Hagen stood up and began pacing the floor between the teakwood table and the strongvault. He walked very slowly, his head lowered contemplatively, like a man rehearsing a speech. He stopped at the table, folded his arms and looked down at Alma and now he wasn’t smiling.
He gestured toward the high-ball glass she hadn’t touched. “Drink it,” he said. “You’re always better company after a few drinks.”
She didn’t look at him. She stared straight ahead. “I told you I’m not drinking.”
“It’s a pity to waste the whiskey,” he murmured. “Thirty-year-old Scotch. Besides, it’s bad luck to fill a glass and then not even taste it.” His mouth tightened. “Take one sip. Just one.”
“No.” She looked at him. “And stop coaxing me.”
“I’m not coaxing you, my dear. I’m telling you.” Hagen took hold of the high-ball glass and lifted it toward her lips. She drew her head back and pushed the glass aside and some of the contents spilled on the table.
Outside the window, Clayton watched. His hands had a tight grip on the lower edge of the window-frame.
He saw the angry flush on Hagen’s face. He saw Alma getting up and he heard her saying, “It’s very late, and I need sleep. I’m going back to my apartment.”
She started past Hagen, but he grabbed her wrist and held her there and said, “I didn’t tell you to go. You’ll wait until I tell you.”
“Let go, Rudy.” She made a move to pull away.
Hagen smiled at her and put more pressure on her wrist.
“Let go,” She said it very quietly. “Let go, damn you.”
“That’s more like it,” Hagen said, and he released her wrist. “At least, when you’re angry, I can talk to you.”
Alma went back to the table and stood looking down at the high-ball glass. Almost half of the whiskey had been spilled but the remainder was a liquid magnet that pulled her hand toward the glass. She took hold of the glass as though it contained some bitter medicine that wasn’t easy to take. And then, with one long convulsive gulp, she drained the glass.
“Want another?” Hagen asked.
She shook her head. She was staring down at the polished surface of the teakwood table. The glimmering wood was like a mirror and she was seeing herself in it and hating what she saw.
She had her back turned to Hagen and he came toward her and put his hand on her shoulders. She squirmed away. Hagen’s face darkened again and he muttered, “What’s wrong with you?”
“I want to be left alone. I told you I was tired.”
“Look at me.” Hagen’s tone was a mixture of seething anger and frantic pleading.
She still kept her back to him.
“You can’t even look at me.” Hagen spoke through his teeth. His lips trembled. Then, with an effort, he controlled himself and said more calmly, “I’m trying to reason with you, Alma. I’m hoping you’ll change your attitude and let me talk to you.”
“All right,” she said. “I’m listening.”
But Hagen, standing behind her, couldn’t see what Clayton saw. She had her eyes closed and her throat muscles contracted and she was trying to steady herself.
Then she turned slowly to face Hagen and he was quiet for some moments and finally he said, “I don’t like the way things are going between us. Day after day it’s like a stalemate. It’s as if we’re sitting playing chess. It’s just a game, and I’m tired of it.”
“What do you want, Rudy?”
“You. All of you.”
“That wasn’t in the contract.”
“The hell with the contract.” He said it loudly. “I’ve loved you ever since we first met.”
“What do you know about love?” she asked.
“I’m flesh and blood,” he shouted. “I need something more than a pretty toy to play with. I need real affection. And warmth. And happiness.”
She was looking at the heavy safe in the corner. “There’s your happiness.”
“Is that a complaint?” He stabbed it at her. “You’re a fine one to complain. You can’t even play it straight with the man who pays your bills.”
She stood rigid, not saying anything.
Hagen’s voice was a blade going in deeper. “You think I’m blind or something? You think I believed one word of what you told me about Clayton? You said he took the gun out of your hand. I say you’re a rotten liar.”
She started to turn away. Hagen grabbed her arms and held her and forced her to look at him.
“Liar,” Hagen said. “You’ve been giving me a lie from the very beginning. You’ve been cheating me and playing me for a fool. And every time I held you in my arms and you closed your eyes, you were seeing another man. You were seeing Clayton.”
She was trying to twist away. Hagen tightened his grip on her arms.
“Now you’ll tell me the truth,” he shouted. “You’ll admit it’s been Clayton all along. Let me hear you say it. You’ll say it if I have to choke it from your mouth—”
His hands went up to her throat. She let out a strangled cry. Hagen went on squeezing as she sagged to her knees. His teeth showed in a crazy grimace and he didn’t know or care that he was forcing the life from her body.
And then the window went all the way up and Clayton leaped into the room. As he rushed at Hagen, his thoughts had nothing to do with strategy or tactics or remembering the gun in his pocket. He lunged like a wild animal and Hagen heard him coming, looked up and gaped at him and let go of Alma. She fell to the floor, gasping for breath. Hagen instinctively raised the big hands and clenched them and braced himself to meet the attack.
Clayton came in like a maddened bull. He threw both fists at Hagen’s face, stepped back as Hagen ducked low and tried to hold, then used his right hand like a cleaver and sliced a line of red running harsh and wide and wet above Hagen’s left eye.
Hagen groaned and made another attempt to hold on, and Clayton stepped to the side, speared the eye again, threw an uppercut that exploded on Hagen’s chin. The big man went crashing into the teakwood table, sailing over it as it toppled to the floor. Clayton circled the table and moved in for the finish.
But Hagen had something left and got up fast and grabbed him as he lunged. Hagen held his arms, lifted him, and butted him in the stomach. Then he was hurled to the floor and kicked hard in the ribs. He tried to rise and Hagen kicked him again. He made a grab for Hagen’s ankle, found it and yanked with all his might and Hagen went down. He threw himself at Hagen and landed on top. He hauled off to collect all the power in his arm for the final smash. But he didn’t have time to send it in.
A door opened and four men came rushing into the room. As they closed in on Clayton, he remembered the gun in his pocket, reached for it, then realized it was a little late in the evening for the gun. The men had him flat on his face with one arm pulled high up between his shoulder blades. A heavy shoe crashed against his jaw and as he fell into a red-streaked fog he wryly told himself it was Hagen’s night.
The fog didn’t last long. Within a few minutes he was able to get his eyes in focus, and from the floor he obtained a clear view of what was taking place in the room. He saw Hagen seated at the table and dabbing a handkerchief against the bloodied brow. Dodsley was applying a strip of gauze-and-adhesive to the side of Hagen’s mouth. The other four men were sitting around with cigarettes and glasses and waiting for further orders. Alma stood rigidly against the wall, staring at the teakwood table. The gun was on the table. Hagen’s hand moved idly toward it and picked it up and gestured with it.
The gesture told Clayton to get up from the floor and sit at the table. He got up, and the gun pointed at his chest.