Strip for Murder

by Richard S. Prather

  I pushed off. I walked straight to the castle and inside as the other armored knight on duty opened the door for me. He said something but I ignored him. A few guests looked at me casually, but knights in armor were old hat to them now and they glanced away. I walked over to the red-draped entrance to the game room. Husky stood beside it and started to say something, but I shook my head back and forth, pointing at the door.

  I kept walking straight at it, as though there weren't the slightest possibility that he wouldn't open it, and I clumped by him into the game room. The damned armor was getting pretty heavy, and I wondered if it might not be tougher to get outside than it was to get inside.

  At first I didn't see anybody that I recognized in the game room. Then I saw Ed Norman. He was wearing a tux, talking to a man and a woman, and his back was to me. I kept going as casually as I could across the room to the metal door, kicked it gently with my foot.

  As the bolt slid back inside I glanced around with a creak. Norman still hadn't noticed me. When I turned back to the door it was half open, and before me stood the Mental Monster. We stared at each other: Metal Monster meets Mental Monster.

  “Haw?” he said.

  “Yuh,” I said.

  “Sardine?”

  “Yuh.”

  I walked at him like a tank and he stepped aside. So far it had been almost too easy, and I was wondering when my luck and confident air—and maybe blood—would run out. But I wasn't much worried about this character.

  He closed the door behind me. I coughed and growled, “Boss sent me for something.”

  He slid the bolt home and I clumped to Norman's office. The door wasn't locked and I went inside, shut the door behind me, and sprang into action. Yeah, I could about spring an inch off the floor in this outfit. But I made it to Norman's desk, took off my gauntlets, and started tugging at the drawers. Only the middle desk drawer was locked.

  The desk was wood, and not hard to break open. I kicked out the bottom of the drawer, then pawed through the papers that fell to the floor. I found one thing I wanted. Clipped together were three sheets of typed paper: Yates's report to “Client.” Under the clip behind the last page were six photographs, unmistakably of Laurel, and apparently taken at Fairview.

  It was a tight squeeze, but I managed to stuff the whole batch under my metal breastplate. None of the other papers looked interesting, though I leafed through them quickly. I stood up, my stomach muscles knotted with tension; I could feel the tightness at the base of my skull and in my neck. It was all I could do to keep from dashing for the door, but I made myself go over to that chair I'd noticed in the corner the night before and knelt down. The stained area had been cleaned, all right, but I felt pretty sure that there'd still be traces of blood in the cloth and nap. I pulled at the carpet with my fingernails, got a little pile of the nap in my right hand. There wasn't any way to get it into my pocket, so I stuffed it down inside one of my socks. That was it. It was time I got the hell out of here.

  It was past time.

  I was kneeling on the floor, pulling my gauntlets back on, when the door opened behind me. Somebody said, “What in Christ's name are you doing?”

  It was Norman. My back was to him, but I recognized his voice. And there were a couple of other voices. I got up slowly and as I turned to face the doorway I took one step toward it. Norman stood just inside the room, staring at me, a frown on his thick, scarred face. On his right was Husky, and beyond them in the hallway, peering past them, was The Brain.

  I took another step forward and said, “Somebody busted in here Lookit the desk.”

  Norman didn't cooperate. He kept looking at me, his frown deepening. The sound of my voice had puzzled him, and suddenly he said, “You—” and his right hand slapped down and behind him to his hip. It came up with a snub-nosed gun, but by that time I'd taken my third step and was swinging my right fist, plus a couple of pounds of metal, up at his chin.

  Husky yelled something and started toward me as my fist landed with a horrible crack on Norman's chin. His head snapped back and he spun sideways and fell soundlessly to the carpet. I went down a little way with him, just about as far as Husky's middle, then pivoted toward him and my left fist sank in, and in, and in. He made a great whistling sound and bent over with his arms sticking out ahead of him. He fell, groaning horribly, and as I straightened up, The Brain came jumping toward me.

  I raised both hands and he stopped jumping and actually backed away. That perplexed expression spread over his craggy face again—and this time he had good reason to be perplexed. I realized then that I had quite an advantage. The only way any of these guys could slug me was at the risk of breaking their hands clear up to their ears.

  Brainy drew back a great big right fist, his face a montage of flickering emotions. Then his mouth dropped open, way open, and he just stood there, gawping at my gleaming armor.

  All that took only a second or two, and just as he said, “What the crud—” I raised one metal-covered fist over his head like a hammer. He actually lifted his eyes to it, sheer hopelessness in his expression. And then, splat, I hammered him good on the forehead. His face got a peaceful look and his eyes flickered partly shut and tried to merge. I had finally met someone looking himself in the eye. He was gone away from here before he hit the floor.

  I jumped over him. That is, I meant to jump over him, but I just clanked and landed on him. Then I clumped to the door, slid the bolt back, and hightailed it for the game room. Things looked normal in here, and I began to think maybe I'd make it out. But then the reaction from what I'd gone through started to catch up with me. Sweat covered my body and I could feel a thumping pulse in the hollow of my throat, and at my temples. I clumped through the game room, out through its now-unguarded door, and headed for the exit. I felt as if I were carrying a mountain on my back.

  I almost made it. I was ten feet from the door when a hoarse, weak shout rang out behind me. “Stop him! It ain't Sardine!”

  I glanced around to see Husky hanging to the open door, a hand pressed to his stomach. Then he fell—and when I turned my head back a brother knight was coming toward me. This was different from the last brawl; we were starting out on even terms. But I guess I was so accustomed to slugging guys and having them go all loose that I thought the same thing would happen this time. Sometimes a confident air isn't enough.

  I hauled off and slammed a hard right to his chin and crossed with a chopping left to the breadbasket: Clang-clang! He didn't go loose, but my knuckles felt as if they'd spread about eight feet. The knight staggered a little, then swung back gamely and slugged me a couple of times. He had no more sense than I did.

  There was one hell of a lot of noise, guys yelling and women screaming, but ringing loud and clear over everything else was the clamor of battle. All we needed was a band playing the “Anvil Chorus.” We sounded like two streetcars at the same crossing.

  Old Ironsides had his right fist drawn back, and when he launched it at me I jerked my head aside. As it whistled by me I reached out with my left hand, pushed up his visor, and hauled my right fist around in an arc that ended on his chops. It damn near ended his chops. Teeth went every which way and the only clang this time was when he landed flat on the floor.

  Boy, everybody was screaming. I glanced over my shoulder as I went at a staggering half trot out the door into the courtyard. People were spinning around; Husky had fallen by the far door, apparently passed out. I made it to the drawbridge and the white horse—and then really I started to quake in every limb.

  Two guys were walking this way from the parking lot and under the bright lights I could see their faces well enough, but I just didn't believe it. It simply couldn't be Garlic and Young Egg Foo, not after what I'd been through.

  But it was true; even though my vision was hampered by the visor, I could see the two hoods. They were just strolling casually this way, though, and obviously they knew nothing about what was going on inside the castle.

  I grabbed the lance lea
ning in the archway as I passed, struggled up onto the horse, and said softly, “Come on, horse. Move. Giddap.”

  I was hoping a lot of things: that Husky would stay unconscious and that nobody else would figure out what had happened until I'd reached the Cad; that Foo and Garlic would think I was Sardine; that this horse would move and that I would wake up from this bloody nightmare. The horse stayed motionless.

  And then everything fell apart. There was noise, yelling, and I saw Foo racing toward the bush where I'd left Sardine. The bum must have come to and worked the gag out of his mouth.

  Everything happened like a movie run at double speed. Zip, and Foo was at the bush; almost instantaneously he was racing away from the bush and at me, roaring like a bull elephant. Garlic trumpeted and raced at me too. I had got myself into a pickle.

  There was a gleam of light in Garlic's hand. It was a gun. Garlic was going to shoot me. Well, by God, I'd give these guys a battle, too. I reached for my gun—clang. “Oh, Lord,” I moaned. It's a hell of a note when a guy has to take off his pants to get at his banger. A quick draw in this outfit would take approximately fifteen minutes.

  Well, maybe I couldn't get at my gun, but I had a lance and a horse. I'd lance them, I'd run them through, I'd string them up like beads. I lowered my lance and charged.

  Yeah, charged. I don't know beans about horses. I leaned forward shouting, “Cck, cck, go, Bossie!” but nothing happened except that the hoods got much closer. Then I raised my legs and banged them down again, and that stupid horse finally went into action. He leaped forward with a whinny, and hoofs drummed over the drawbridge.

  I aimed my lance. Garlic was faster than Foo, and consequently a few yards ahead of him, on my left. He seemed sort of startled to see me bearing down on him, lance pointing at his nose. But he flipped his gun and fired, the bullet swishing past my helmet; then my lance caught him on the forehead and spun him back and around like a top. The lance flew from my hand as I jerked my head the other way, to my right toward Foo.

  I was practically on top of Foo, just a couple of yards away, so automatically I leaped for him, lunging forward from my horse. Only again I forgot about all this armor.

  Anyway I was aimed right, and both my gauntleted hands caught him hard in the middle of his horrified expression, but only then did I start thinking about what would happen to me. And then it was too late.

  I went sailing past him, and through the slits in my visor I could see the ground leaping up at me. My hands were outstretched, rigid, but I was just too heavy when I landed. First I felt my arms buckling. Then I felt my head buckling.

  And then there was a sound like the pearly gates swinging together, and a squishing, and a rainbow-streaked blackness. Something new had been addled.

  Chapter Twenty

  Consciousness returned, but I was only half out of the blackness while trying to get to my feet. I got my legs under me, but they wobbled. I staggered a few steps forward and tottered around. It was all very strange, eerie, unnerving. I seemed to be in a jail of some kind. I could see the bars right in front of my eyes. Off in the haziness ahead of me was a castle. I had been thrown back through time to the days of chivalry, to King Arthur's court. The chivalrous bastards had put me in a dungeon and had been beating me about the head with battleaxes. I had to escape. If only I could clear my head, I thought. I took another step—and fell down.

  Cold wetness crawled all over me. In a few seconds my head was clear. The cold water had shocked me back to consciousness and suddenly I knew what had happened. Those bastards had flooded the dungeon!

  They were drowning me. Chivalry—hah! Then suddenly I realized I had fallen into the moat. I felt as if I were sinking down, down through ooze, and it hardly seemed worthwhile to try to get up. Even if I did, somebody would ventilate my head some more. But I did get up, slopped hip-deep to the moat's edge, and climbed out like the Beast from One Fathom.

  I was still dazed, and my head hurt enormously, but I guessed that it couldn't have been much more than a minute or so since I'd fled the castle, because nobody was rushing out after me yet. Garlic was moving a little, about ten yards away. Near my feet, Foo was sprawled, motionless. Close to him was a .45 automatic.

  There was noise from the front of the castle and I heard somebody shouting. I scooped up the automatic and worked its slide, cocking the hammer. Two men ran onto the drawbridge and stopped when they saw me. One of them yanked up a gun and fired. I slammed two shots at them and they turned and ran like hell out of sight.

  I started toward the parking lot. I'd taken about three steps when there was another gunshot; the slug zipped by me, actually pinging against the top edge of my shoulder armor. I swung around and dropped to my knees as the gun—in Garlic's hand—blasted again. He was prone, arm extended toward me, and I pulled the .45 toward him, squeezed the trigger three times, and saw his body jerk violently, then roll completely over.

  I ran for the Cad, crawled under the wheel, and started the engine. Then I hoisted the .45 over the windshield and emptied it at the archway, just in case somebody got an idea about trying to follow me. I threw the gun away, slammed the Cad into gear, and took off. More gay partygoers had arrived while I was emptying the gun. As I drove away, they stared at me. They really stared.

  Nobody followed me, or, if anyone did, he didn't get close. In half an hour I was at Jay's surplus yard, “Anything for a Price.” The stained, and now wet, nap from Norman's carpet was in an envelope in the glove compartment of my car, along with the Yates report and photographs. And I was out of my armor.

  Jay had the stuff I'd ordered ready for me. I saw it right away. Couldn't miss it, for that matter.

  Three heavy ropes went straight up into the air like a triple Indian rope trick, their lower ends anchored by big hunks of lead, the top ends held up in the air by large gas-inflated balloons. I already had the top down on the convertible, so by lifting the hundred-pound lead chunks and carrying them to the car, then dropping them behind the seat, I was ready to go in little more than two minutes. The hundred-pound lead pieces, with the balloons tugging them upward, seemed to weigh only about twenty pounds apiece.

  Jay put the Coleman lantern, shovel, rope ladder, coil of piano wire, and a hunting knife into the car and I wrote out a check for him, using one of his dry blanks. It was for a disgusting amount of money, but I'd expected that. I'd get most of it back, anyway, when I returned the stuff.

  When I was in the car and ready to go, Jay looked at me warily. “What you gonna do with all this junk? This a new way to move hunks of heavy stuff?”

  “No. But that's an idea I'll add to my list, Jay. This thing has endless possibilities. Why, you could attach a couple of bundles of these balloons to guys working on skyscrapers or bridges, and if they fell off they'd just float down. This thing may do away with elevators.”

  He stuck out his chin at me. “Come on. I knocked myself out getting the stuff and filling the damned balloons for you, so give. Incidentally, they're filled with natural gas, so don't light any cigarettes around them. Blow yourself up, maybe. Come on, boy, level with me.”

  I told him the truth, but I think he still felt I was holding out on him. “I am,” I said, “going to hang a ladder in the sky. And I'm going to climb up the ladder and dig a bullet out of a cliff.”

  He was still laughing, sort of wildly, when I drove off. I drove very slowly and carefully, making sure I passed under no electric wires or overhanging tree limbs. And also because my head hurt like the devil. At Fairview I parked in the lot and went to Laurel's cabin. She wasn't there, but I found her in my cabin again. After a touching reunion she drew back from me and I stopped touching her.

  She said, “Ugh. Shell, you're all wet. How did it happen?”

  “I fought a sick dragon. He kept belching at me. I'm a knight, come to sweep you—”

  “What in the world are you talking about?”

  I didn't tell her. I wasn't ever going to tell anybody. Instead I said, “Honey, want to help
me in a little operation I've got planned?”

  She smiled wickedly. “Uh-huh.”

  “I refer to the operation I mentioned this afternoon. Getting that bullet. This afternoon it seemed important—in fact, it is important—but now everything is dreamlike.”

  It was, in a way. My mangled head kept throbbing and, occasionally, pink and blue lights flashed in my eyes. Wouldn't it be a scream, I thought, if I were off my rocker?

  Laurel said, “All right. What is it that you want me to do?”

  I told her. She told me I was mad. I told her I wasn't. After a bit of that she said, “Can you really do it?”

  “Of course. I've got it all figured out. Cost me a fortune, but it'll be simple. If I don't fall and break my neck. But nothing can happen to me tonight. This is my charmed night. This night is magic.” Those pink and blue lights flashed again.

  We left. I drove the Cad as close as possible to the pool where I'd been shot at, then we lugged all the equipment up to the edge of the cliff. With a sledgehammer I drove a long, curved bar, like an overgrown staple, deep into the ground. Then I fastened one end of a thick rope to it. In fifteen minutes the setup was ready.

  Laurel looked at me in the light of the burning Coleman lantern. Then she looked up at the spot where the balloons were, invisible in the blackness above us. Using the piano wire and rope, I'd tied all three bunches of balloons together so that their combined lifting power was about 250 pounds, more than enough, with the lead weights now removed, to support me and several extra pounds besides. The rope holding them was fastened to the curved bar in the ground, and tied to it and hanging down to the ground was the rope ladder. Now I could climb up into the sky.

  Laurel said, “There's only one thing wrong. Seriously, it makes some sense now that I see it, only your ladder goes straight up. It's high enough and close to the cliff, but you said you've got to dig way out there on the right, over the water.”