpers.”

“I can handle it myself.”

“Yes, I suppose you can. Very well, then. Can I make any sort of travel reservations for you?”

“Yes. The first plane I can get to Miami.”

“Miami! He’s spending my money already, is he?”

“Yes.”

Kapor squinted again, gazing over Parker’s shoulder. “Now, I wonder,” he said. “You tell me Menlo is in Miami. I wonder—”

“Forget it. Miami is a big town. I know where in Miami; you don’t. I know who he’s going to contact.”

Kapor smiled sadly. “You are perfectly correct. I fear I must be satisfied with my fifty per cent. Now, one last question. How long will this take? It is now Saturday. Neither of us can be certain how long the Ministry will remain patient.”

“Three or four days at the most. But what about my partner?”

“Ah, yes. If I disappear, what becomes of him? You won’t return before Monday, I take it?”

“I doubt it,” Parker answered.

“I will talk to the doctor. If he agrees, I will have your friend moved to a private rest home on Monday. I shall expect you to pay the bill, of course, out of your half of my money.”

“It isn’t your money either,” Parker reminded him.

Kapor laughed. “The doctrine of private property,” he said. “Don’t you know that’s against my religion? Nevertheless, I should prefer that you take care of the expenses of your friend’s confinement.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

“Excellent. I shall now call the airport and make your reservation. When the time comes you will be driven out to the airport in my personal car.”

“Great.”

“Do you want to see your friend now?”

“Is he awake?”

“No, I’m sorry to say he is still unconscious.”

“Then never mind.”

“Whatever you say.” Kapor got to his feet. “If there’s anything you need,” he said, “do not hesitate to ask.”

“I won’t.”

3

Parker moved across the crowded lobby, keeping his left elbow stuck out to protect his side, and pushed through to the desk. He signaled, and when one of the clerks came he said, “Ralph Harrow. He checked in yet?”

“Just one moment, sir.” The clerk checked, and then came back. “He doesn’t seem to be expected sir.”

So Menlo wasn’t here yet. That either meant he was driving down or he was holed up somewhere for a few days. Unless Parker had figured him wrong completely. But that didn’t make any sense. Menlo had gone after Bett, to get the details of the job Parker was doing for her father. He had taken the statue. It didn’t make sense any way but one; Menlo was coming down here to peddle the mourner to Harrow, probably in return for Harrow giving him some sort of a cover.

The only thing to do was wait. “Tell Freedman that Charles Willis is here without a reservation and could use a room.”

“Mr. Freedman, sir?”

“He’s your boss.”

“Yes, sir, I know. One moment, please.”

It took more than a moment, but when the clerk came back he was affable, and Parker all of a sudden had a reservation. He let a bellboy take his suitcase and lead him up to a room on the fifth floor overlooking the beach. He tipped the boy, and then sat down in the chair by the window to rest and look out at the ocean. He was still shaky.

It was a little before noon, Sunday. He hadn’t been able to get a seat on a plane out of Washington till this morning, so he’d had another night’s sleep at Kapor’s. The bullet was out of Handy now and the doctor thought he might even live. He’d complained about the idea of moving him, but finally agreed to it, if Handy was treated like a thin-skinned egg. So tomorrow an ambulance would take Handy to a private rest home.

It was just as well. If Kapor’s bosses got tired of waiting and went in to finish him, they might decide to make a clean sweep and finish everybody in the house.

Parker had felt a lot better this morning, but the hours sitting on the plane had drained him, and now he was feeling stiff and shaky again. The wound was itching under the bandages, and there was one spot in the small of his back where the tape had got bunched up that was particularly bugging him.

After a while he got up from the chair, stripped, and looked at himself in the mirror on the closet door. His side was still discolored and bruised, but it was generally less angry looking. The tape wasn’t as white and clean as it had been when it had first been put on, and it wasn’t holding him as securely.

He’d had the cab stop at a drugstore on the way in from the airport, so there was now a supply of bandages and tape in his suitcase. He stripped off the old bandage, wincing as the tape tore hair from his chest, and unwound the gauze that was taped around his torso until he finally got down to the wound itself. It had pretty well scabbed over, and in this area too the coloring had gone down, though it was still pretty dark. He flexed his left arm, raising it and lowering it, and watching the flesh as it moved on his side. He could feel the strain against the edges of the wound, but in a way it helped ease the itching.

He took a shower then, favoring his left side and not letting the spray beat on it directly. The hot shower, and the stiffness, made him sleepy. He dried himself, having trouble with his left side because the skin was too tender to touch, and then he put on a fresh bandage and lay down on the bed. It was almost noon, and only a sliver of gold angled through the broad window. Parker drowsily watched the sliver narrowing, and then he fell asleep.

When he awoke, the room was darker. He forgot the wound at first and started to get out of bed at his usual speed, but a wrenching pain in his side stopped him. After that he was more cautious.

He looked out the window, and now a fat dark shadow, shaped like an elongated outline of the hotel, lay across the beach. His watch told him it was a little after three, and his stomach told him it was time to eat. He dressed and took the elevator down to the lobby.

The restaurant was across and to the left. He started that way, and then suddenly turned aside and walked over to the magazine counter. He picked up a magazine and leafed through it, glancing back, watching Menlo coming out of the restaurant.

The fat bastard looked very pleased with himself.

Not yet. It wouldn’t do any good to brace him yet. Not till he knew for sure where the suitcase was.

He watched Menlo go over to one of the house phones. Menlo talked for a minute or two, and then walked to the elevators. As soon as the elevator door closed, Parker put the magazine down and went over to the desk to ask again if Ralph Harrow had showed up or was expected. The answer was still negative. So Menlo had just connected with Bett.

Parker went around to the door marked MANAGER, j. A. FREEDMAN, and went on in. There was a new girl in the outer office, as usual, so he told her to tell Freedman Charles Willis wanted to see him. She spoke into the intercom and a minute later told him he could go in.

Freedman was barrel-shaped, five feet five inches tall. He was totally bald, with a bull neck and a bullet head. He looked hard all over, except the face, which was made of globs of Silly Putty plus horn-rimmed glasses. He came around the desk, the globs of Silly Putty settled into a smile, his hands outstretched. “Mr. Willis! So happy I could find you a room.”

“It’s good to be back,” Parker said. His voice was softer than usual, his face more pleasant. After all these years, he fell automatically back into the Willis role.

They talked about inconsequentialities for a few minutes, long enough to satisfy the aura of friendship Freedman liked to maintain with his regular guests, and then Parker said, “There’s one more favor you can do me. A small one.”

“Anything I can do.”

“Ralph Harrow should be checking in in a day or two. Let me know when he makes a reservation, will you?”

“Ah! You know Mr. Harrow?”

“We’re old friends.”

“A charming man, charming.”

“Yes, he is. You’ll let me know then?”

“Of course.”

“I’d like to surprise him. Just tell me when he’s due in, and which his suite will be.”

“Certainly, Mr. Willis. I’ll be more than happy to.”

There was a little more talk, and then Parker left. He went up to his room and lay down on the bed to wait. He had forgotten about his hunger.

4

Parker heard them come in, father and daughter. Two bellboys came in with them, carrying the luggage, and Harrow and his daughter didn’t say anything to one another till the bellboys left.

Freedman had given him half an hour’s warning. Over the years Parker had cultivated two or three hotel employees, in case he ever needed them, and one of them had let him into the suite. He was now in the small dining room to the right of the sitting room; it was the least likely room for either Harrow or Bett to come into. If they did he could duck into the kitchen.

The connecting door was open, and he stood behind it, listening. Bett filled her father in on Menlo, explaining that Parker was dead and Menlo had the statue but was not likely to be too demanding about price. Menlo was in the country illegally, and apparently merely wanted Harrow to help him establish a safe background for himself and also to arrange for a safe place for a large amount of cash he had with him.

“How can I help him establish a background? I don’t know anything about that sort of thing,” Harrow said.

“What difference does that make?” she said. “Promise him anything. Once you’ve got the statue, what do you care? What can he do to you?”

“That’s too dangerous, Elizabeth.”

“I don’t see why. You promise to help him, he gives you the statue, and you tell him it might take a few days and then call the FBI. You give them the anonymous tip that there’s an undesirable alien staying here without papers. They take him away and that’s the end of it. Menlo can’t ever prove you were the one who turned him in, and he can’t ever make any trouble for you. He doesn’t have anything on you.”

“I don’t know...”

But Bett kept talking, persuading him, and finally he came around. She gave him the name Menlo was using — John Auguste — and his room number. Harrow put in a call and waited a minute, then hung up. “He left word at the desk that he’d be out on the beach. They’ll page him.”

“I’d better get out of here then.”

“I’ll call you after it’s over.”

“You want me to call the FBI, don’t you?”

His voice was weak. “If you would.”

“Don’t worry, Daddy. Bett will take care of everything.”

In a few minutes the phone in the next room rang, and Harrow spoke briefly to Menlo, who said he’d be up in an hour. Parker settled down to wait.

Menlo finally arrived, and sat down to discuss terms with Harrow. It was just as Bett had said, plus some nonsense about a dentist. Harrow agreed to everything, and it should have been over then, but all at once Harrow started asking questions about Menlo’s past and Menlo had to tell him his whole life story before they were finished.

Parker, waiting in the dining room, smothered his irritation, cursing Harrow for a fool. He came close to bursting in and settling it right there, but there were two other things that had to be settled first. He had to talk to Harrow, and he had to be sure where the money was. The money and the mourner would be in the same place. When Harrow put Menlo on the send for the mourner, Parker would find out where he went from the elevator operator, and that’s where he would later find the money. So he held back, controlling his impatience.

Menlo finally did leave, and the moment he was gone Parker walked into the living room.

Harrow turned, saw him, and dropped his drink. “My God!”

“Keep it low,” Parker said.

“He — he said you were dead.” Harrow pointed foolishly at the door. “He said you were dead.”

“He thought I was. He still thinks so. Sit down, Harrow. Take a minute, get used to the idea.”

“My God,” Harrow said again. He went over and sat down on the white leather sofa. He pressed his left hand to his chest. “You shouldn’t do that. My heart isn’t all that strong.”

“You want a drink?” Parker asked.

“Scotch. I think. Yes, plain Scotch.”

“On the rocks?”

“Yes. It doesn’t matter.”

Parker made the drink, and one for himself, and came back to the sofa. He handed one glass to Harrow, and Harrow swallowed half the Scotch in one gulp. Then he breathed deeply for a few seconds, and after that he settled down. He settled down so much he looked up at Parker and said, “You’re alive, but you don’t have the mourner. He has it.”

“You really want to go through all that garbage with the FBI? What makes you think Menlo couldn’t wriggle out of it? He’s a big man back home; that wasn’t crap he was feeding you. He tells his boss he got the money but couldn’t get Kapor because his plans got fouled up, that he was in Miami holing up until he could get back to Washington to try again. They’ll swallow it, they’ve got no reason not to trust him. So then he’s free, and there’s a whole espionage apparatus he can turn around and aim at you. You call the FBI on him, and he’ll make you dead. Menlo’s no boy to play with.”

Harrow pursed his lips, and chewed his cheeks, and stared into what was left of his drink. “You could be right.”

“So instead you leave Menlo to me. He gives you the statue, then I take care of him. And he won’t be coming back to bother you or anybody else.”

“And what do you want for this?”

“Just the gun, same as before.”

“I don’t have it here.”

“You better get it quick. If Bett gave you some fancy ideas about crossing me too, forget it. Menlo didn’t even manage to kill my partner. He’s in a private rest home in Washington, and if he doesn’t hear from me at the same time every day, he’ll know you made trouble for me. Then he makes trouble for you.”

“From a hospital bed?”

“He won’t be in it forever.”

Harrow thought that one over. Finally he said, “All right. The gun is in the hotel safe. I’ll have it sent up.”

“After we take care of Menlo. We don’t want any bellboys coming in at the wrong time.”

“No. You’re right.”

There was a soft rapping at the door. Harrow looked startled, and Parker said, “That’s him now.”

“So quickly?”

“Don’t let it throw you. Just go out there and let him in. Get the statue away from him before he sees me, so he doesn’t get a chance to try and break it or something.”

“The statue!” Harrow hurriedly got to his feet. “The statue,” he muttered, and went out through the doorway into the foyer. Parker, still seated on the sofa, heard him say, “You were very quick. Is that it?”

Then Menlo’s voice, “Yes, this is it.”

“Go on in,” Harrow said. His voice was shaking, and Parker shook his head in disgust. “Go on in.”

But Menlo didn’t tip. He came on in through the foyer doorway, and stood stock still when he saw Parker sitting there. The blood drained from his face, and then all of a sudden he did something peculiar with his face, twisting his mouth around. Then he pitched over forward onto the carpet.

Harrow came in, clutching the mourner to his chest. “What did you do?”

“Nothing.” Parker got to his feet. “The goddam fool. The poison.”

“Poison? You mean, in his tooth?”

“Yeah.” Parker knelt beside him. “He’s dead all right.”

“For God’s sake, man, how do we explain this?”

“We don’t. We stash him away in a closet or something. Tonight, around midnight, pour some booze over him and drop him off the terrace. Who’s to know what floor the poor drunk fell from? Bett will be here to corroborate your story. He didn’t fall from here.”

“I couldn’t do that!” Harrow was staring at Menlo’s body with horror.

“Bett can. All right, call down for the gun now.”

“But—”

“Call for the gun! Stop worrying about Menlo.”

Harrow made the call, his voice trembling, while Parker dragged the body out onto the terrace into a corner where it couldn’t be seen from inside the suite. He heard Harrow ask that the package that was being held for him in the safe be brought up to the suite.

They waited in silence. Harrow seemed more shaken by Menlo’s death than Parker would ever have guessed. He kept working on the Scotch bottle.

After a while a bellboy came with a small package wrapped in brown paper. Harrow tipped him and sent him on his way, while Parker opened it. The gun was inside all right. Parker stowed it away inside his jacket. “Phone Bett. Tell her to come up here but don’t say that I’m here.”

After he’d made the call, Harrow said, “She said she’d be at least half an hour.”

“That’s all right. I’ll be back by then.”

Parker went out to the elevators. He pushed the button, and when the elevator on the left arrived, he asked the operator, “Did you take a fat man down from here about fifteen minutes ago?”

“Not me.”

Parker pushed a ten into his hand. “Forget I even asked.”

“Yes, sir!”

The elevator went back down, and Parker pushed the button again. The other elevator came up this time, and Parker asked the same question, with another ten in his hand.

“Yes, sir, I did. Just about fifteen minutes ago,” the operator answered.

“What floor did he get off?”

“Seven. Then he came right back up here, a few minutes later.”

“Wait here a minute. I want to get this ten’s brother.”

“I’m with you, sir.”

Parker went back to suite D. Harrow wasn’t in the living room. Parker found him in the bedroom, lying on his back, his left hand palm up over his eyes and his right hand holding a glass half full of Scotch.

Parker left him there for a minute, went out to the terrace, and rifled Menlo’s pockets. He found the room key, and went to the bedroom. “Harrow,” he said. “Get up from there. I’m going to want privacy when I talk to your daughter. You take off for a while.”

Harrow sat up. He looked ashen, but he was busy gathering shreds of dignity around him. “That’s not the proper tone of voice.”

“Come on, I’ve got an elevator waiting.”

“You’ve got an elevator waiting?” Harrow seemed bemused by the idea. He got to his feet, took the mourner up from the bed, and put it in a closet and locked the closet door, then pocketed the key and followed Parker out of the suite.

The elevator was still there, the operator patient. Parker slipped the two tens into the operator’s hand and said, “This gentleman is going all the way down to the lobby. I’m getting off at seven.”

“Yes, sir.”

They were silent on the way down. Parker got off at the seventh floor, found room 706, and unlocked the door. The suitcase was in plain sight, in the closet, the same one they’d bought to carry the money in originally. It was locked, but a suitcase lock can be picked with a piece of spaghetti. Parker opened it, saw that it was still full of bills, and closed it again. He went out, located the emergency staircase, and went down to his room on the fifth floor. He stashed the suitcase, went back up to the seventh floor, and rang for the elevator.

It was the same one that had taken him down, and the operator smiled as he got aboard. They were old friends now; twenty dollars old. On the way up, the operator asked if he had any idea about a horse at Hialeah that could make the twenty grow. Parker told him that wasn’t his sport.

He went back into suite D, this time locking the door, and returned the key to room 706 to Menlo’s pocket. Then he sat down.

Bett knocked at the door ten minutes later. He went over and opened it, and she stared at him. “Come on in, Bett,” he said.

She came in, not saying anything, just staring at him. She was wearing pink slacks and a white shirt and Japanese sandals.

“Come over here, Bett.” He took her elbow and guided her through the sitting room and out onto the terrace. He pointed.

She looked. She whispered, “Menlo.”

“How was he, Bett? In the rack, I mean?”

“You killed him,” she said in a whisper.

“Better than that. Menlo killed himself. He did a better job than he did on me.”

“He swore you were dead. He described how he did it. How could he get the statue away from you if you weren’t dead?”

Parker went back into the sitting room, and she followed him. “You want a drink, Bett?”

“Please.”

“You know where the bar is. I want bourbon.”

She hesitated, and then went over and got the drinks. She brought him his bourbon and he took a sip. She couldn’t take her eyes off him.

“You like the strong ones,” he said. “That’s the way it is, isn’t it? You don’t care what they look like, or what they smell like, or if they’re any good in the rack or not. You just want the strong ones. Menlo was going to double-cross me, so that made him strong and you took him into your bed in Washington. Then he came down here and told you how he’d really killed Parker, and that made him the strongest of all. You have a good night, last night, Bett?”

“Screw you,” she said.

He finished the bourbon and put the glass down. “I’m leaving tonight,” he said, “and after that we’re finished. You can’t be trusted. You like to watch violence too much. But we’ve got hours yet before I take off.”

“How did you do it, Parker? Chuck, how did you do it?” she whispered.

“Menlo’s dead,” he said, “and I’m alive. I’ve got the dough he tried to take off with. I delivered the mourner to your father. And I got the gun from him. Yeah, I got the gun. So who’s the strongest now, Bett?”

He could feel it coursing through him, like electricity, strong enough to blot the twinges in his side, to make him forget any stiffness or soreness in his body. The job was over, and it was always like this after a job. A satyr, inexhaustible and insatiable. He was twelve feet tall.

He walked toward the bedroom. “This way, Bett,” he said. “We’ve got five or six hours yet.”

She followed him through the doorway, and shut the door behind her.

5

Kapor himself answered the door. It was colder than ever in Washington, after having been in Florida for a few days. Parker came in, carrying the suitcase, and set it down on the parquet floor. He unbuttoned his topcoat and Kapor said, “I take it you were successful.”

“In the suitcase there. There was a hundred and twenty dollars less than a hundred grand when I got to it. There’s sixty dollars less than fifty grand in that suitcase.”

“I will accept your bookkeeping,” Kapor replied. “May I offer you a drink?”

“Just give me the address where they’ve got my partner.

“Ah, yes. I believe I have one of their business cards.”

Parker waited in the hallway while Kapor went into the living room. He came back a moment later carrying the card, and handed it to Parker. The place was called Twin Maples, and it was out in Bethesda. Written on the card in pencil was the name Robert Morris.

“Your friend had three driver’s licenses in his wallet,” Kapor explained. “I chose that one. So that’s the name he was admitted under.”

“O.K.” Parker put the card in his pocket.

“Such a shame,” Kapor said, “to be leaving this way. I am going tonight.”

“Any rumbles yet?” Parker didn’t give a damn one way or the other, but Kapor seemed to feel like talking.

“Not yet, but one never knows. I had hoped to leave in a leisurely fashion, and in style. My books and coins and statues would be packed, various personal possessions crated, and I would remove myself to a safe place surrounded by my possessions. But I must travel fast, and light. I have less than half the money I’d expected to be taking with me and I must leave everything I love behind. Still, I have my life and my health, and this portion of my money which you have returned to me. I shall have a head start on those who most certainly will be coming after me, so I cannot complain too much.”

“I’m glad it’s all worked out for you,” Parker said, reaching for the doorknob.

“I’m leaving the United States, of course, at least temporarily. But perhaps we will meet again eventually, and perhaps someday I shall be able to repay you for what you have done for me.”

“Maybe so.”

“Good-bye, whatever your name is.”

“Good-bye, Kapor.”

Parker went back out into the cold and walked down the drive to the cab. He’d had the driver wait. It was another black woman in a crazy hat. Washington cabs were full of them, driving like snowbirds looking for the Man.

Parker got in, took the card from his pocket, and read off the address. The woman driver nodded and the cab shot away from the curb.

On the way, Parker wondered what Handy was thinking about right now. It was a funny thing, but Handy had been going to quit. There were a lot of them like Handy in the racket; one more job, for a stake, and then they’d quit. Handy had been quitting after one more job for years.

But this time, it had seemed like he really meant it. He’d bought himself a diner near an Air Force base at Presque Isle, Maine, and he was planning to short-order it himself. He’d even bought a legitimate car from a legitimate dealer and got legitimate plates for it. It was as though he was off the kinky forever.

Parker had the feeling that this time maybe Handy would be going to Presque Isle, Maine, for good and all.

The rest home was a big old brick building, with more than two maples surrounding it. It looked as though it had been somebody’s estate once, but the neighborhood hadn’t retained its high tone, so they’d sold out to somebody who wanted to start a rest home. Most of the patients would be alcoholics drying out or subpoena subjects hiding out. And in the middle of them, Handy McKay.

Parker paid the cab and went inside. A professional-looking nurse was sitting at a small desk in the front hallway and Parker asked her if he could visit Robert Morris. She asked him to wait, and he sat down on the wooden bench across from the desk and idly picked up a copy of Time. In a moment an overly bluff and hearty man came out and shook Parker’s hand overly long and said he was Dr. Wellman. He asked Parker if he was a friend of Mr. Morris’s and Parker said yes. The doctor asked if he knew about Mr. Morris’s bad stomach condition, and Parker said only that he’d heard there’d been an operation to remove something. The doctor smiled and nodded and said yes, and the patient was coming along just fine, and that he would personally show Parker up to his friend’s room.

There was a tiny elevator, an afterthought that obviously hadn’t been there originally, and Parker and the doctor crowded into it and went up to the second floor. Handy’s room was at the end of the hall. The doctor stayed just long enough to make sure that Handy actually did recognize Parker and had no objection to his being there, and then he withdrew, closing the door.

Handy looked pale, but he was conscious and grinning. “How are things?”

“Taken care of. Everything. I had to make a fifty per cent cut with Kapor, but the rest is safe.”

“Good.”

“You’re going to Presque Isle, Maine?”

“You guessed it. The worst that’s gonna happen to me from now on is grease burns.”

Parker nodded. He dragged a chair over near the bed and sat down. “How much longer?”

“They say I can get up and start walking in a week or so. Then I’m supposed to stay here another two or three weeks after that but I don’t think I will. The story the nurses have is I’m some clown who shot himself by accident, and since I wasn’t supposed to have a gun, no permit or something, that’s why I’m here instead of a hospital. Not breaking the law all the way, just bending it a little.”

“I’m going down to Galveston for a while. When you’re ready to pull out of here, give me a call. I’ll send you your share. You’ve got to pay for this place yourself.”

“I know, they told me. I’ll still have enough left over for what I want.”

“You know the place I stay in Galveston?”

“Sure.”

“O.K.” Parker got to his feet. “Give me a call, huh?”

“You bet.”

Parker went to the door. He was reaching for the knob when Handy called out to him.

He turned.

“What about Kapor?”

“He’s clearing out tonight. He’s free and clear, I guess.”

“No trouble from him?”

“No. He got half back, and that’s all he cared about.”

“What did he say about the mourner?”

Parker thought for a second, and then he laughed. “He didn’t even know,” he said. “He never even noticed it was gone.”