His hands went up as though they were tied to springs. He was still gasping and choking.
“Let’s go, honey,” Patricia said.
I backed to the door, keeping George covered. I believe that is the correct expression. I found the knob behind me and opened the door. Much to my dismay, a hard object was prodded into my back and I recognized Brenda’s voice as she said, “Drop that, you naughty boy.”
My finger inadvertently convulsed on the trigger. The impact of the slug spun George in a half circle in the swivel chair. The gun slid out of my hand.
“Get back in there!” Brenda said.
George’s back was to us, his chin on his chest. I wondered if he were dead. Oddly enough, I didn’t seem to care. I put my hands over my head. The Wiggly was still in my left hand. With my hands in the air I wound it up.
Brenda went around the desk to take a look at George, the gun in her hand aimed in our general direction, her left hand resting on the desk top. I risked setting the Wiggly down on the desk top. It began to scuttle busily toward her hand.
She did not notice it until it actually touched her hand, its mechanical legs working busily, sliding on the smooth wood of the desk.
When she saw it she gave a strangled scream and fell back onto George.
It was then that Patricia proved that she had the true salesman’s instinct for improvisation. She leaned across the desk and as Brenda came up, she swung that hard little fist the same way she had used it on me. But this time she had more elbow room and the light was better. Brenda stood for a fraction of a second, her eyes glazed and faintly crossed, and then she went down onto George again.
Patricia snatched up Brenda’s gun and I took the one I had dropped on the floor. Soong met us in the hallway. He gave a high, thin cry and raced for the kitchen. We went down and out the door. The big blue sedan was there and I jumped behind the wheel. The key was in the ignition and the motor caught at once. As we streaked toward the big closed gate Patricia leaned out the window on her side, yelling, “Eeee-YAH-hoooo!”
The big gate offered only momentary resistance. The tires screamed on the street and I turned toward the shopping section.
Patricia stopped yelling long enough to give me advice. We decided against the police station due to the possibility of running into too many friends of Mr. Artigan. She said that as far as she knew, the Pacific City Courier was beholden to no one.
I made a slight mistake in judgment when I pulled up in front of the Courier building. The front bumper sheared off a city hydrant. The hard stream of water, as big around as a man’s thigh, shot up through the motor and was deflected out through the grill in a series of fine, hard streams that reached pedestrians eighty feet away.
In the excitement we ran into the building and up the stairs to the news room on the third floor. In a remarkably short time we were closeted in a big office with the editor-in-chief.
In the extra that came out at six o’clock, our pictures appeared on the first page. It was all most confusing. All I wished to do was to clear myself of criminal intent. It was only incidental that, to quote the managing editor, my testimony should “smash Artigan, break the back of the Pardo mob and give the reform government its first chance in fifteen years.”
They brought food up to us and we ate with enormous hunger. Every once in a while somebody would come in with more flash bulbs and take our pictures. It began to get very wearing. Our Mr. Darben managed to reach me by phone and inform me that he had contacted Mr. Max Idelhaur in the east and had given him the news. He stated that Mr. Idelhaur seemed most pleased over the publicity.
It was at that moment that I remembered the ten thousand dollars. A horrid urge struck me with the force of a blow. If I should say nothing about that money... however that would not be honest. When for a few moments we were left alone, I told Patricia of my oversight, and of my intent to inform the authorities.
I had no idea that her blue eyes could get so hard. “You lunk, don’t you think you ought to have a little payment for mental anguish? We can get in there and get the money.”
“I would have to declare it on my income tax.”
“Go ahead. Declare it. But if you tell these people, some cop is going to drag it home on a string to the wife and babies.”
“How long do we have to stay here?”
“Until the whole crew is rounded up. So far, Artie is the only one missing. And George, bless his flinty little heart, is going to recover.”
At that moment the door opened and a tall girl came in. She reminded me curiously of Martha. The same type.
She said, “You dear people, you! I must trouble you for material for a Sunday feature. Tell me all about your romance. When do you plan to be married?”
Patricia stood up. There was a glint in her eye. She said, “I must advise you that our romance, as you so inaccurately put it, is merely the product of a period of propinquity during which time we were in mortal danger, and as such should be discounted.” It surprised me to find that she could speak so well and so clearly.
I stood up too. I thought of Martha. I thought of the bank account. I folded Patricia into my arms with a fervor that astounded me. Just before my lips met hers I murmured, “Cut the chatter, darlin’. Let’s move onto the front burner.”
From a great distance a very annoying voice kept saying, “Mr. Dudley! Wait! Mr. Dudley! Just a moment!”
A good salesman can ignore distractions.