North nodded. He pocketed his gun gingerly, sat down. He looked tired.
“O.K.,” said the Parson. “You said ‘we.’ ”
“The Dutchess and I. Listen. She knows when she’s licked. That’s why she sent me to you. You’re working for Jerry Lord. I saw you last night in Puerto de las Damas. I know what’s wanted. We’ll kick in.”
The Parson said, “Tex Kent was kicked — out. He was murdered.”
North lifted his head. “I know that. It was tough. We liked Tex. He was good oats. But we won’t try to make it tougher by going at things the hard way. I mean with guns. We’re licked, see? And we know it. That’s why I’m here. We want to make a deal with Jerry Lord.”
“Oh, a deal with Jerry Lord?”
“Yes.”
“When do you want to see him?”
“Right away. Now.”
The Parson rose to his feet. “Then why wait?” He strapped on his holster, sheathed himself in his tight-fitting black coat. “Does Carl Blue know about this deal?”
North fidgeted, shot a sidelong glance at the window. “Oh, of course.”
“And it’s oke with him?”
“It’s oke.”
“Hm.” The Parson was silent a second. “You know that Jerry’s job is to take you back to New York to stand trial.”
“I know.”
“Is that the deal you have in mind?”
A sad, wistful smile appeared on the older man’s tired face. “No, but it may be part of it. After all Jerry’s the one to dictate terms. We’re licked and we know it. We’ll play ball.”
“Did you come here alone?”
The sudden ferocity with which this question was flung at him jarred Judge North. Panic guttered in his eyes; they flicked involuntarily to the window, again they slithered away. “I... I don’t know what you mean,” he said at last. “Of course I’m alone.”
The Parson grinned suddenly. “There’s just one more thing. Last night...” He waved a hand airily. “You know what happened last night. There was quite a rumpus. Shooting and yelling and things like that. And one guy sapped me. Do you know who that guy was?”
North nodded wearily. “That was Hugg, Tobe Hugg they call him. He’s Frankie Moore’s hot trigger.”
“Frankie Moore?” the Parson repeated gently. “I didn’t see him after the sapping. So he was there last night, too.”
“Yeah. He and Tobe Hugg nearly wrecked everything.”
“Frankie Moore took over Cig Wolfe’s numbers racket, didn’t he?” the Parson said lazily. “The Dutchess sold the business to Frankie, didn’t she?”
North stood moistening his dry lips, staring at the Parson.
“Well, didn’t she?”
“Yeah.” North’s voice was tired and soft. “She sold it to him.”
“How much did she get?”
North went on staring.
“I said how much did she get?”
“About a half million.”
The Parson nodded. “So that was why.” He pursed his lips. “All right. Let’s go.”
As they drove in the little Austin through the crowded streets to the other side of the island the Parson imagined they were being followed, but when he glanced about, he could not be sure. He drove with a steady hand and from time to time he even smiled as if at a private, and very droll, joke.
The cottage which Jerry Lord occupied stood almost alone in a street that fronted the estate region of Cariba. There were flowers in front of it in huge yellow and blue ceramic pots, a small terrace. There was even a lawn. It was a poor lawn, however, with a wretched stand of grass, blighted by the limestone, which crops out in gray masses like dirty snow from the thin topsoil of the West Indies island.
Ching opened the door to the Parson and when the Parson walked in on Jerry Lord, he looked up with surprise, said: “Round trip, Parson? Forget something?”
“No. I brought you a visitor.”
Judge North walked into the room.
Lord’s smile receded slowly, leaving his face hard, purposeful. He was up on his feet, saying through clenched teeth: “Damn you, Parson! I thought I told you to keep me out of this. You know I can’t—”
The Parson shook his head. “This is not a pinch. At least you don’t have to make it here. The Judge says he wants to make a deal with you.”
Lord’s eyes snapped. “A... a deal?” he said waveringly. Then again he roared, pounded the table hard. “To hell with a deal! I gave you orders—”
“Aw, push your tongue between your teeth,” the Parson said, and reversing a chair, sat down. “Ankle out, Ching.”
The Chinese boy stood with his hands folded in his loose black sateen sleeves and did not stir. Lord shot an angry glance at the boy, barked impatiently: “Well, get out! Get out!” And when the door had closed, “This is sweet, boy, sweet! Fine mess you’ve thrown me into.”
“It’s not a mess,” the Parson said patiently. “It’s a deal. Maybe we both stand to make something big out of it.”
Lord put his hands on his hips and stared fixedly, venomously at Judge North. Then his shoulders shrugged helplessly. “O.K., since you’re here. What’s the deal?” He swung across the room. “Wait until I lock this door.”
He stopped short. The door opened and two men crowded in, pushing Ching before them. Both had huge .45 automatics leveled. They were rather young men to judge by their clothes. But their faces were old, hard. One was tall, even good looking in a hard-faced, thin-lipped way, with slaty, murderous eyes and vigorous, determined features.
The other was short-statured, furtive, with long arms ending in powerful looking hands; his eyes, cold as a reptile’s, slid over the room, went carelessly past the Parson, then came back to linger at leisure on him. It was the man who had sapped the Parson the night before in the house in Puerto de las Damas.
“In reverse,” the taller man said.
“What? Who?”
“In reverse, you.”
Slowly Jerry Lord stepped back. His face was the color of smudged paper; his eyes jiggled nervously in his head; his upper lip twitched with the movement of his eyes, while the rest of his face was frozen.
“Hi, Judge,” the tall man said, flicking a hand in mock cordiality in the air.
Judge North swallowed but he did not seem especially frightened. There was a fine dignity to the way he held his white-haired head.
“Hello, Frankie,” he said.
“Who’s the gent in black?” Frankie Moore asked.
“The Parson,” North said almost indifferently. “That’s what they call him.”
“This runt? This little guy? He’s supposed to be tough. I’ve heard of him. But he’s built more like a divinity student. Hey, Tobe. This is rich. Rich!” Laughter gurgled in his throat. “Whatta you know — this is that famous guy, the Parson!”
Tobe Hugg grunted. “Hell, I can take him, Frankie. I took him last night.”
Hugg moved suddenly. One step, one swing with his left. The Parson crashed to the floor with the chair he had been seated in. He scrambled to his feet. There was death in his eyes. His hand streaked for his shoulder holster, but at once, almost at the same instant, he let it drop to his side and put it behind his back. But the light in his eyes did not die out, though they were now almost calm.
“See?” said Hugg. “I can take him.”
“That was a dumb thing to do. Hugg,” the Parson said softly. “You’d better kill me, finish the job. That will be your easiest out.” That was all he said. His glance was locked with Hugg’s.
Hugg, holding the gun, dropped his eyes first. The Parson stood there, leaning slightly forward on the balls of his feet, with infinite purpose expressed in every line of his face, his body. It was as if Hugg suddenly realized that the Parson did everything and said everything behind the eternal mask of that mildness and obliqueness which had given him his nickname; and that behind the mask was concealed cruelty, steel-hard ruthlessness; a quite blind, but leashed, and terrifying power.