Clancy walked toward the Parson to take up the bag, but he never got his hand on it. The closet door opened and Jerry Lord stood there with a .45 automatic in his hand. He was breathing heavily. His coat was off. The armpits of his shirt were dark with sweat.
“Put down that bag,” he said thickly. “Gosh, it was hot in that closet.” His eyes were wild in his head.
The Parson put the bag down gently. “Hello,” he said cheerfully. “Is that a gun? I thought knives were your specialty.”
“Put up your hands, all of you,” said Lord. “If any of you make a grab for me, it’s the works.”
He started moving toward the door, making his way closer to the bag all the time.
“You can’t get far, you know,” the Parson drawled quietly. “Not loaded down with the bag.”
“What’s in it will give me wings, take me ten times around the world. Far enough for me.”
The Parson spoke again, still lazily. “Linton forced your hand, didn’t he? He was supposed to be outside that window looking in while Clancy and I faced you with Cig and the Dutchess. Linton wanted proof of your crookedness, Jerry. He got it, didn’t he? More than he expected. We were going to stage a little tableau, Clancy and me. But that isn’t needed now. You surprised him looking in your window.”
Lord’s breathing was slow and thick. “Don’t you dare move. I’ll plug you, Parson.”
“I’m not moving, Jerry. But I just wanted to tell you how it was. Linton knew there was a leak in his office, bribery, corruption, a guy who had ‘protected’ Cig Wolfe and was tied in with his successor, Frankie Moore. He wanted to root it out. He suspected you were it. When Judge North escaped the Grand Jury and came here, Linton gave out a story that North had been Cig’s protection. The protection was you, but Linton couldn’t prove it. So he sent you to round North up. That’s what you thought. Actually he sent you to me. It was up to me to pin the goods on you. You thought I was a sap. You didn’t think I knew that when you sent me to Tex Kent, it would dynamite Kent into running to North with his bagful of dough.
“Linton knew about that dough. He had followed Kent here. And when I phoned you about my talk with Kent, you weren’t on the phone. It was Ching, covering for you. There was just enough difference in his voice to tell me. You and Frankie Moore and Hugg were on Tex Kent’s tail. You followed him — and me — to the Puerto. You stuck a knife into Kent and you got the bag. But that wasn’t all Frankie wanted. He wanted to blast Cig and the Dutchess. You got tripped up, lost the bag. In the mix-up, you took second best — the child.
“When I got here with North to lay his deal before you. Ching was waiting with a gun up his sleeve. That gun was meant for me. Frankie busted in. He had been upstairs with Hugg. They sneaked down the back way probably. Frankie was riding high. You got scared. Frankie fully intended to kill North and me. You caught Ching’s eye. You wanted him to wipe out Frankie, a dangerous confederate. But Cig spoiled that party and saved my life, even though he couldn’t save North. You shot North over my head. The bullet came from behind me. I knew it came from your gun but I couldn’t do anything about it — then.”
Lord had stopped, standing on the balls of his feet. He said very coldly: “Is there any more?”
“Yeah,” said the Parson. “This: I’ll bet I can draw out my gun and shoot faster than you with a gun already in your hand.”
Cig Wolfe laughed. It was something to hear not see. Nothing showed on his face. He threw himself in a pantherlike spring that carried him six feet to crash into Lord. The gun in Lord’s hand barked aimlessly.
Lord went hurtling into the wall, went down on one knee, face panicky, gray, the gun wavering in his hand. Again that dry, hard laugh of Cig Wolfe’s was heard. He lifted himself from the floor and leaped at Lord a second time. It was practically tossing his life away.
Lord fired and Wolfe was hit but not stopped. He kept on coming with a slow, dragging step, while blood pumped out of his cheek in a gushing rivulet. His mouth was filled with blood and he spat out a dark wad of it and a tooth.
Behind him Clancy began to fire with nervous haste, chipping the wall. The Dutchess cried out once and covered her little girl with her body. The child’s frightened screams blended with the roar of gunfire.
Lord jumped toward the door, tripped, almost fell headlong, then caught his balance and pumped two bullets into Cig.
The Parson’s body had jerked to one side and out of the jerking had appeared his gun, large and ominous in his hand. But he had held his fire. Cig had been in his line. Now Cig went down on his face. The Parson fired. He did not want to kill Lord. He wanted to hurt him.
Lord screamed as the bullet smashed the delicate bones of his hand. His gun fell down out of the bloody mess, bounced on the floor.
Cig kept on coming, crawling, dragging along on the floor. Lord, screaming in pain and hysterics, pushed at him. Cig got a hand on his trouser leg, pulled him down. Lord frantically snatched up his gun with his left hand, dug it into Cig’s eye.
The Parson fired again with delicate, precise aim. A small round hole appeared magically high up on Lord’s beaded forehead. At once three small drops of blood trickled slowly out, mingled with the sweat, trickled into Lord’s glassy eyes.
Linton slowly, painfully raised his head, as if roused by all the shooting, gazed about dazedly.
The Parson stood quietly, a short undersized figure in black, unruffled and calm. He walked swiftly across the room to where Cig lay on the floor, squatted down beside him.
“How is it, Cig?”
Cig spat blood. “It doesn’t hurt.”
“Why did you do it?”
“I gave you your chance,” Cig said brokenly, hoarsely. “I gave you your chance to get him. He’d have killed you otherwise. It wasn’t throwing my life away. I was a goner anyway. If I stuck around, the Dutchess would stick with me. She would never leave me no matter how I argued. Some dames are stubborn, huh? So I gave you your chance. You won’t forget a favor. You’ll give her a break. And my kid. Now she’s got to go, doesn’t she? She can’t stick with me now, poor kid. She’s got to go...”
The agonized eyes peered at the Parson but the nerveless face was set, expressionless, cold like a mocking mask.
Soft Breezes stirred the pennons and rigging of the magnificently white Cortania, but still it was hot. Cariba was always hot. Linton, perched moodily at the rail, watched the shimmering lights of the little city. He drew on his blackened pipe, said: “You saw her off?”
The Parson nodded. “She took the plane for Buenos Aires. She’ll get a new start there. A dame with her brains and looks won’t find the going tough.”
“All I can say is I hope she has her lesson learnt by heart.”
“Oh, she’ll go straight. There’s her kid, after all. You know, she fell in love with Cig and married him before she knew how he made his dough. She was just a babe in arms then. Barely eighteen. And when she found out, she didn’t quit. Some dames are like that. She stuck and tried to talk him into giving up the life he led. The reason why she plunged into the racket the way she did was to shame him; show him she was being dragged down too. Then the kid came along and Cig really decided to ease out.”
“So Cig hauled off and got himself a new face?”
The Parson’s eyes dreamed. “Yeah. And if he hadn’t crossed Frankie Moore he’d have gotten away with it.”
Linton sighed. “Poor Cig... so close to his goal. But he’d never have reached it really. Somehow, somewhere the backwash of his past life would have caught up with him, engulfed him. Still, that was a pretty noble thing he pulled on Lord.”
“Well, he had it figured right. He was never yellow. He wasn’t afraid to die. He knew he’d never get clear. He wanted the Dutchess and the little girl to get their chance.”