“When did you lose him?”
“Two hours ago. What happened to your face?”
“It’s a rash. I get it every winter.”
Kennedy killed a couple of hours floating from bar to bar. He felt he was up against a stone wall for the time being and saw no sense in running his head against it. It was much pleasanter to browse over a drink, to idly chase thoughts here and there in the hope of running to ground one that was useful.
Soon it was dark, and time to eat, and he took a cab to Enrico’s. He had paid the driver and was ambling to the door when he heard the driver scream:
“Look out!”
Kennedy threw himself flat on the sidewalk as three shots blasted the silence of the street and dug into Enrico’s heavy door. The cab-driver blew his horn wildly. Kennedy lay tense, motionless, the sound of the horn braying in his ears. Then the horn stopped and he was being lifted to his feet by the driver, who gasped:
“You hurt? You hurt?”
“I... I d-don’t think so,” stammered Kennedy.
“I scared him wit’ me horn. D’ja hear me scare him?”
Kennedy was trembling like a leaf. “Wuh-where is he?”
“He beat it. Up that way. Out o’ sight now.”
“What’d he look like?”
“Damned if I know. Only thing I seen, I seen this shape run out in the street and lift his arm out level and I yelled.”
“Thanks, pal.”
Enrico was standing in the doorway, his hands on his hips. “So what is this, so what?”
“I arrive,” said Kennedy, “under a salute of guns.” He tottered through the doorway. “A drink, before I pass out.”
He took three in quick succession, under the concerned eye of Paderoofski. All he could eat was a ham sandwich. His appetite had been blown away. An hour and a half later Paderoofski said:
“Please to axcuse you, Meester Kennedy. On de telephono is a poddy was wishing he should spik wit’ you horry-op”
“Paderoofski, your French gets better and better,” Kennedy said and went to the phone; and on the phone, “Yes?... When?... Okey, Tucks, grab a car and pick me up here. In the lower left-hand drawer of my desk is a pair of manacles I stole from MacBride a year ago. Bring those, too. Can you get a gun?... Swell. Snap on it, Tucks.”
He returned to the bar, said, “Paderoofski, lend me Susie.”
Paderoofski took an automatic from beneath the bar and said, “Please, Meester Kennedy, being too careful,” and handed across the gun. Kennedy shoved it into his pocket and, entering the restaurant, stood by the front window waiting. In a little while a black sedan yanked to a stop outside and Kennedy went out and found Tucker at the wheel. Kennedy climbed in, slammed the door, said, “What’s that in back?”
“A gun. You said bring a gun. The cuffs weren’t there.”
“I didn’t tell you to bring a twelve-gauge shotgun. You can’t go walking around the streets with that thing.”
“It was the only one in the office. Flannery bought it once, about five years ago, when he thought he might go duck hunting. He never went. Well, don’t worry; I don’t think it works anyhow.”
He slammed the car into gear and drove off and as they boomed up the street Kennedy heard his name being yelled. He looked around. Tucker put on the brakes.
“Keep going. It’s only Paderoofski. Probably Flannery phoning to give orders. Step on it. What time does the plane leave?”
“In half an hour.”
Tucker parked the car in the parking lot at the airport and climbed out, saying, “Well, the plane hasn’t arrived yet.” He pulled the shotgun out of the back seat.
“Nix,” said Kennedy.
“But you said bring a gun.”
“Forget it, Tucks. This is no grandstand play. Just walk with me and act disinterested.”
They went through the swing door into the waiting room and crossed to the desk behind which stood Bob Angler. Angler said, “Hello, gang. They’re standing over in the corner.”
“Thanks,” said Tucker.
Neither Joel Webb nor Inez Canfield moved when they saw Kennedy coming towards them. Webb’s eyes darkened and his lean jaw tightened up. The girl took hold of his arm. Kennedy and Tucker came up to them and Kennedy, taking his gun from his inside pocket and putting it into his overcoat pocket, said:
“Let’s go.”
Webb muttered angrily, “Now look here—”
“I’m looking, sweetheart — right at you. We’ve got a car outside. You and the girl get moving.”
“Now listen—”
The schoolmasterly looking Tucker said from beneath his derby, “Can it, bozo. Ankle out. This is no celebrity interview.”
The girl’s eyes were wide with fright. There was something sinister about Kennedy’s emaciated, lacerated face, and about his quiet, dreamy voice. She tugged at Webb’s arm. Scowling, he started walking with her. Kennedy walked at his elbow. Tucker walked at the girl’s elbow. Outside, Kennedy said to the girclass="underline"
“You ride in front.” And to Webb: “You and me in back. Get in.”
The sedan picked up speed on the cement highway. “Where are we going?” Tucker asked.
“Nine-ten Waterford,” said Kennedy.
The girl looked around, startled.
Kennedy nodded. “Yes, Inez — back home. Gradually I’m going to get all you people in one spot. This has got so far that it’s a circus, with me the head clown. Now somebody else is going to be the clown. Step on it, Tucks. The boy friend here is getting restless and if he doesn’t sit still I’m going to shoot out a rib.”
“Shoot between the ribs,” Tucker recommended. “It goes farther. So I hear, anyhow.”
Webb suddenly shouted, “You can’t arrest us! You guys aren’t cops!”
“He’s just thought of something,” Kennedy sighed; and then he snapped, “Sit still! Is a bullet in the gut worth arguing about whether we can arrest you or not?”
The girl said, “Don’t, Joel. Don’t.”
Webb folded his arms and towered in savage silence, his teeth digging into his lower lip. The sedan rolled through the outskirts of the city, hit Southern Road and followed it to South Waterford. Eleven blocks farther on it pulled up in front of 910 Waterford and Kennedy said:
“Now wait. There’s not going to be any confusion here. Tucks, you go in with the girl first and go right up to four-eight. Wait outside four-eight. I’ll be up in a minute with Webb.”
Tucker got out, gripped the girl by the arm and entered the apartment house. A minute later Kennedy backed out, said, “Okey, brother,” and Webb followed.
Webb sneered. “Pretty cagey, aren’t you?”
“Just careful, for once in my life. If you try to make a break for it now, the girl won’t be with you. Move along.”
When they reached the lobby the elevator pointer was stopped at the fourth floor. Kennedy buttoned it down, told Webb to open it, and then stepped in close behind him. When they got off at the fourth floor Tucker and Inez were standing half-way down the hall.
“Open it,” said Kennedy.
Her lips were shaking, there was terror in her eyes. With fumbling fingers she took a key from her purse, clattered it into the keyhole, turned it. Her face was dead-white. Tucker took hold of the knob and pushed the door open. Kennedy pulled his gun out of his pocket and said:
“In, Webby.”
Tucker hustled the girl in and then Kennedy prodded Webb in with the gun. He saw the girl stop, put her hands to her cheeks, sway. She uttered not a sound but he could see her back grow rigid. It was Tucker who said:
“Blow me down! Will you look at this!”
Emmy lay on the floor, disheveled, part of her dress torn. Kennedy began to see that the room was in a greater state of chaos than when he had left it. Webb turned and looked at Kennedy furiously, as though Kennedy were the cause of it. The girl dropped to a chair and began shaking violently, though she made no sound. Regret seemed not a part of her emotions: there was tragedy in her dark eyes, and fear, too.