"Why, Frank Gloriana," I said in a loud voice. "What a surprise!"
"Shut your face," the older Gloriana said to me. And to his son, "Drive."
We pulled out and headed south on Federal Highway. I reckoned we were out of range of the receiver in the store, but just in case, I said, "Going to the Jo-Jean Motel, are we?"
Otto took the revolver from his pocket and rapped the side of my skull with the steel barrel. What can I tell you? It hurt.
"I told you to keep your yap shut," my captor said. "I'll do all the talking."
So I remained silent and tried to calculate the odds against my ever playing the harpsichord again. Rather heavy, I concluded. The fact that I had been allowed to witness Frank's involvement in this caper boded ill for my future. It seemed highly unlikely that I would be allowed to live, even if I vowed to keep my yap permanently sealed.
We turned into the driveway of the Jo-Jean Motel. I knew there were two police officers in Cabin Five and two more in the back room of the motel office. They had been stationed there with the enthusiastic cooperation of the owner who probably hoped the Jo-Jean would rival the O.K. Corral, and she'd be featured on the front page of her favorite tabloid.
But I saw no police cars and no signs that snipers had been deployed to hold Cabin Four in their sights. I could only have faith that Sgt. Rogoff was aware of my plight and was feverishly revising his plans to give my safety precedence over that of Peaches'.
We pulled up alongside Cabin Four and Otto nudged my ribs with his weapon. "Out," he said. "Take the money. Walk around to the front door. Frank, you go first and unlock."
Within moments we were all inside, the door closed, a floor lamp lighted. I looked about. It was a simple room, exactly like the one Hertha had claimed to see in her vision. There was also a pan of cat litter, a bowl of water, and a plate of cat food.
"Where is Peaches?" I inquired.
"At the movies," Frank sniggered, the first words he had spoken. He needn't have bothered.
"Count the money," his father ordered.
Frank dumped the contents of the bag onto the bed, stacked the bundles of banded bills. Otto and I remained standing. Nothing was said until Frank finished.
"All here," he said. "The bills look legit."
"They got the numbers," Otto growled, "but so what? Where we'll pass them no one looks at numbers."
"May I take the cat now?" I asked, figuring I had nothing to lose.
Otto looked at me somberly. "I finally figured how you found Charles Girard," he said. "It was the vet, wasn't it? At the animal hospital. That was cute."
For a minute or two I couldn't comprehend how he knew I had identified him. Then I remembered I had mentioned the name Charles Girard to Laverne. She had undoubtedly told Frank and he, in turn, had reported to his father that Archy McNally, a blabbermouthed gumshoe, was on his trail.
"So now you know about me," Otto said. "And you know about Frank. We don't have much choice, do we?"
His meaning was clear and more chilling than a brutal threat.
"It's no big deal," I pointed out. "Catnapping is hardly a capital crime. How heavy a sentence can you possibly get?"
"When you've been inside," he said darkly, "one more day is too much."
He stared at me, and I knew it wasn't only a charge of catnapping that concerned him. He wouldn't kill for that. But he was calculating how much I might know or guess about his other activities, including the vicious murders of the Gills-worths. Finally I could see that he had made up his mind, and his fatal decision seemed to relax him.
"Put the money back in the bag," he told his son. "Shove the bag under the bed. Then get the cat. We'll do them both at the same time. I spotted a good place. A deserted canal."
It was all I could do to keep from crying, "But I can't swim!" and laughing hysterically. Somehow I restrained myself.
Frank hid the money, went into the bathroom, and came out carrying a large cardboard carton that had once held bottles of Jim Beam. It was tied shut with heavy twine, and air holes had been cut in the sides. I heard a few faint meows and the box rocked a bit as Peaches moved.
"Let's go," Otto said.
Up to that point the motel cabin had been illuminated by a single floor lamp with a low-wattage bulb. But now, suddenly, the interior was flooded with a hard white glare. Beams of bright spotlights came stabbing through the front and side windows of the cabin.
"What the hell!" Frank yelped.
Otto moved swiftly. He stood behind the wooden door and leaned to peer cautiously out the corner of the front window.
"Police cars," he reported tonelessly. "Four or five at least. And an army of cops."
"Oh God," Frank said despairingly.
Then I heard Sgt. Rogoff. The bullhorn made him sound harsh and metallic, but there was no mistaking his voice.
"Cabin Four," he boomed. "Everyone come out the front door with your hands raised. Now!"
Frank appealed to his father. "What should we do?" he asked nervously.
Otto went into the bathroom, stood on the closed toilet lid, and glanced out the small window. He returned to the main room. "No good," he said. "The back is covered."
"Please," I said. "Give yourselves up. It's only a charge of catnapping. It's not worth a shoot-out."
"He's right," Frank said. "Let's do what they want."
His father looked at him with disgust. "You do what you like," he said. "I'm getting out. I'm not taking a fall for you again."
He reached under the bed, jerked out the bag of cash. He removed several bundles and stuffed them into his pockets. Then he leveled his revolver at me.
"Turn around," he said. "You and I are going out of here together. You first."
"Cabin Four!" Rogoffs voice came crashing. "Come out the front door, hands raised. You have exactly one minute."
Otto Gloriana stepped up close behind me. He put a heavy hand on my left shoulder. He pressed the muzzle of his weapon behind my right ear.
"Nothing cute," he warned. "Or you're dead. You understand?"
"Yes," I said.
"Now open the door. Slowly. Step out slowly. Move to the Chrysler. Everything nice and slow."
I did as he ordered. We moved out onto the porch almost in lockstep.
"Hold your fire!" Al screamed. "Hold your fire!"
The spotlights half-blinded me. I could see nothing but the dark bulk of the cars. I walked as slowly as I could toward the Chrysler.
We were alongside the car when the bullhorn barked: "Otto! Otto!" But Rogoff didn't pronounce it "Oddo." He split the name into two distinct syllables: "Ot-to! Ot-to!"
Gloriana was so shocked that the police knew his real name that his grip loosened, his left hand slid from my shoulder. The pressure of the gun behind my ear lessened. I was vaguely aware that he had turned slightly toward the source of that raucous shout.
Then I did something that anyone with an IQ greater than their waistline would have done: I fell down.
Sounds simple, does it? Well, it isn't. I am not a tumbler or circus clown trained to fall without risk of injury. I just let myself go and crumpled, bruising shoulders, elbows, rump.
I hoped Al Rogoff and his troops would have the wit to take advantage of my sudden collapse. They did. I was on the ground and Otto Gloriana was still standing, stunned, when there was an ear-cracking fusillade. I cowered.
I heard Otto grunt, and he was driven back. His body went slack and he flopped to his knees. Then, as the firing continued, his head bowed and he seemed to stretch out prone onto the earth.
"Cease firing!" the sergeant bawled. "Cease fir-ing!"
The silence was deafening. I lay where I had fallen, knowing I was alive but fearing to move my limbs lest broken bones come poking through the skin. I was still shaken by the gunfire and trying to determine what bullets flying overhead sounded like. They did not whine, hum, or whistle. I finally decided the sound was like a sheet of good rag paper being ripped.