"We've learned that he bought a car in Cleveland under the name of William Martin. License plate Ohio 344-W-12. Yes. He has to be taken care of. I don't care how many men it takes. Get it done. The man who does it will never have to work again."
In a motel room ten miles outside Pittsburgh, Dr. Harold W. Smith woke up, as he did almost everything else, in military fashion. One moment he was asleep. The next moment he was wide awake, his brain whirring, moving as alertly as if he had been awake and at work for hours.
It was one of the things he had learned in wartime spy service. There was danger in lying in bed, luxuriantly half-awake and half-asleep, unconscious to the stirrings of the outside world. A spy learned to sleep light and wake instantly. Smith had never forgotten the lessons.
Today would be a critical day. The telegram to Remo would no doubt have confused him. It would take him time to figure out what Smith had meant.
In the meantime, Smith would see what he could do about confusing Blake Corbish's life.
He would also have to get rid of his car today. By now, they had probably tracked down the man from whom he had bought it, even though Smith had been careful to buy it from a private owner and not from a car dealer. The car had to be changed. If he had been functioning better, he would have done it yesterday, Smith thought
His right leg still hurt, but less than it had, and he noticed clinically that his limp was less pronounced. Still he showered leaning against the wall of the shower and putting most of his weight on his left leg. He dressed in his gray suit, then he carefully refilled his change maker from the rolls in his attaché case.
It might also be a good idea to procure a weapon today. One never knew, Smith thought, as he hooked the change maker onto his belt under his jacket, took a long look around the room to make sure he had not forgotten to do anything or left anything behind, and then walked toward the door.
Personal preference plus a face that looked as if it were the archtypal leprechaun had combined to cause Pasquale Riotti to carry the nickname Patsy Moriarty.
He found it handy. Police were much less likely to hassle someone named Moriarty.
However he did not like being called Patsy Moriarty on the telephone at eight A.M. when he was just waking up and getting a good daylight look at the blonde chippie lying in bed next to him.
He did not remember his passions of the night before or indeed whether he had even had any. But a look at the blonde's naked body was enough to stir his passions in the morning. He was about to indulge those passions when the telephone rang on the bedstand in his efficiency apartment located in a Pittsburgh suburb.
Patsy Moriarty swore. He watched the blonde stir in response to the telephone's noise, then he lifted the receiver.
"Hello," he growled. He didn't like being bothered when he was busy.
But Patsy Moriarty didn't mind being called at any time by the voice on the other end of the phone. It was a man by whose sufferance Patsy lived and at whose direction Patsy had made sure a lot of other people no longer lived.
Moriarty sat up straight in bed, "Yes sir," he said. And then he listened. He kept a pad and pencil next to the bed and now he used it to take notes.
"Yes, sir," he said. "I have it. I'll get on it right away. Just curious, sir, is there a price? I see. Your personal guarantee is good enough for anybody, sir."
The blonde was awake by the time Patsy hung up and she reached a tentative hand around his body and placed it on top of his bare right thigh.
"Get your clothes on and beat it," Moriarty said.
She looked hurt, but Patsy, whose back was to her, could not see her face. All he could see was her hand and she had not removed it. He reached down with his right hand, grabbed the flesh alongside her thumb and squeezed.
"Owwww," she cried.
"I said, get out of here. I got work to do, so make it fast."
The hand pulled away as if Patsy's thigh had been a hot stove. The blonde scrambled out of bed and began to hurriedly put on her few items of clothing.
Moriarty looked at her naked body.
"Tell me," he asked, "we make it last night?"
"I don't remember," she said. "I was too drunk."
The answer annoyed Moriarty. The least she could have done was remember.
"G'wan, get out of here," he said. "I'll call you sometime."
The blonde, accustomed to years of hasty retreats, was dressed and gone in little more than a minute.
By that time, Patsy Moriarty had figured his course of action. There would be absolutely no point in driving aimlessly around the area, trying to find somebody named William Martin.
The telephone was the answer. He took the phone book from the bedstand drawer and with dismay looked down the column after column of motels and hotels. It would take forever by himself.
Moriarty reached for a well-worn personal phone book and began calling people who owed him.
To each of them, he said the same thing. Check motels and hotels. Look for a guy named William Martin. Driving a tan Dodge, Ohio license 344-W-12. He may be using a fake name. Find out where he is, what room, and get back to me. If you find him, tell the motel guy to keep his mouth shut and you'll duke him later. Now get on it.
It took eighteen phone calls for Moriarty to assure himself that he had covered Pittsburgh and its suburbs thoroughly. Then there was nothing to do but wait. Instead of showering, he washed at the sink to make sure he could get to the phone quickly if it rang. Sure enough, it rang just as he was putting shaving cream on his face.
"Yeah," he said into the phone. Then he listened, taking notes. "Right. Happy Haven Motel. Twenty miles outside the city. Yeah, I know where it is. He's using the name of Fred Finlayson. Okay. You're sure the license plates check? Right. Good. I'll take care of you later on."
Twenty-five minutes later, Patsy Moriarty was parking his Cadillac in the lot of the Happy Haven Motel, across the way from the target's room.
He expected no trouble. The tan Dodge was still parked in front of Room 116. That meant Finlayson or Martin or whatever his name was still inside.
Moriarty would just wait him out, for the rest of the day and tomorrow if necessary, because there was one thing he knew. No one could stay too long inside one room. Sooner or later, he'd have to step out and get some air. That was always the problem with Mafia men when they hit the mattresses and went into hiding. The opposition just waited for them to get bored, and then they picked them off as they came out.
Staying cooped up would be even tougher for someone who wasn't used to it, and this guy wasn't. What was it Patsy had been told? He was some kind of a doctor, and he was threatening important people? And he was screwy to boot. Well, whatever it was, it didn't matter, because Moriarty knew all that he needed to know about him. First, that the man must be killed, second, where the man was, and third, that Patsy would be paid for the job.
So he would just sit there and wait for the man to come out of the room and when he did, Patsy would casually get out of his car, walk up to him, and shoot him in the head. No problems at all.
Inside Room 116, Dr. Harold Smith looked around the room. He had not forgotten anything. He walked toward the door, but before opening it, he reached for the pull cord to open the drapes and let the maid know the room was empty and could be cleaned.
But, as befitted an eight-dollar-a-night motel, the pull string did not work and Smith walked to the center of the drapes to pull them apart by hand.
He put his hands on each of the pair of drapes, started to pull, but when the drapes had opened only an inch, he saw the black Cadillac with the man sitting behind the wheel parked across the lot. Smith released the drapes. They stayed a half-inch apart and through the opening he watched the car. It took him fifteen minutes of waiting and watching to be sure. The man was interested only in Smith's car and Smith's room. He fiddled with something in his lap, which was more than likely a pistol.