“Ah-h!” snarled Frankie Moore. “Don’t horse around. We got business, Hugg. Let’s get on with it.”
Something of the Parson’s unruffled confidence seemed to have communicated itself to Jerry Lord. He drew himself up.
“I can tell you that whatever your business may be, it will be better done without guns. I ask you — I insist you put your guns away.”
“Aw, take a walk on the ceiling! Shoo, fly!” Frankie’s low, rough laugh was ironic, cutting.
“Nevertheless, I insist you put your guns away!”
“Insist then!” Frankie turned to Hugg. “Fat Face insists, Hugg, old tomato. He won’t play it our way. He insists. He thinks we’re still listening to him.”
A covert look passed like a darting visible flame between Jerry Lord and Ching.
“All right, you’re inviting trouble,” Lord said doggedly.
“We’re inviting trouble!” Frankie guffawed. “Listen to Fat Face! Boy, oh boy, if you ain’t the icing on the cake! Keep ’em covered, Hugg.”
He was crossing over to Judge North, but stopped short in sudden, sharp alarm. “Hey, ain’t that footsteps I hear outside that door?”
Hugg and Frankie turned their heads for but a split watch-tick. Ching’s folded hands came undone and from the folds of his sleeve appeared a small-bore Smith and Wesson.
“Geez!” yelled Hugg. “Lookit the Chink!”
Ching’s gun went off, and the bullet tore Hugg’s hat from his head. It slammed against the wall, seemed to float lazily to the floor.
Frankie Moore shot Ching.
Ching whirled, spun as if by a centrifugal force with one foot raised slightly off the floor. There was something undignified and silly about it, as though he were executing a dance step. Then he crashed down with one hand under him and blood seeping from between his fingers.
The sight of the blood, the feel of the hot gun in his hand did something to Frankie Moore. He was grinning vapidly, breathing hard, like a drunken man. He was kill-drunk.
He said, “I’ve got five more bullets. Any takers?”
No one in the room stirred. Frankie bent his gaze on the Parson. “What about you, toughie?”
The Parson shook his head slowly, dreamily.
“O.K. You’re goners. All of you. Shell out your hardware while you still can.”
No one moved. It was clear that the slightest movement would invite a bullet. It was very still in the room. Distinctly footsteps could be heard racing up the stairs; little, exceedingly rapid steps; someone seemed to be running.
But Frankie shook his head, still grinning. “I was made out a sucker last night — and in New York. You know about that. Judge. There was a bagful of dough last night. I didn’t get it. I almost got it but I didn’t get it. I’ll collect in my own little way. Look at me, all of you. Look at me!”
“Geez! There’s somebody movin’ around outside,” Hugg grunted uneasily. “There’s someone outside, boss.”
“Look at me!” chanted Frankie, disregarding Hugg’s anxiety. “Look at me because you’re going to die!”
“Look up here, why don’t you?” a voice cut in softly.
There was a jarring, tearing sound.
A Tommy gun’s ugly snout ripped through the copper screening of the window, thrust into the room. Behind the gun was a face the Parson had last seen standing beside the Dutchess, soothing a sobbing little child.
Apparently nothing could change the expression on this face. It was as elegant, as dignified, as unfeeling as it had been last night. The eves, too, were the same — stern, thoughtful, preoccupied. The man said, “You two with the heaters — slide ’em to the floor. And don’t be sloppy about it.”
Frankie Moore’s grin stayed congealed on his face. He seemed stupefied. Then suddenly his .45 spat viciously.
The Parson melted to the floor as the Tommy gun laid down a barrage. Frankie Moore screamed, twisted and fell on his side. Blood oozed out of his ears and nose.
Hugg, from an angle, smashed two bullets into the copper screen. The Tommy gun wavered. It was evident that Carl Blue had been hit. No fire was returned from the Tommy gun.
A gun behind the Parson began to cough. The bullets sang wide over his head. But they were not intended for him. Judge North took three of the bullets in the chest and neck and went down.
A bullet that was earmarked for the Parson dug splinters out of the floor inches from his head. His head jerked about and he saw Hugg shooting at him. He went over backward, hooked himself around a chair and somehow was unhurt. His hand snaked in, brought out his Luger.
“Curtains for you, toots,” the Parson muttered, and fired.
Hugg plunged forward and hit the back of a chair with an outflung arm to keep from falling.
“That was for the sap last night,” the Parson muttered. “And this is for the sock you just handed me.”
He fired again and Hugg went down without even a groan.
The machine gun was operating again, pouring slugs into the bodies of Hugg and Frankie Moore.
And then suddenly above the choked roar of crashing bullets, there was a faint sound of a child’s sobs, muted, distant but clear, unmistakably clear.
The Parson’s head shot up, listening, like a creature of the wild.
The machine gun came to a sudden halt. Simultaneously, a woman yelled. And instantly the machine gun went back on the job, but no longer was its snout protruding into the room. It was being fired at some short distance from the window. Pieces of plaster chipped off in an even row along the wall, head high.
The Parson stayed down. He heard a car being started outside in the street. Then abruptly the Thompson was silenced. Footsteps raced away across the lawn. The car was roaring, exhaust bubbling, and then it gunned down the street, its clean getaway plainly underscored by the diminishing sound of swishing tires and whirring engine.
Gunsmoke swirled in clouds in the bright bars of sunlight that angled into the room. The Parson heard people shouting out in the street. Then he heard a little whimper close at hand.
It was Jerry Lord. “My shoulder. A hunk of bullet ricocheted. A lot of blood, but it ain’t bad. Help me out.”
The Parson lifted him up and towed him across the room into the hall. The cottage was very quiet. Lord straightened, “Guess I’m all right now. Touch of nerves in there. Pretty horrible, with all those bodies on the floor.”
“Yeah. Death is something you gotta get used to. Listen. There’s gonna be cops and questions. What’s the story?”
Lord groaned, pushed at his face with his knuckles. “Are... are they all dead?”
The Parson nodded.
“Then we’ll tell the truth. We got nothing to hide. We’ll tell ’em how I came down here to sew up Judge North and bring him hack. The D.A. Linton, will back me up. Then Frankie Moore and Hugg tried to save the Judge. There was shooting and that’s all.”
“And the chopper — Carl Blue?”
Lord shivered. “Was that Blue? I didn’t know him.”
“Leave him out,” the Parson said decisively. “Listen. With North dead, you must bring something back. Why not the Dutchess, possibly Blue as well?” Lord stared. “Right! Right as rain. There were footsteps from upstairs, weren’t there? I mean it wasn’t imagination?”
“No. I heard them, too.”
Lord pulled out a handkerchief. “Here. Tie up this arm. I feel better already. I’m going up to have a look.”
“Be careful.”
“Where’s the need?” Lord asked cheerfully. “We came through alive out of that shambles in there, didn’t we?”
“Yeah. We’re the only ones who got down on the floor while we were still in one piece.”