I was through being stubborn. I took the keys and he directed me out of the carport, down the alley and toward the street. The assassin got a .38 revolver from under his side of the seat and discarded the rifle.
He took the revolver in his left hand and rested the muzzle just behind my right ear.
“You know how to get out of this lousy town, Buster?”
“Which way?”
“That's up to you. If I don't like it, I'll let you know. Got any more questions?”
“You think that gun at my head will get you past the cops?”
“You're a real smart fella,” he said. “Now hit the street. Hard.”
I'd been in plenty of holes, with low muzzle velocity guns, slow tanks, fast cars, but I had never felt so close to death as when the killer fixed me with those grayish eyes of his. His only escape route was filling up with police cars and he still hadn't turned a hair. An instant before the Buick nosed onto the street he ground the muzzle of that .38 into the back of my neck.
“You got a hot mill under the hood, Buster. You got high-pressure tires, hard shocks and limited spring action. So bust them open, Buster. Or I bust you.”
I wanted to live. So I busted them open.
Two police sedans were already parked in the street. Another one down toward the Palmer was pulling out in the middle to block that end. That left just one direction to go, to the right, heading into two more police cars. It looked like Garnett had the whole Plains City police force on this one lousy street.
The assassin was prodding me with that revolver. I gave the Buick all it had.
It jumped like a Maserati. A startled cop leaped to one side to escape being run down. Another dropped to one knee and blasted wildly with a riot gun. The two oncoming police cars wavered for an instant, and by the time they decided to pull out and block the street, we were past.
Suddenly the night was bright with gunfire. With no warning at all, the assassin yelled, “Turn here!” moving the .38 to the base of my skull. I slammed the gearbox down a step, twisted the steering wheel and prayed. This is where the beefed-up suspension system paid off. We took the corner screaming, drifting a little, but absolutely flat. The killer glanced at me with those slanting eyes and said, “That's cute, Buster. You're good. Now show me how fast you can get us lost.”
At the moment I was as anxious to lose the police as the killer was. I needed time to think and I couldn't do it with red lights flashing in my mirror, knowing that if it came to a showdown the assassin would probably kill me just for the hell of it. I kept thinking to myself,Do as he says. Get us lost. Buy a little time and concentrate on staying alive —you can't do Jeanie any good with a bullet in your brain.
I hustled the Buick south, then twisted west, and corkscrewed north again. We broke every traffic law in the books and some they hadn't even thought of yet, but we lost the cops. The killer was looking at my face but not really seeing me. He was thinking. Now we were on a quiet, residential street with tall trees and houses with orange-lighted windows and no traffic.
“All right, Buster, stop it.”
I pulled over to the curb. He sat listening intently to distant sirens. The police cars seemed to be milling in confusion. The cops in their stock sedans were no match for the Buick. Instead of looking pleased, the killer's eyes grew dark with anger.
“Bad news, smart fella. For both of us. The cops are throwin' up roadblocks in every direction. In ten minutes they'll have this town sealed tighter than a time capsule.”
He had it figured. And there was nothing I could do.
“I told you to get lost, Buster. You didn't do it.” I could see his finger tightening slowly on the trigger of that .38. Then I heard myself speaking.
“One thing yet! A thing I've got to know. Who hired you, Storch? If that's your name. And why did you try to kill Miss Kelly tonight, instead of me?”
He looked at me with that blank, intent gaze that revealed no part of his twisted thinking. At last, he eased the trigger back to its normal position. He almost sighed.
“You hit it, smart fella. You really hit it.”
I was too weak to speak. I had been so certain that death was only a second away that it was a shock to find myself still alive.
“Drive,” he said. “Nice and easy until I tell you to stop.”
I turned the key and drove, nice and easy, like he said. One, two, almost three quiet blocks slipped by. He said, “Stop.” When we rested at the curb again, he nodded toward a house across the street—a comfortable-looking red-brick house with a distant light glowing faintly through the front windows. But it wasn't the house that caught the killer's attention; it was the black Plymouth hardtop parked in front.
“A wheel man like you, Buster, ought to be able to jump a switch with no trouble at all.”
He waved me out of the Buick. Bold as brass, we walked up to the Plymouth and tried the doors to see if they were locked. They weren't. The killer nodded, then he ground the .38 in my back while I raised the hood and did a makeshift jump across the ignition. The killer nodded again. “That's nice. I know people that would pay good for a wheel man like you, Buster. Now let's get out of here.”
We didn't raise a whisper from the house when I backed the Plymouth out of the drive. “Television,” the killer said flatly. “In the back of the house watchin' television. You could walk off with the front porch and they'd never know the difference.”
He never changed his deadpan expression, but I had the feeling that behind the mask he was laughing. I said, “Where do we go now?”
“Where we came from, Buster. Right back where we came from.”
I stared. “Back to that apartment house!”
“I told you, Buster. Drive.”
Still, I didn't tumble to what he was up to. I was beginning to think he was crazy—an egomaniac or something. But he had the gun and was still boss. I drove.
We met two police sedans and nobody gave us a second glance. But there was a police car and an ambulance in front of the killer's apartment house— we could see them two blocks away. I tramped the brakes, hard, and the killer said softly:
“Easy, Buster. The Palmer—that's where we're headed.”
An icy finger started at the base of my spine and moved slowly up my back.
“Nice and easy,” he almost crooned. “Make no mistakes, Buster, and maybe I won't blow off the top of your skull.”
“You lousy bum!” I said hoarsely.
He almost smiled, but not quite. “You got a temper there, Buster. You watch it, or maybe it'll be the top of your girl friend's skull that'll come flyin' off. You understand?”
There was an aching silence, and then I heard myself answering from a hundred miles away. “... I understand.”
CHAPTER FOUR
The alley behind the Palmer was much like the one behind the killer's own apartment building, except that there were garages instead of carports, and it was darker. I nosed the Plymouth up to the rear exit and the killer said, “Park it here.”
I braked to a stop, partially blocking the driveway.
He shot me a steely look. “Closer to the building, Buster. We block this driveway and somebody's apt to come along and start wondering who this heap belongs to... They might even call the cops. And we wouldn't want that, would we?”
I thought.He won't be panicked. He can't be hurried into making mistakes.
Behind those frosted-glass eyes, there's a brain,
Maybe, with a little luck, I could overpower him.
But it was only a fleeting thought. He had the muscle and he had the gun. Worst of all, he had a brain.
“Out,” he said quietly. “Nice and easy.”
He got out and motioned for me to slide over and o-et out on the same side.
“Where's the girl's apartment?” he said.
I thought to myself,this is as far as it goes. What he wanted was to get me and Jeanie together and play on our fears for each other's safety. If I let him do that, there would be
no stopping him.
All right,
Without warning, he slammed that .38 into me hard enough to crack a rib. “The apartment, Buster. Try gettin' cute and the girl's dead. Remember that.”
I was down on one knee trying to get my breath, working at it harder than was absolutely necessary. I kept one eye on that gun, telling myself that if I dived for that .38 and started yelling blue murder at the same time, the cops down the street would be sure to hear me and come running. I had tested that muscle and knew that I was no match for it, but if I just yelled loud enough...
When the chips were down I made the mistake of glancing into those chilly eyes and I froze. I didn't know much about professional assassins, but I knew that this one hadn't fallen into his job by accident. He did it because he enjoyed it.
He stood over me for two or three seconds, waiting tensely. “Go ahead,” he hissed. “Try bringing the cops down, Buster. See where it gets you.”
I can almost believe that he actually wanted me to start yelling. His need to kill was almost greater than his instinct for survival, but he was too much of a professional to force it. With a vague look of disgust, he pulled me to my feet and shoved me toward the door.
The Palmer was chattering with nervous excitement and that arid electrical tension that always follows in the wake of violence. The killer grabbed my arm and shoved me ahead. The excitement was real enough, but it was locked safely away behind heavy doors. Jeanie's small downstairs apartment was four doors down from the rear exit, and the corridor was clear. The killer hissed again:
“Go ahead and get cute, Buster. But your girl friend won't like it.”
I breathed deeply and nodded toward her door.
The killer smiled. I think it was a smile. His lax mouth pulled up slightly at the corners as he guided me easily with one hand, like a shopper with a grocery cart. We reached the door and the killer knocked.
I'll never forget the clear, pure panic in Jeanie's eyes when she opened the door. The killer had the .38's muzzle resting on my cheekbone just under my left eye. “Scream just once,” he said coldly, “and the top of his skull hits the ceiling.”
Her mouth worked, but she didn't make a sound. The killer shoved me through the doorway and came in behind. His one small uncertainty had been taken care of. He was now in the apartment. He had me and Jeanie together. She wouldn't scream because she knew what he would do to me. And, as long as it was possible for him to touch Jeanie, I would do exactly as he said.
Now the killer looked around the apartment and grunted with satisfaction. Jeanie stared, and I could almost see her vibrate, like a violin string drawn to the breaking point. When she spoke, her voice came out a pale, thin shadow of the real thing.
“Buck, is this the man...?”
I nodded. “He's the one. Right now, we've got to do as he says. We've got no choice.”
The killer said flatly, “Shut up. Back up to the wall, both of you. Sit on that couch and keep quiet.”
Jeanie stared at me and I nodded. We backed up and sat on the couch. I didn't know how to explain what had happened, even if the killer had let us talk. He moved quickly to the front window, parted the slats on the blind and peered into the darkness. He grunted again. “Takin' pictures. The lousy street is full of newspaper jerks. Take the other end of the couch, Buster, where I can watch you.”
I moved to the other end of the couch. The killer nodded approval. “You're learnin', Buster.” He looked at Jeanie. “Now you sit nice and quiet, or Buster gets it.”
She was as pale as milk glass. I ached to take her hands and try to convince her that everything was going to work out right. But I did nothing. The killer went into the tiny kitchen, plundered the refrigerator and came out with a can of beer. He found an opener, opened the beer without putting down the gun.
He came back in, sipping beer. He had another look out the window and said, “That Plymouth, Buster. Get it away from here. Take it to another part of town and leave it.”
A quick flash of hope brightened Jeanie's eyes.
“Come back the best way you can,” the killer said. “If you make a wrong move, don't bother to come back at all.” To drive the point home, he turned the .38 on Jeanie, and I went sick inside while my brain burned.
Jeanie looked at me and said, “Do as he says, Buck. I understand now why he came here... I'll be all right.”
I jerked to my feet and my voice came out a snarl. “She had better be all right, or I'll kill you!”
The killer yawned and wiped his loose mouth. “How about the cops?” he said to Jeanie. “Do they know Buster did my driving tonight?”
She hesitated, then nodded. The killer finished his beer and made a show of thinking. He moved over and stood in front of me—then, with not a twitch of emotion, he clubbed me with his gun hand.
It wasn't a knockout blow, just a punisher. He came forward with the other hand, holding the .38 in my middle. I made no effort to fight back, so he didn't shoot me. But there was nothing I could do about the fist. It was short, stiff, and right over the plate. I caught it with my mouth and Jeanie screamed without making a sound.
He stepped back and studied his work with satisfaction. “All right,” he said, “so the cops know you did the driving. Now they'll know how you got away from me. We had a fight and you made a run for it. Where we left the Buick, that's where you got away from me. Later they'll tie me to the Plymouth, but that won't make any difference. Now get out of here.”
I dabbed a handkerchief at my bloody mouth. “I've got a question. Why do I tell the cops anything? Why do I even see them?”
“Because,” he said patiently, “if you don't show up, the cops'll think you've been knocked off. That means more heat for me. Besides, I need somebody on the outside that I can trust—somebody with a girl friend that he'd like to keep alive. That's you, Buster.”
The tightrope was too shaky; I couldn't afford the luxury of anger. I glanced at Jeanie and there wasn't a trace of fear in her eyes, only concern for me.
“Out,” the killer said coldly.
I got out.
I moved the Plymouth away from the Palmer with not so much as a sidelong glance from the cops. A squad car was still parked in front of the killer's apartment, but most of the excitement had shifted to other parts of town where the roadblocks were. I wondered if they had found the Buick. When they found it, they were sure to learn of the missing Plymouth. A rope of anxiety tightened around my throat. I couldn't stop thinking of Jeanie alone with that assassin. I wouldn't let myself think what would happen if the cops stopped me and started shooting questions that I couldn't answer. Jeanie, the assassin, myself— all of us were on the highwire together.
At last, I reached the edge of a residential section, not far from where we'd ditched the Buick. This was good enough. It didn't make any difference where I left the Plymouth, just so it was nowhere near the Palmer. I parked it; then I started walking west, toward a neon-lighted thoroughfare to look for a taxi stand.
I made it somehow without running, but there was no taxi stand. I walked to the end of the block and used the pay phone in an all-night drug-store. After a wait, a voice snarled, “Garnett!”
“This is Buck Coyle,” I said. “I'm in a drugstore at Grant and Farnsdale.”
There was an electric silence. Then he barked, “Where's Storch?”
“... I don't know. I got away from him out on Wentworth and walked until I found this drugstore.”
I could almost see him burning. “Damn it, Coyle, why didn't you call before now!”
“I was trying to get away from that assassin of yours —are you sure he's Storch?”
“I'm sure. Look, Coyle, stay where you are. Have a cup of coffee. I'll be there in ten minutes.”
He made it in nine. Sergeant Frank Lavy hustled the patrol car up to the curb and killed the siren. Before a crowd could gather, Garnett threw open a door and pulled me inside. Lavy, the big man with glasses who had been Carson's partner, pulled the sedan bac
k into the street. Garnett said, with elaborate irony:
“Nice going, Coyle. I would have sworn it was impossible, but you managed to get a killer through an airtight dragnet.”
“I had a gun at my head,” I said, playing it straight. “I had no choice.”
Lavy half-turned his head and glanced at me and the lieutenant in the back seat. “Carson didn't have a choice either, hero,” he said bitterly. “You had to play it big, didn't you? Had to impress the girl friend. Well, mister, a good cop is dead in the morgue because you had to play it fast and loose.”
“That's enough, Lavy,” Garnett said wearily. The sergeant turned stiffly and faced the street. The police sedan hummed softly through the night.
“From the top,” Garnett said to me. “I want it all, Coyle.”
I told him most of it just the way it happened, until I got to ditching the Buick and picking up the Plymouth. There I manufactured a fight scene, for which I had the scars to back me up, and my alleged escape from the assassin. To my own ears, it sounded like a plot for a dime novel, but Garnett merely narrowed his eyes and said, “Then what?”
“That's all. I got away from him, made it to the drugstore and called you.”
“You must have been with him for the best part of an hour. Didn't Storch say anything, give any hint about what he was up to?”
“No.”
“He didn't say who hired him, or why?”
“He told me to blast through your police line if I wanted to stay alive. If he said anything else, I don't remember.”
Garnett jammed a bulldog briar into the corner of his mouth and looked thoughtful. “Anyway, we know now that it's really Storch we're after. We found some personal things in his apartment. You're a lucky man, Coyle.” He unfolded a plastic tobacco pouch and filled his pipe. “Luckier than you know, maybe. It's a rare day that Storch bungles a job. But you've managed to escape three times...”
“Twice,” I said, without thinking.
Garnett blinked. “I make it three. The hit-and-run attempt, the sniping attempt at the Palmer, and when he had you right in the car with him tonight.”
The Long Vendetta Page 4