"Meaning I'd have to have wings to get over all that without making a racket. Is that it?"
"That's it, Mr. Noon." He was pleased that I understood.
I made up my mind in a hurry. Taking the bull by the horns does have its advantages in certain situations. I had several things in my favor, too. Mr. Morrow, whoever he was, certainly didn't want to kill Desmond Allan Cursitor or Torin Bird. He had wanted them both. I had the boy and he had Cursitor. Since he was an undercover man, he was boxed in by the same set of rules I was. Neither of us wanted the Law or outsiders horning in, which meant we'd go silent on gunplay. Also, I had bargaining power. I had what Mr. Morrow wanted. Torin Bird. As such, I held the ace—if not up my sleeve—at least where I could produce it.
"Listen to me, Torin. I'm going right up to the front door. You stay put here. Now, there's nothing to worry about. Morrow is holed up in there with a man all the world wants back—so he's not about to start popping guns like champagne corks. You understand? He'll talk to me, and then we'll see what we'll see. I can't wait until tonight to sneak up on him and I can't ring up the Bobbies, thanks to what you've told me about everything. My President, obviously, wouldn't like that either. So you be a good colleague and stay here." I adjusted my porkpie hat, patted my .45 to make sure it was still where I had left it, and stepped out in plain view as if I had just come strolling down the lane.
Torin Bird had started a protest, then thought better of it and merely said, "Be careful, sir. He's a very evil man."
"Never saw a Malvolio Morrow that wasn't. Keep your cool, Torin. I'll signal you to come ahead as soon as he agrees to parlay."
"Righto, sir. Good luck."
"You bet."
It took only a few seconds to meet the opening in the evergreen hedge wall, another to walk on through boldly, and only seconds more to traverse a mockery of pebbled pathway no more than fifteen feet in length up the stone stoop to the arched door. I knocked rapidly. There was no buzzer of any kind. Only a wrought-iron rapper in the shape of a Dickensian sort of lantern from the days of David Copperfield. It was that old a dump, that outdated a building, as if it had been erected around the turn of the century. There was no short cracking from any of the windows. No sound at all at my appearance. It was as if the building were asleep or no one was in. I only had the boy's word for that, didn't I? The boy's word for everything.
Standing on that ancient threshold, miles away from logical answers and explanations to all and for everything that had happened, I could only be a detective by ear. The sunglasses perched on my nose were beginning to fog up from the airless atmosphere and the now brighter sun beating down.
I knocked again, after an interval. A firm, heavy, I'm-not-going-to-go-away-until-you-answer rap. Like the most persistent and successful of door-to-door salesmen. My heart was beating strangely. I was taking chances, no matter how much logic I had used. Suppose this Malvolio Morrow was the impulsive type? He just might be——even assassins can have tempers.
There was a rattling, a chain slipping, and the door edged open. It took me by surprise because I had heard no sounds of approaching steps.
A round, pink, unlined face peered out at me from above the most impeccable white collar and splash of red tie I had ever seen. For a flying second I was reminded of Truman Capote, but it had to be Malvolio Morrow. The bushy black eyebrows were like two over-laden daubs of onyx paint above the meaningless, lidded sleepiness of his eyes. That was all I could see. He was standing in darkness, one soft and pudgy hand holding the outer edge of the door, as he stared at me with all the indolence and courtly affectation he could muster.
"Yes, what is it?" He sounded bored and disturbed in equal parts.
I smiled, keeping my hands dangling at my sides in sheer good-humored threatlessness. I could have looked over the top of Malvolio Morrow's head without craning my neck. His hair was a contrasting thin patina of blond locks arranged side-saddle on his round pate.
"Could I see Mr. Desmond Allan Cursitor, please?"
He was either the world's greatest actor or played the best brand of poker in the universe. He began to shut the door without so much as lifting one of his incredible eyebrows. He was only registering annoyance.
"You've the wrong address, my friend. There's no one here by that name. Perhaps, down the street—" A cultured purr of contempt and dismissal.
"He'd better be here," I said quickly, my shoe shooting to block the door. "I've got something for him. And for you if you'll just pause awhile to listen. I know Londoners like their birds in all shapes, ages, and sizes but the bird I've got for you is a rara avis, Mr. Morrow."
The indignation that had begun on his face when I began acting like a boor by blocking the door from closing evaporated with the speed of a magic trick. The lidded eyes opened only slightly, and his posture behind the door told me all too soon that he had a gun on me, covering me all the way. I didn't have to see the gun or mentally picture a long, dark weapon with a silencer attached. With his kind of man, it's always a silencer. They can't afford to operate any other way.
"Talk," he commanded, his voice no longer a soft purr but iced over with cruel intentions and dirty purposes. "Speak English."
"I've brought you Torin Bird," I said easily enough, in a low voice. "So put your gun away, let me and the boy in, and we'll all discuss the very excellent reasons why you are going to release Cursitor over to my custody and pack up all your cares and woe and go flying back to Red China or wherever the hell you come from. The deck is stacked, Mr. Morrow, and dear Sebastian will not be dining with you tonight. Do I make myself clear, or shall I blow on my police whistle and bring the Bobbies on the run? Don't be a fool, man. You can't do anything right now but talk to me. What's it going to be?"
The pink, childish face with the enormous eyebrows considered what I had to say for only a second longer. Then the door was swinging open and he was urging me in, looking over my shoulder and around me for some sight of the little boy he wanted so badly. His face was a mask of awe.
"Who are you?" Malvolio Morrow asked with all the wonder in the world. "There cannot be two people in the universe as stupid as you seem to be. Do you always take such insane risks?"
"A moot point. But you are letting me in, aren't you? And we are going to talk, aren't we?"
The door eased back, but he was still barring the way, shaking his head, almost smiling But he wasn't amused. He couldn't be.
"The boy, first." He held his right hand in the pocket of a dark blue blazer which bore a crest that greatly resembled a lion's head baring fangs. It was hard to tell in the dim light of the threshold. The pocket bulged exactly as it would if he were concealing a pistol. "Or you will be dead before you hit the ground. Unfortunate, how people have heart seizures right before one's eyes, isn't it?"
"Terrible," I agreed and raised my right hand and beckoned over my shoulder. I didn't have to see Torin Bird coming on the dead run. He must have been on pins and needles, as terrified as he was of Malvolio Morrow. The little man's lidded eyes opened with that tremendous sort of joy and pleasure that you might see in a soldier's glims when he first sees his discharge papers. Malvolio Morrow very nearly beamed. His pink beam.
But he stepped back, and I walked through the door, Torin Bird at my very heels. The boy cowered behind me, his fingertips on my right arm. I could feel him trembling, heard his hurried breathing. I kicked the door shut with my heel and waited for Malvolio Morrow to make the next move.
We were in a squarish sort of foyer-vestibule that showed a cracked wall-mirror in a filigreed frame. The wallpaper was atrocious. All swirls and whirls and too-busy patterns from a Victorian bygone, dead era. A low flight of rickety, uncarpeted wooden stairs loomed close by. There was no electric lighting of any kind. Only slivers and slices of pale sunlight sneaking into the house from windows, cracks, and crevices. A thoroughly morgue-like establishment, from the word Go. I was unpleasantly reminded of the Depression, Welfare States, and crust-of-bread living. And gr
aves.
I didn't like that feeling. The hairs on the nape of my neck were rising again. From sense memories of childhood, from the nearness of fear and death. Infallible instincts—somehow, always. Never to be ignored.
There was no sound at all in the house. Only Torin Bird's rachety breathing behind me and the curious, almost purring sound that Malvolio Morrow seemed to be making as he quietly regarded me and the boy.
"Please, sir—" Torin was almost whispering, pulling my elbow again. "Easy, boy," I said low and didn't take my eyes from the small round, unpuckered face of the man before us. The man who was still poking a long object from the tight side pocket of his blue blazer. The man you just wouldn't trust under any circumstances. It was that kind of a face. It held too much scorn for Mankind, too much weary cynicism.
"So," Malvolio Morrow said, as if he didn't believe his eyes. "At last. The boy comes—the wunderkind we have all waited for and wanted. And he does not come alone. He brings with him the tall, handsome knight. I see no white armor, however. I see only a soiled guardian of Law and Order. But it is only the brand I am interested in, you see. Nothing else. CIA, Interpol, FBI or perhaps the Surete? No, the accent is all wrong, of course. French by no means. American, certainly. But perhaps—you are in business of a more private nature, my friend?"
"If you're finished," I said with more levity than I felt, "let's see what shape Mr. Cursitor is in, huh? Don't worry about my angle, Mr. Morrow, but if it will save guessing time, I'll tell you. I'm a plenipotentiary, you might say, straight from Washington, D.C."
The black eyebrows arched. "So. Secret Service, then. It's of no consequence to me, dear fellow. The boy is all I'm interested in. He is the only reason I have bothered at all with poor Cursitor. These childish extremes of torture would not have been necessary if he hadn't played the noble fool—" He broke off and stared past my shoulder. "You are a very naughty boy, Torin Bird. If you had come to us, rather than waiting for your Mr. Cursitor and the rather questionable benefits of employment over the seas, all of this could have been avoided."
"You—you bloody Red!—" Torin Bird suddenly blurted around my shoulder. "Never! I'd rather be dead—"
"Than Red?" Malvolio Morrow ended the sentence for him with rich contempt and amusement. "Poor foolish boy. You are the poorest judge of where your best interests lie. But enough of this. You will go with me behind the Iron Curtain where you belong. Your friend here is welcome to Mr. Cursitor. Rather, to what is left of him. Oh, he's not dead, never fear—but it will take a very long time before he will be up and about on his feet, as you say."
Torin whimpered behind me, sounding like a hurt kitten. I shut out the sound and concentrated on Malvolio Morrow. And the gun in his side pocket. He had all the demeanor of the man holding high cards.
"You weren't listening very carefully before, Mr. Morrow," I said lightly enough. "Your game is over. New cards are in play. Torin isn't going anywhere with you. And before we do any more bargaining, show me Cursi-tor. We didn't walk in here without a back-up team."
The black eyebrows rose even higher.
"You are bluffing, sir. And not very well. You walked in here like a complete idiot, so there is no reason for me to imagine that you are suddenly clever. Eh? Is that not so?"
"You take a lot of risks, Mr. Morrow. But suit yourself." I glanced at my wrist watch. "The time I was going to give you to run before the Yard boys got here on one of their flying swoops is rapidly diminishing. You now have about ten minutes left. So what's it going to be?"
Malvolio Morrow shrugged, and his pink smooth face almost held a fleeting expression of pity. The lidded eyes opened slightly.
"Endgame, Sir. That is what it is going to be."
Torin Bird shifted his weight and came around me. At my side, he seemed more undersized and frightened than ever.
"Please hurry it, Mr. Noon. He's awfully tricky—don't fence with him, sir—he's stalling for time, can't you see—?"
Malvolio Morrow was poison, the kid was right about that, and the leer on the round smooth face was a king-sized gloat. Whatever palavering time he had allowed me was now done. I could see that too. But I still also saw that I had left enough doubt in his mind that he couldn't afford to start blasting away. As small as that edge was, I used it.
"Do you really think you can up and walk out of this crummy town with Cursitor and the kid? Or maybe just the kid? Don't be a chump, mister. You can't do it unless you have a helicopter on the roof of this house and even then the odds are against you. Do the names Superintendent Gridley and Detective Allister mean anything to you at all?"
Bingo. It had been a long shot, but I'd hit a nerve. A mild wince passed over Malvolio Morrow's face. He even stiffened slightly.
"So. The British bulldogs—perhaps, you have something to bargain with, after all. In any event, I cannot waste any more precious time holding a discussion here in the hall. Yes, my dear Christine—now."
I never saw her or him but Torin Bird must have.
He let out a startled yelp, blurting my name in a warning, and I tried to jump to one side, away from whoever might be behind me. There was an alcove of sorts, a tiny entranceway with no door close to the front one. From this gloomy recess, someone had obviously lurked long and well. There was no more time left, as Mr. Morrow had so wisely pointed out. He didn't have to shoot me from the front. He'd been holding the top card in the encounter all through the war talk. Even without Sebastian, his murderous colleague. Torin Bird had been wrong about Sebastian being the only crew that the little man had owned. And I had been wrong to bank on his estimate of the situation. That became readily apparent in no time at all.
The blow from behind, when it came, felt like all the cannon, violins, trumpets, and church bells thundering in a combined crescendo on the top of my skull. The porkpie fedora didn't help at all. The skulking Christine delivered an 1812 Overture squarely, and I went down on one knee, reflexively groping for my armpit .45. Malvolio Morrow's smiling face was swimming in front of me, and Torin Bird was crying and kicking somewhere behind me. Then something hit me again, and the sunglasses shot off the bridge of my nose. Tchaikowsky and cannonades, crashing violins, screaming church bells, pealing trumpets—and that old all-too familiar and deadly nightmare of darkness and blackness closed over me.
Then I dropped the other knee and pitched forward on my face.
Something inside me was cursing Tchaikowsky, cursing Cursitor, and cursing the President of the United States. And one-in-a-million kids.
There has to be another way of doing things, of running a world.
There just has to be.
This way stinks.
ONE MORE RARA AVIS
□ The girl was young. A typical English "bird."
She was also naked. That's not typical anywhere.
There was an almost supernatural beauty about her long and slender body and her twin Raquel Welches, supremely matching the rounded majesty of her buttocks, coupled with dark, flowing hair. Her face, which wore all the passion and sin of generations of coupling females, was something to think about. She was lying on her side, the splendid body conforming to the contours of a low, rattily-upholstered lounge of sorts, just beneath a narrow, four-paned window which showed a moon and a handful of stars. The light of the little room came from a discreetly burning candle on a brass tray standing on a small wooden table close to the door of the room. There was no other furniture to speak of. Just four dull, dim walls, a ceiling I could have touched by standing on my toes, no ornaments or decorations, and a thorough aspect of threadbare, making-ends-not-meet existence. There was a wooden packing crate close to the ratty lounge that must have served as a chair. The naked brunette looked no more than twenty-one, and her lazy and indolent sexuality in such surroundings was another blow to the senses.
She was nothing to see upon coming up from enforced darkness.
A darkness filled with pain, a little nausea, and a general cloud of doubt, fear, and insanity. The girl was re
ading. By the steady candle glare, she was slowly turning the pages of a book or magazine. I couldn't tell which right off. I was too busy examining my condition, her incredible position in my nightmare, and there was a tiny bulb going on and off in my brain that was telling me I was really dead and I had finally come to my own Valhalla. The one I subconsciously desired, as all sexually oriented men must, but the ratty and tatty trappings were leftovers from my own guilt complexes, fears, and most unnerving dreams. I began to seriously think that the naked, delicious bruenette with the passionate face would be one of those joke females who do not come with the necessary openings.
She could have been the plastic woman. Without a hole.
I didn't know. This could be Hell, too.
I didn't know anything right then and there. My mind was numb.
Some sound must have escaped me, for she suddenly looked up, and her eyes stared right down into mine. That's how I knew I was on the floor, lying somehow before her, as if for inspection. Her eyes were incredible, too. Vast stupidity shone forth from them both, as well as that overpowering sensuality. She smiled. A thoroughly dirty, wanton smile that had fornication written all over it. Her face was high-cheeked, straight-nosed, lovely. Her mouth the great red gash of the fictional creations. But she couldn't hide the stupidity in her eyes. It was there. Wide-open, vulnerable, for all the world to see. For any man to see. A "bird-brain," too.
She shifted her thighs, her great hips and breasts rolled in a literal orgy of eye-popping power, and she sat up and put both her hands on her dimpled knees. The magazine or book spilled away from her, no longer wanted. She opened her mouth, and a pink tongue washed over her lower lip. The room was strangely warm, despite England's fame for lack of same. But the heat had nothing to do with her utter sexuality. The heat was in my body, my muscles, and my head, all of which felt like ten tons of disorganized coordination. My brain was humming with sound.
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