How long? It was going slowly enough for him, there in in Ruger’s room, and he realized how much slowly it must be going for Jill. She didn’t know what was happening, where he was, where Ruger was — she was stuck around the corner and had no idea what was happening or when she would see him again. He pictured her sitting over a cup of coffee and not knowing for certain whether he was alive or dead, and he realized all at once what a bad arrangement this was.
She should have stayed in the hotel, of course. He had suggested that, briefly, but as he said it he had known she wouldn’t go along with it. And once he decided to go straight up after Ruger, he should have sent her back to the city to wait for him. She probably would have put up an argument but he might have been able to talk her into it.
This way, everything was up in the air. She was close by but not close enough to know what was going on. He thought of leaving the rooming house for a minute. He could duck around the corner, find her, let her know what was happening, and then get her into a cab headed for their hotel. But if he left the room, how could he get back in? He might not be able to bluff his way past the woman again. Even if he managed that, it would just get her wondering, and if she wondered enough she might make a point of tipping Ruger off when he came through the door.
And if he left the place, Ruger could come back while he was looking for Jill. He wouldn’t know about it one way or the other and he could come bouncing up the stairs into a trap he wouldn’t be able to get out of. As things stood, he had the advantage, he held all the cards. But if he left the room he would be chancing the loss of that edge. He couldn’t risk it.
She would just have to wait.
He reached for a cigarette. There were only two left in his pack, and he didn’t have a spare. He hesitated, then shrugged and took out one of the cigarettes and lit it.
They drove up just as he was finishing the cigarette. He saw the car coming down Lorring, moving slowly toward the house, and he dropped his cigarette to the floor and covered it with his foot. He took hold of the gun, spun the cylinder to put a bullet under the hammer once again. It was their car this time. The Pontiac, and the right color, and coasting to a stop in front of the house and across the street.
He opened the window a little wider at the bottom and drew the curtains almost shut. Looking down, he could see them through the front windshield. Ruger was on the passenger side and Krause was behind the wheel. They were sitting there now, making no move to leave the car.
Come on, he thought. Both of you. Come on.
He rested the gun barrel on the windowsill. They were still in the car. They might both drive away, he thought. They might change their minds and drive away and leave him there. His grip tightened on the butt of the gun, and beads of sweat dotted his forehead. He couldn’t breathe.
A car door opened, on Ruger’s side. One of them spoke in an undertone. They both laughed. Then Ruger was coming and Krause was driving off, he thought. He was both glad and sorry. He wanted them both, right away, but one would be better than none at all.
Hurry up, dammit—
Ruger put a foot out of the car, then drew it back in again. Dave gritted his teeth. Ruger swung the foot out again, then shifted his weight and stepped out of the Pontiac. He stood with one hand on the open door and the other on the roof of the car. He was talking with Krause but Dave couldn’t hear anything.
He straightened up, then, and slammed the car door shut. Krause gunned the motor. Ruger nodded to him, and Krause pulled off, slowed down briefly for the stop sign at Forbell and continued east on Lorring. Ruger stood watching the Pontiac until it disappeared from view. He made no move to cross the street.
Dave aimed the gun at him, tentatively. He lowered it and looked at the man. For the first time, he didn’t know if he could do it. He did not know if he could shoot him.
His words to Jilclass="underline" “Listen to me. It’s not fair play. Fine. We are not playing.” But it was less clear-cut when you had time to think about it, less certain when you had the man centered in your sights.
He watched Ruger. The gunman seemed stubbornly determined to wait forever before he crossed the street. He reached into his breast pocket now and drew out a stubby cigar. Dave watched as he unwrapped the cigar slowly, carefully. He dropped the cellophane wrapper. It fell to the sidewalk and the wind played with it Ruger bit off the end of the cigar, spat it out, took out a windproof lighter, thumbed it open, lit the cigar, closed the lighter, returned it to his pocket, and puffed on the cigar. He moved to the curb and glanced across the street.
Then Dave saw him glance to his right, saw the cigar drop unnoticed to the street. Ruger was staring. Dave grabbed the curtains, tugged them aside.
Jill.
She had just turned the corner. She was walking toward the rooming house, looking straight ahead. He looked at Ruger. The man had a gun in his hand, he recognized her.
He yelled, “Jill, get back!”
He saw Jill look up, then clap one hand to her mouth. Ruger shot at her, missed, spun around to look up at the window. Dave pointed the.38 and squeezed the trigger. The sound was deafening and the recoil jolted up his arm to his shoulder. Jill had not moved. He yelled at her to get back, to get the hell out of the way. She hesitated and then spun abruptly around and dashed for the corner. Ruger looked at her but did not shoot. He aimed the gun at the third-story window, steadied himself, and fired.
Chapter 16
Ruger’s shot went off to the left. It slammed into the house a few feet to the side of the window and the whole house seemed to rock. Dave kicked the chair back out of his way and dropped into a crouch in front of the window. He looked out. Ruger was crouching, too, trying to present the smallest possible target. He looked around for a place to hide himself but stayed where he was. The trees there were young ones, too small to hide behind, and the nearest parked cars were three doors down the street.
Dave shot at him. This time his arm anticipated the recoil and the gun stayed steady. He missed; the bullet dug into the pavement a few feet in front of Ruger. Ruger snapped off a shot in reply. It shattered the window and glass flew.
Down the street a car stopped with a screech of brakes, spun in a ragged U-turn that took it a few feet over the curb, and sped off in the opposite direction. Somewhere a woman screamed. Ruger ran halfway across the lawn behind him, stopped, crouched, fired. His shot wasn’t even close.
Ruger was up again, running in a crouch, zigzagging toward the side of the house behind him. Dave followed him with the gun, his elbows braced on the windowsill, holding the.38 with both hands now. Ruger stopped, and as he started to spin once more around he was no longer a moving target. Dave gave the trigger a gentle squeeze.
He had not really believed the shot would be on target. But the bullet tore into Ruger’s arm above the elbow and sent his gun flying. The impact of the shot spun Ruger halfway around and knocked him to the ground. He moved awkwardly there, using his good arm to push himself to his feet. The bad arm hung like deadweight.
He got up and turned toward Dave, then away from him. His arm was leaking blood. He had lost his bearings and looked this way and that like a nearsighted man searching for his eyeglasses.
Dave aimed again and fired again, and the bullet took Ruger in the small of the back. He shrieked like a girl and went down flat on his face and didn’t move.
Now the whole house was awake. Dave yanked the door open, tore out of the room. A woman across the hallway was looking at him from her door. He glanced at her and she drew back in terror, slamming the door shut after her. He raced down the stairs. At the second floor, a burly man in his undershirt stepped into his path. Dave hit him across the face with the barrel of the gun, shoved him and sent him flying.