He came at me with a shambling rush, tearing his way through the bushes to get at me. But those sand bushes require respect. They don’t like being rushed at, and he hadn’t taken more than a couple of leaping steps before his toe stubbed against a root and he went sprawling.
That gave me time to get to my feet and leg it towards the open. If we had to fight I wasn’t going to be hampered by a lot of grass turfs, scrub and bush roots. This guy was a lot heavier than I, and had a punch like the kick of a mule, and I was still dazed from that chop on the neck. I didn’t want another. The only satisfactory way to fight him was to have plenty of space to get away and come in again.
He was up on his feet and after me in split seconds, and he could move. He caught up with me as I broke through the last screen of bushes. I dodged his first rush, socked him on the nose as he came in again and collected a bang on the side of my head that made my teeth rattle.
The moonlight fell fully on his face as he came in again: a cold, brutal, murderous mask; the face of a man who intends to kill, and nobody or nothing is going to stop him. I jumped away, wheeled back and slugged him on his squashed ear, sending him reeling, and that gave me confidence. He might be big, but he could be hit and he could be hurt. He grunted, crouched, shook his head, his hands moving forward with hooked fingers. I didn’t wait for his rush, but went in hitting with both fists. But this time his face wasn’t there, and his hands fastened on the front of my coat, pulling me against him.
I jerked up my knee, but he knew all about that kind of fighting, and had already turned sideways on, taking the hard jab of my knee against his thigh. One of his hands shifted and grabbed at my throat as I slugged him in the ribs. He grunted again, but his fingers, like steel hooks, dug into my windpipe.
Then I really went for him. I knew once he weakened me I was done for, and that paralysing grip on my throat could sap my strength in seconds if I didn’t break his hold. I hammered at his ribs, then, as he still clung on, I dug my fingers into his eyes.
He gave a sharp screech, let go of my throat and staggered back. I went after him, belting him about the body. He held his eyes and took what I handed out. There was nothing much he could do about it, and I hammered him to his knees. There was no point in breaking my fists on him, so I stepped back and waited for him to uncover. His breath came in short sobbing gasps. He tried to get to his feet, but couldn’t make it. Groaning, he dropped his hands to hoist himself up, and that was what I was waiting for. I measured him, swung a punch at him that came up from the sand and connected on the point of his jaw. He went over backwards, flopped about, scrabbling in the sand like a wounded squirrel, started climbing to his feet, fell over and straightened out.
I went over to him. He was out all right, and, looking down at the blood running out of the corners of his eyes, I felt sorry for him. I didn’t mean to hurt him as badly as that, but it was his life or mine, and at least I hadn’t killed him.
I leaned forward and pulled the thick leather belt from around his waist, rolled him over and strapped his hands behind him. I took off my belt and lashed it around his ankles. He was too heavy to carry and I wanted to get to my phone and my gun. I thought he would be all right until I got back, and I turned and pelted towards the cabin.
It took me a couple of minutes to wake up Mifflin again. This time he sounded as mad as a hornet you’ve slapped with a fly-whisk.
“All right, all right,” I said. “I’ve got Dwan here.”
“Dwan?” Anger went out of his voice. “With you?”
“Yeah. Come on. Get the boys and the wagon. I want some sleep tonight.”
“Dwan! But Brandon said…”
“To hell with what Brandon said!” I bawled. “Come on out and get him.”
“Keep your shirt on,” Mifflin said dismally. “I’m coming.”
As I slammed down the receiver, a gun went off with a choked bang somewhere out on the dunes. I made two quick jumps to my wardrobe, flung open the door and grabbed the .38. I was back at the front door almost before the echo of the shot had died away. I didn’t rush out into the moonlight. I stood looking around, just in the shadow of the verandah, seeing nothing, hearing nothing and feeling spooked.
Then somewhere behind the palmetto trees a car started up and drove away with a rapid change of gears.
I sneaked down the verandah steps, holding my gun waist high, down the garden path and across the moonlit stretch of sand. The sound of the departing car became fainter and fainter, and finally died away.
I reached Benny Dwan and stood over him. Someone had shot him in the head, firing very close. The bullet had smashed in the side of his skull and burned his squashed ear with the gun flash.
He looked very harmless and lonely. He also looked very dead.
IV
The little blonde who looked after the PBX in the outer office gave me a coy little smile as I pushed open the frosted panel door on which was inscribed in gold letters: Universal Services, and on the right-hand bottom corner, in smaller letters: Executive Director: Victor Malloy.
“Good morning, Mr. Malloy,” she said, showing her nice white little teeth. She had a snub nose and puppy-dog manners. You felt you had only to pat her for her to wag her tail. A nice kid. Eighteen if she was a day, and only two heart throbs: me and Bing Crosby.
The two kids sitting behind typewriters, also blondes and also puppies, smiled the way Bobbysoxers smile and also said, “Good morning, Mr. Malloy.”
Mr. Malloy looked his harem over and said it was a swell morning.
“Miss Bensinger is over at County Buildings. She may be a little late,” the PBX blonde told me.
“Thanks, Trixy. I’ll be right in the office. When she comes in tell her I want her.”
She ducked her head and flashed me a look that might have meant something to me if she had been a couple of years older and didn’t work for me, and swung around on her stool to take an in-coming call.
I went into my office and shut the door. My desk clock told me it was five past ten, early for a drink, although I wanted one. After a little hesitation, I decided the bottle wouldn’t know it was too early, hoisted it out of the desk drawer and gave myself a small, rather shamefaced nip. Then I sat down, lit a cigarette and pawed over the morning’s mail without finding anything to hold my interest. I dropped the lot in the out-tray for Paula’s attention, put my feet on the desk and closed my eyes. After the night’s excitement I felt a little frayed at the edges.
A bluebottle fly buzzed sleepily around my head. The two typewriters clacked in the outer office. Trixy played with her plugs. I dozed.
At twenty minutes to eleven I woke with a start at the sound of Paula’s voice in the outer office. I had time to get my feet off the desk and drag my out-tray towards me before she opened the door and came in.
“There you are,” I said as brightly as I could. “Come on in.”
“If you must sleep in the office, will you try not to snore?” she said, pulling up a chair and sitting down. “It’s demoralizing the staff.”
“They’ve been demoralized for years,” I said, grinning. “I had about two hours sleep last night. I’m a tired old man this morning, and I must be treated kindly.”
Her cool brown eyes rested on the bruise on my cheekbone, and her eyebrows climbed a half-inch.
“Trouble?”
“Well, excitement,” and I told her about Benny Dwan’s visit.