My head ached like a bum tooth, but it was worth it.
I'd thought everything out, all the stuff I had to make clear to Grant, all the changes I wanted from him. By the time I finished he no longer had any interest in pursuing Bobbi, though he still liked her-but only as a friend, as another colleague in show business. He would always treat her with respect and not do or say anything that would be detrimental to her career. My promise to Bobbi was intact. Maybe he wouldn't go out of his way to promote her, but he sure wouldn't arrange through LaCelle to destroy her.
In light of their conversation, I made sure Archy would be convincing to LaCelle about his change of mind for this particular seduction. I also planted a very strong suggestion that he and Ike stop playing their carrot-and-stick routine with women. The idea wouldn't last long, a couple weeks, maybe even a month. Suggestions that went against a person's normal behavior and inclinations tended to be short-lived and needed periodic reinforcing. If Grant and I crossed paths on a regular basis I would do it as opportunities occurred, but I wasn't counting on that to happen. It'd be up to chance, and I was content to let it remain so. Anything more and I'd be telling him how to run his life. I had my own life to worry about; I didn't have time for his as well.
The concentration necessary for what I was doing cost me, hence the thumping between my temples. I'd have to make a stop later at the Stockyards to balance the effort.
Of course, Grant remembered absolutely nothing about any of it.
He stood calm and blank-faced, staring at air until I got behind him, snapped my fingers, and vanished. I'd seen enough stage hypnotists to have picked up a few theatrical touches for myself.
When Grant quit the room, LaCelle-who had posted himself down the way as guard after all-saw and came over.
I was floating unseen next to Grant and listened shamelessly.
"What? She stand you up?" LaCelle sounded relieved.
"I got to thinking about what you said and you're right. I've got no business going after her." Grant was doing fine, speaking almost word for word what I'd given him.
"What d'ya want me to do about her?"
"Nothing at all. She's a great talent, let her run with it. And lay off the boyfriend, too. No more guys following him around."
"But I thought you wanted to-"
"No more guys following him around," Grant cheerfully repeated.
And that was that.
Mentally dusting my hands, I took myself away to materialize in an unused corner, then went back to the party, feeling very satisfied about myself and the world.
Things had gotten noisier with the booze flowing so free, and the musicians decided to put in some extra playing time. It was much the same as it'd been on opening night, only the attention was divided between Bobbi and Adelle.
Bobbi was busy for the moment, but I spotted Madison Pruitt at the chow line. I could take care of my business with him to fill the time until she was free.
Maybe he wasn't a creative type, but I did know better than to get between him and food and waited until he'd loaded a plate and carried it off to a table. He'd apparently been grazing for a while, as his area was crowded with empty plates containing identical remains of what he was now digging into. When Madison found something he liked, he stuck with it.
"How you doing?" I asked, walking over.
He looked up, mouth full, and said something unintelligible, but friendly in tone, gesturing for me to sit. For the amount of food he was always packing away he was ever on the gaunt and gangly side. His loose clothes were informal tweeds, lots of them, with two knitted vests under the coat. Either he was cold all the time or trying to pad out his thin form. I hadn't seen him for the last few months. He'd been injured by scabs at an auto-plant sit-down strike, who gave him a concussion and broken arm. Both seemed healed up; he wore no cast, but there was a white scar over his left eyebrow that hadn't been there before. He looked a little older, a little more worn.
"Heard you had some bad luck with strikebreakers," I said. "Glad to see you're up and around."
He pushed his thick-lensed glasses back with a knuckle and bobbed his head. "Yeah, that's what happened. They were animals in the pay of the fascist overlords. I tried to tell them about being exploited, but they wouldn't listen. Too busy hitting me."
I knew what I'd let myself in for, but was resigned to it and listened as he gave me a very thorough account of his assault. He was grimly proud of it, and stopped eating long enough to show me the scarring on his left arm where it had been broken during his clubbing. I could admire him to some extent; qualities in him that could be seen as faults had given him a kind of obtuse courage. Maybe I thought he was nuts for what he was doing, but at least he was out doing it. I winced appreciatively for what he'd been through and told him he'd been badly used. He wholeheartedly agreed, and that led him off on another tangent about the parallels between the strikers and the Spanish Civil War. It was pretty convoluted, and he talked too quickly for me to even try to follow. When he paused for breath I broke in to bring the conversation around to where I wanted.
"Ever heard of a guy named Jason McCallen? He might be a member of the party."
Madison looked cagey. "Why do you want to know?"
"I'm just trying to get a line on who he is. Someone told me he might be a communist, and from what I've seen he's probably a good one for the cause. He's a big guy, very intense, Scottish accent."
"A Scotch communist?"
"Scots," I said, parroting Escott. "Scotch is a drink."
He thought for a bit, then shook his head. "I've never met him, but then the meetings can be pretty large. We don't all know each other."
I shrugged. "Okay, it was a long shot."
"I could ask around."
One thing I didn't need was Madison accidentally putting his foot into a bear trap. He'd been banged up enough.
"That's good of you, but don't bother."
"Why you want to know about him?"
"Just a little business deal I'm thinking about I wanted to see how steady he was."
"Business deal?"
"It's nothing. How's the American party doing these days?"
The subject change was all I needed to keep him from asking more questions. He bent my ear until I happened to notice Ike LaCelle watching me from a few yards away. I didn't think he'd heard anything, but wouldn't put it past him to read lips. He broke into an instant smile and strolled up. Despite my having spooked him, he never once let it show and glad-handed me like we were the best of friends. I wondered what the hell he wanted.
"Fleming! Good to see you!" His booming greeting had its effect on Madison, startling him so he paused a moment in his plate grazing to stare. LaCelle was practically sparkling with fond fellowship. "That was a hell of a show tonight, wasn't it?"
"Which one?"
"Why, both of 'em, of course. Bobbi's on the ladder to stardom, I'm sure of it, and Adelle's never been better, don't you think?"
I agreed and introduced him to Madison, who stopped eating again long enough to shake hands.
"I've heard of you, Mr. LaCelle," he mumbled around his latest mouthful.
"Oh, yeah? Well, don't believe a word of it, I was drunk at the time."
Madison stared, uncomprehending. "I didn't mean to imply anything about you in a negative sense, far from it.
Marza-Bobbi's piano player-told me what an important and influential man you are."
I could almost hear the acid in Marza's voice were she to hear herself described as a mere piano player.
"I've got the ears of a few people here and there," said LaCelle. "Mr. Fleming can tell you."
To be agreeable, I nodded and resisted asking what other things besides ears he might have as trophies. He would not have been able to appreciate it.
"Then you're just the sort of man that's needed to help further a truly great cause," said Madison. He put down his fork, which was a dangerous sign. "Have you ever given serious thought about the contributions that the American Communist Party has made toward the betterment of the workers right here in America?"
LaCelle seemed nonplussed for a second, but recovered quick. "No, Mr. Pruitt, I can't say that I have."
"I think you'll be surprised to learn just how much influence we've had on improving conditions in every..."
Oh, he was on a roll, all right. LaCelle listened and nodded in the right places, and damned if he didn't pretend to be interested, but then he was already putting on a perfect sham of friendship toward me. Instead of hanging around actors, he should have been one. "Yes, you do have a point there, Mr. Pruitt. But tell me, doesn't your family own Canuvel Steel?"
Madison's turn to be nonplussed. He wasn't secretive about his background, but didn't exactly shout it to people.
"Only a controlling interest, but-"
"Really? I think we've got a lot to talk about, then, but I can't do it dry." He turned to me, holding hard to his old-pals act. "Fleming, you look like a man who needs a drink, too. Lemme get you something."
"Thanks, but I'm fine."
He didn't listen, though, and signaled a waiter. "What'll you have? Grain or grape?"
He was in a jovially insistent mood. It was easier not to argue. "Champagne's fine."
He snagged three glasses from the waiter's tray and shared them around. "A toast, gentlemen. In memory of a very successful evening for two lovely ladies, Bobbi and Adelle."
I couldn't get out of that one, and he was too close for me to only pretend to sip. Madison gulped his down, LaCelle took a healthy swig, then smiled expectantly at me. I did the same, though it was like trying to drink gasoline. He grinned as though he'd accomplished something, and I wondered if he suspected anything about me being a vampire.
It didn't strike me as likely, but better to be a little paranoid than a lot sorry.
While the champagne went to war with my picky digestive system, I smiled back and tried to pin him with a look.
His nose was pretty red and his eyes had an unfocused cast. Damn, but he was too far along to be an easy mark; even Madison would notice the effort I'd have to put into it to get past the booze. I'd have to try some other time-when I had more time. If I didn't move soon, things would get very embarrassing.
Before Madison could resume his proselytizing, I stood and excused myself, saying I had to go see Bobbi about something. LaCelle's eyes flickered with amusement like he didn't believe me, but nuts to him. Right now I had to leave and quickly.
The men's room was in the outer lobby, just go up a couple tiers and turn right. For me it was like a hike up the Matterhorn, and I had to do it casual in case LaCelle was watching. I also had to try keeping a normal face on so no one would notice anything was wrong. In the meanwhile the stuff I'd taken in rolled around my guts like red-hot marbles. Only just in time did I push the door open and stagger blindly to a stall so my body could reject what was now pure venom to me. A tearing cramp doubled me over, and I retched hard.
The noisy unpleasantness was all done in less than a minute. Someone in another stall asked if I was all right, and someone else laughed and observed that I just couldn't take it. I flushed the toilet, then washed my hands and got out before either man emerged to find the mirrors ignoring me.
I was annoyed with LaCelle, but even more annoyed with myself for allowing him to steer me around as he'd done.
Instead of suspecting me of being supernatural, maybe this was some kind of payback for scaring him last night.
Having gotten him to do something he didn't want, he'd just returned the favor. I'd have to start getting smarter about avoiding such pitfalls in the future.
Still shaken and angry, I went back to the party in the main room, and it was pretty much as I'd left it, loud and full of life and music. Oddly enough, LaCelle had stayed to talk to Madison Pruitt, and I didn't know which of them to feel sorrier for. LaCelle looked past Madison toward me, his head slightly cocked like a man waiting to see something. If he thought I'd come back for more manipulation, he was in for a disappointment.
Gordy's prime table by the dance floor had other people sitting there, smoking and talking as they drank more of his booze. Escott was up on the second tier with a group gathered around Archy Grant, who was telling a very animated story that was getting him a bushel of laughs. Escott wore a strange, tight smile through it all, as though he wanted to get the joke, but couldn't quite. At least he wasn't off in a corner alone.
Then I spotted Gil Dalhauser staring intently across the room at Escott. Dalhauser was statue still amid the movement of the others around him. The look on his face as he concentrated on my partner was nothing less than murderous.
This evening was getting too complicated.
Making my way across so Escott could see me, I gave him a subtle high sign, then waited. Grant got to his punch line, and his crowd exploded with laughter, except for Escott. He continued with the smile, but no more than that as he broke away from them. It couldn't have been because of not understanding the point; he must have had something else distracting him, and I had a good idea what it might be.
"Dalhauser's trying to fry you with his eyes," I told him.
"He has not escaped my notice. I've been doing a reasonable job of pretending not to see him, though. He seems content to simply glare."
"That'll be Gordy's doing. He put the word out that we were strictly hands-off in this town. Ike was ready to take a chance, but maybe not Dalhauser."
"The test will be how that policy holds up should either of us ever choose to travel outside the bounds of Gordy's protective influence."
"You want to ask him about it?"
"No, I prefer a little uncertainty in my life."
Well, if he didn't want to worry about it, neither would I.
"Are you all right?" he asked, peering at me.
"I couldn't get out of joining in on a toast. Had to go get rid of the stuff I drank."
"It certainly doesn't agree with you. You seem very pale."
"Well, I am what I am, you know." I wasn't about to say "vampire" out loud, even if nearly everyone around us was drunk.
"That's just it, you usually have better color."
Even as he spoke I felt my stomach going into a knot.
"Jack?"
I resisted giving in to it and gulped hard. From here we were closer to the backstage rest rooms than the ones out front. I pushed away from him and down toward the dance floor, crossing it and ducking into the wings. Escott was right at my heels.
Bobbi's dressing room was closest. I hurried in and made it to the toilet in time as the next cramp hit. Nothing came out but spit. It tasted vile and was colored with blood. I used the sink spigot to rinse my mouth out and still couldn't lose the taste. Escott hung close and watched, his face stitched up with concern.
"Get your coat off," he said. "I'll help you."
"Huh?"
"Just get it off."
There didn't seem to be any reason not to, and I wanted to loosen my tie anyway. He hung the tux jacket in the closet, then got a towel and wet it.
"Run this over your face," he ordered, handing it to me.
I did so. It came away red. "Shit, I'm sweatin' blood. What the hell is this? Poison again?" My body had done the same thing once before.
"That depends on what was in the drink you had. Alcohol is a toxin, after all."
"It was champagne. Just a little champagne."
"Then you've a deucedly poor reaction to carbonation-"
"No, it wouldn't hit me like this. No wonder he was looking so pleased. That son of a bitch Ike put something in it!"
Escott asked a few more questions, and in between cramps and spitting into the sink I told him about what I'd overheard from Grant and LaCelle and the knight-in-armor bit I'd done on Bobbi's behalf. I wiped bloody sweat from my face and neck, having taken off my shirt and undershirt to keep from staining them. The symptoms were subsiding, though. Each bout was shorter and milder than the last.
"If he meant to croak me he's in for one hell of a surprise," I said, holding the towel under cold water to wash the red away. I swabbed it around my face and neck, and for once it came away clean.
"I think you were given something nonfatal but inconveniencing. If you suddenly dropped dead, Mr. Pruitt would surely remember drinking that toast with LaCelle."
"Don't bet on it."
"Yes, but LaCelle wouldn't know that. I'll wager what he slipped you was nothing more than an old-fashioned Mickey Finn, meant to publicly embarrass you when you passed out, apparently the worse for drink. A pretty little retaliation, don't you think?"
"I'm gonna hang him out in the wind for this."
"By all means, and I'd very much like to watch you do it. Do you plan to tell Gordy?"
"Only if he asks. This is between me and LaCelle."
Escott went out front while I finished cleaning up and dressing again, making sure there was no trace of blood on anything. Whether he was drunk or not, LaCelle was going to hear from me, either with hypnosis or a sock in the jaw.
Or both.
Madison's table was empty, and I couldn't spot him or LaCelle in the crowd. I started toward the casino room, but Bobbi called to me, hurrying over.
"Where've you been?" she asked. Her expression went from pleasure to puzzlement when she got a close look at me.
"A little cleanup work. You seen Ike LaCelle?"
"Not lately. Jack? What's wrong?"
"He hasn't given you anything to drink? Sent any to your table?"
"No. Why?"
That was a relief. "If he ever does, don't have any."
"Why not?"
"He tried to slip me a Mickey."
"What?"
I explained a few things to her until she wanted to take a pop at LaCelle herself. "It's my fight," I said. "I gotta be the one to take care of him."
"Can I still be mad at him, too?"
"All you want, angel, just don't mess up your career."
"Guys like him shouldn't be anywhere near show business."
Now, there was an idea. I wondered what the climate was like in Greenland this time of year.
"How'd it go with Archy?" she asked, knocking over my train of thought.
"I think you'll find any future work with him to be a lot easier. From now on everything will be strictly platonic as far as you're concerned."
She was delightfully grateful, her expression of it improving my outlook considerably, but she wasn't up to her usual energy.
"You're tuckered out," I observed as she leaned against me.
"Much more of this and I'll need to prop my eyelids open with toothpicks. Is it too early to take me home?"
"Not after the work you've done tonight."
"But the show was only an hour long, and I didn't have to dance."
"And I saw you putting out three times more of yourself than you've ever done before."
"Okay, I'll have one of the guys find me a cab."
"Not on your life. I'll get you home."
"But you want to see Ike-"
"Who doesn't seem to be here. Tomorrow night's soon enough for him. I'll go find out if Charles wants to leave."
Escott had returned to the group around Grant, close enough to listen but far enough back to leave without drawing attention. Grant still noticed when I came up, and watched as we left, but never once paused in his latest story. When he was holding court he probably hated losing even one audience member. Once Escott understood I'd given up trying to find LaCelle and was going to drop Bobbi home, then return for him, he opted to leave, too. He wanted to stop at the office before going home himself, and that went along with my pausing to tank up at the nearby Stockyards. We got our coats and said good-bye to a lot of people, and I made sure about Jim Waters getting a ride home. Bobbi slumped against me on the front seat of Escott's Nash and went right out. I put an arm around her to keep her from sliding around.
Escott gave her what I could only call an envious look. "How I wish it was that easy for me," he murmured.
"Gonna be one of those nights again?" I asked, not without some sympathy.
"Possibly. God knows I tire myself out, but my dark sleep is often elusive."
"Your what?"
"My dark sleep, the true sleep, the absolute rest that comes when one is completely unconscious and dreamless.
Most nights I don't really fall off the edge into it. I merely doze. Some part of me is still stubbornly awake and aware.
Hours and hours of it until morning comes."
"I've had nights like that. The ones where you just drift and sort of dream?"
"Yes, unfortunately. Does that still happen for you?"
"Only if I'm caught away from my home earth." When that happened, the dreams weren't nice, either. In fact, they were usually pretty hellish, so I took care never to get caught out.
"Perhaps I should send off to London for some earth and see if it might make a difference," he mused.
"Worth a try," I said with a snort. "Why don't you take a sleeping pill?"
"I used to, but they stopped working for me. I had to take more than was safe to have any effect, and they made me so sluggish I could barely get out of bed the next day."
He rarely opened up like this. His profile under the passing street lamps was hard to read, but he seemed sober enough, nowhere near the Shakespeare-quoting stage. "When was that?"
A pause before answering. "A long time ago. A different life."
"Back when you were acting?"
"Yes, back then."
His tone was light, but with that vague reply I knew I wouldn't be getting any more from him on the subject. He usually clammed up about anything to do with his early life, only occasionally telling an amusing story about his acting career with a traveling stock company in Canada. He said he'd left them to turn private agent because it allowed him to eat regularly. I always had the feeling there was more to it than that. Coldfield once hinted I was right, but said it was up to Escott to tell me when he was ready.
Bobbi woke when we stopped, and I walked her in and up to her suite. Escott had said to take what time I needed, lighting his pipe for something to do. Given the circumstances, none of it took long. I was still lightheaded, an aftereffect of the Mickey, and though triumphant, Bobbi was bone-tired.
The blue dress wasn't nearly as complicated to get off her as the red one. She draped it carefully over a chair.
Looking at her naked body as she turned made me sorry things had turned out the way they had, but it was never as good when she was too sleepy to respond to what I was doing. I needed to know she was enjoying things, too.
Tucking her in bed with a kiss would have to do for tonight. She was asleep before I left the room.
Between condensation and the pipe smoke, the inside of the car seemed to have its own private fog bank. Escott had taken on a distracted mood, which I was used to, meaning he was working on some inner problem. I hoped it had to do with the Sommerfeld case, but didn't interrupt to ask. He drove the nearly empty wee-hour streets without a word, probably without knowing what he was doing. When he got like this his body worked like the automatic pilot of an airplane.
As we approached the office I ventured to put in a request that he drop me at the Stockyards. I hadn't had time the night before to feed, and was really starting to feel the hunger. He nodded and made the right turns, then parked and cut the motor, again telling me to take my time. I shed my pale gray topcoat and the tuxedo jacket, unwilling to put them at risk with the cattle. It was cold out, but that wasn't anything I worried much about anymore.
My trip in was quick and the cattle blood satisfying as always, taking care of any lingering trace of my hypnosis-induced headache. Fully alert and refreshed, I hurtled back to the car, materializing in the passenger seat. Escott was still puffing on the pipe and hardly reacted.
"You know audiences would pay good money to see something like that," I said.
"Indeed, but can you juggle?" He started up, put the car in gear, and got us to the office, parking a few steps down from the stairwell opening.
"What do you want here?"
"Just to look into a few things in the files. It won't take long."
"Gil Dalhauser?"
"Among others, then we can make a check on Mr. McCallen's place."
I was interested enough to want to look into a few things for myself. It beat sitting in the car watching the signals change. I followed him up the stairs. He unlocked and walked in. The light was on, but he always left it that way. It discouraged intruders, and at night he wisely preferred entering a well-lit room.
Close behind, I almost bumped into him on the threshold, he stopped so abruptly. Looking past, I saw what had put him on guard: cigarette butts in the desk ashtray-he always emptied it before leaving-and a file-cabinet drawer not quite closed. Those were locked tight each night without fail.
"I shan't be but a minute, Jack," he said in an unworried, conversational voice. "I think I left it in the desk."
He crossed the room, his steps on the wood floor making too much noise for me to hear if anyone else was still present. From his actions he'd assumed we had company, which was a prudent thing to do until proved otherwise. He put the pipe down and reached toward a drawer that contained a loaded revolver. I started forward to do an invisible check of the inner room. Neither of us achieved our goals. The other door was hauled open before I could vanish.
Jason McCallen emerged, holding a little revolver in his big fist. It was a .22, and I had the idea that it may have come from Mary Sommerfeld's house. He'd probably paid her place another visit despite her new locks.
He swung the muzzle first on Escott, who halted in mid-movement, his arms slightly raised, then to me. I gingerly finished walking in, stepping away from the door and leaving it wide. McCallen's dark eyes were hard and his posture tense. When a man looks that nervous it's best to give him a clear path out.
"What the devil do you think you're doing here, man?" Escott demanded, all irritation. I winced.
The gun came back toward him. "I'm trying to find where you two took her."
"By breaking into my file cabinets? The ones here are only for old records. Current cases are stored elsewhere. You'd have had better luck if you'd simply made an appointment." Escott put his arms down.
McCallen looked baffled a moment, but recovered, scowling. He didn't brandish the gun around, giving me to think he knew how to shoot. "Don't try me, mister. You know where she is and you'll be telling me or I'll use this."
"To maim or murder?" For all the fear Escott showed, McCallen could have been threatening him with a flyswatter.
"You just take your pick." McCallen fired once, snapping a shot about five inches left of Escott's skull. The balloon-pop explosion was loud inside the confines of the little room. Escott didn't move, but I flinched and surged forward.
McCallen aimed at me again. "Don't tempt me, laddie."
Like he had all the time in the world, Escott turned to inspect the small, eye-level hole by the window in disgust.
"Well, there's another damned repair job for me."
"Charles," I said warningly.
His mouth twitched as he glanced at me, his gray eyes dancing with inner excitement. He was enjoying himself, for Christ's sake.
I put my full attention on McCallen, moving to draw his gaze. "I want you to listen to me."
"You'll be the one to do the listening," he said, sighting down the short barrel at my nose.
I'm fairly bulletproof, and therefore should have been the calm one here, but having been shot too many times, I was understandably gun-shy. It took concentration to get anyone hypnotized, and that little muzzle pointed my way was a hell of a distraction.
Escott made a small warning gesture for me to hold off. "Now, Mr. McCallen, I'm willing to be reasonable about this. You will please put your firearm away, sit down, and talk with me like a civilized man."
"So you can try to flimflam me with more insulting money offers? Not on your life-and that's what it'll be if you don't tell me where she is."
"You're an intelligent fellow, Mr. McCallen. Were our positions reversed, would you betray her to a madman with a gun? Is that your plan? To find her and kill her?"
McCallen made a kind of outraged choking sound. "All I want is what's rightfully mine. You're the bastards that broke into my house and took it away."
"I confess we did bend the law a bit-"
"Bend!"
"But from what we've been told it was in a good cause."
"The woman's a daft spoiled brat and she'll ruin it."
"Ruin what, exactly?"
"My chance of a lifetime to-"
"Jason! Jason!"
From the stairs came the sound of several men galloping noisily up, shouting in fear. McCallen's oddball cronies from the bar crowded into the room, with Paterno leading the way. He stopped and gaped at the tableau.
"What the hell are you doing?" he bellowed at McCallen. "We heard a shot-"
"I'm trying to get this damned fool to talk. Now stand out of the way so I can get on with it."
Paterno was all wide-eyed shock and nerves. "You're out of your mind! You don't just shoot people for something like this."
"You want the goods, don't you?"
"Not like this! Put that thing away and let's go before someone calls the cops."
"But he knows where Mary is!"
"She'll turn up sooner or later. You might as well face it, it's over with her."
"She's probably hiding out with that toad of a prince. Is that it?" Eyes glittering, he turned the gun on Escott again. "Where is she?"
Paterno must not have been thinking clearly, for he rushed forward and grabbed at the gun. Everyone else froze, various expressions of horror on their faces. Paterno and McCallen struggled back and forth, cursing. I caught Escott's coat sleeve and yanked him over and hopefully out of the line of fire. The gun muzzle went every which way in the scuffle.
Then it resolved to unexpected quiet. Paterno managed to get both hands on McCallen's gun arm and push it down against the desk. McCallen stopped fighting him. Both glared at each other, breathing hard for several moments. With a snarl, McCallen shook him off. He didn't put the gun away, but he wasn't pointing it at anyone.
"Come on then, y'pack of louts," he growled, then shouldered his way past them all to stump down the stairs. They looked a lot cowed by what they'd seen, but followed.
Paterno straightened his rumpled coat with shaky dignity and grimaced at me and Escott. "Gentlemen, I apologize for this. Jason's been under a lot of strain lately."
"So it would appear, sir," said Escott. "Thank you for your intervention."
"I'll try to talk some sense into him about Mary."
"Please do-Mr. Paterno, is it?"
His mouth popped open. "How do you know my name?"
"It is my trade. Perhaps you will be so kind as to tell me-"
Paterno shook his head and darted for the door. "Some other time, sorry. Gotta go."
Escott made no move to stop him, so I didn't either. We watched his hasty exit, then I closed up after him.
"You okay?" I asked in the abrupt silence.
"Quite fit, thank you."
"What were you thinking, arguing with the man? He could have killed you!"
"But he didn't."
I could have gone through all the stages of exasperation and anger with him and yelled till I turned blue, but we'd been through it before, and he wasn't going to change. For an instant I very seriously considered hypnotizing him to make him behave with more caution, or at least apologize for being such an idiot, but gave up the notion. It was too much against his nature.
"I'm getting some air," I said, and went out, not slamming the door too hard.
It was a figurative excuse, since I no longer breathed regularly, but I had to be clear of that office and away from Escott until I calmed down. Muttering a lot about things I couldn't help, I took a swift turn around the block, consciously pumping my dormant lungs to flush them clean and work off the adrenaline. Hatless and coatless, I didn't feel the cold, only noted that the wind had altered direction from the Stockyards so the stink was gone.
McCallen, Paterno, and company were also gone. They had to have parked out of sight of the office, but not out of earshot while McCallen was doing his Burglar Bill routine. Everything seemed normal now. I made another circle, just to be sure. The cars in the immediate area of the block were familiar, the others I wasn't so sure about, but I felt marginally better for the exercise. I could return and not be tempted to give Escott a punch in the nose for his own good.
"What's the damage?" I asked him when I walked in again.
He was at the desk with a spread of papers in front of him, puffing heartily on his pipe. "Minimal. Our Mr.
McCallen must have some lock-picking skills, for that is how he had to have effected his entry to both the office and the files. He'd gone through all the ones under S, but of course did not find anything on the case. My current notes are in the usual spot, safe and sound."
He'd built a trick medicine cabinet in the washroom that swung out to reveal a hiding place in the wall. "Is that the file he wanted?" I nodded at the desk.
"Dear me, no. I was just refreshing my memory about Mr. Dalhauser and that other fellow, LaCelle. Not much on the latter, I fear, nothing further than ten years back. Do you think you could find out a bit more from Gordy? I tried to have a chat with him but his mind was rather focused on the charming Miss Taylor tonight."
"Did you get to meet her?"
"Briefly. I recalled enjoying her performance as Titania when one of the local stations undertook to do a version of A Midsummer Night's Dream. Very sprightly she was, though I thought she'd be taller."
"Why do you want to know about LaCelle?"
"Knowledge is power. Perhaps you could also inquire about Grant, too."
"Still think you know him?"
"I'm not sure. I'm quite good at faces, and his is not familiar to me, yet there's something about him... well, there's nothing for it tonight. I'll look into things tomorrow. Now about concluding things with Mr. McCallen..."
Despite the cooling-down walk, I still had to bite my tongue at the mention of that lunatic. The only one loonier was my partner. "After I drop you home I'll go look him up. If he goes back to his house, he's not going to be a problem anymore."
"Excellent. But I'd like you to find out exactly what is in Miss Sommerfeld's mysterious envelope. I should have had a look before when you got it back, but she was so adamant about her privacy I chose to respect her confidence. Not an error I plan to repeat, but who knew then that it would become such a nuisance?"
"Tell her it might help speed finishing the case."
"That could work. I'll also ask if she knows this Paterno chap. Right, then. I've got all I need for the time being. I should like to go home and study this over some hot brandy." He squinted through the pipe smoke at my shirtsleeves.
"Aren't you just a bit chilly?"
"Gimme the keys, I'll go warm the car up."
"I doubt that it's had time to cool, but here, and thank you." He tossed me the ring and began shuffling his papers together.
The Nash was still warm, but I had it idling smooth, and the air coming from the heater was nice and hot. He'd have a comfortable ride home. It'd only take Escott a minute to lock the office, for all the good it seemed to do. I turned the headlights on so he could see better, and far down the street another car's lights also bloomed.
I was still rattled about McCallen, but didn't think he'd have ditched his friends for a return bout so fast. The possibility existed, though. I leaned across the seat and opened the passenger door, calling to Escott to get a move on.
From the top of the stairs he said something in reply, but I couldn't catch it; the wind brought only the sound of itself and the fast-approaching car.
Bad. I didn't like the feel of this at all. Scrambling out, I hurried toward the stairwell opening just as Escott emerged onto the sidewalk. I yelled at him to duck, to get out of sight.
He saw the car coming. It was still distant enough not to be a threat; he had time to move but did not. He must have been trying to get a look at the driver. Impossible in the dark.
I called out again.
Then I heard a loud, sharp crack off to my left, and realized my mistake. The threat was not from the car, but from across the street. A man came out from the deep shadow of a doorway, arm extended and pointing at Escott. The wind caught a tiny puff of smoke from the gun in his hand and carried it away.
Escott made a fast, abortive move toward the protection of the Nash, but not fast enough.
The gun made a bright flash-several bright flashes-of fire and smoke. The vicious noise of the shots bounced off the surrounding buildings.
Five shots. Very quick.
Two caught Escott square in the chest.
I saw it so clear it was like a still picture of the instant.
He jerked and made a strange breathy grunt, then dropped straight down like his knees had been cut from under him.