"That's better," he said.
I went into my bedroom. I had about a hundred and thirty thousand under my mattress but I had conceived a good plan. I phoned the New York office.
"Raht," I said.
They put Terb on the phone. He said, "I'm sorry. Raht has gone out to find us some rooms. I'm alone."
"Then come alone!" I snapped. "I want you over here at once. Come to my bedroom door and no place else!" I slammed down the phone.
I went back. Silva was sitting relaxed. "Well, you won't believe this," he said, "but I'm going to God (bleep) retire shortly."
"Good," I said. "I don't have any more work for you."
"Oh, I wouldn't take it if you had it. I'm a real artist now. I got these mysterious God (bleep) powers, see? And there's a bird that nobody will take a contract for. It's been offered and offered and no takers. One million God (bleeped) bucks. And no takers. What do you think of that?"
"Marvelous," I said. "He must be pretty dangerous."
"Oh, he is, he is." And then he snapped his fingers. "But me, I'm an artist. I'm taking it. He's wasted thirteen hit men, they say. But thirteen is his unlucky number. He's going to be fourteen! One million God (bleeped) bucks."
He glowed for a bit. Then he waved his hand about and said, "I'm going to live in swanky joints like this one and have a swanky dame like you got and live it up! And speaking of living it up, where's the delivery boy with the money?"
He waited and I sweated. It was actually a temptation to simply blow him full of holes with the Colt Bulldog, but such a slug spills a lot of blood and it would ruin the sofa. Besides, he might outdraw me.
At last, a knock on the bedroom door. I closed the door to the sitting room and opened it. Terb was standing there, blue with cold.
"Listen," I said in a tense whisper. "There's a man, Silva, going to be leaving here in a few minutes. He'll be carrying a hundred thousand dollars. You tail him, kill him and get the money back. And bring it right here back to me without one single penny missing."
"I didn't come armed. We lost our guns. Can't I wait and get Raht on this with me? We work together...."
"Not armed!" Oh, I was furious with him. But a hundred thousand is a hundred thousand. I pushed the Bulldog into his hands. I thought for a moment. I took the Knife Section knife out from behind my neck and gave it to him. I thought for a moment and went back into the room and got two Voltar heavy-concussion grenades—they are common enough, a fifteen-second delay time after you throw them and no fragments to leave evidence.
"Now, no excuses," I said. "Watch my door from down the hall and when he comes out, tail him and, in a safe place, blow him away. Got it?"
He said he did.
I went back into my bedroom and dug the hundred thousand out from under my mattress. It certainly hurt me to part with it, even for a little while.
I reentered the sitting room. "The messenger had to count it," I said in apology. "But here it is."
He took it, counted it and stuffed it into his pockets, quite a wad. As he left, I said, "Good luck on your retirement." He gave me an evil smile and was gone.
At dawn there was a furious pounding on my bedroom door.
Ah, Terb with my money!
Groggily, I staggered over and opened it.
It wasn't Terb. It was Raht!
He was standing there, shivering and shaking, covered with the snow falling outside, blue with cold—and something else.
He came in, he shut the door behind him and leaned against it. He said, "He's dead."
"Well, that's good news," I said. "Hand over the money."
He stared at me noncomprehending. He looked pretty shattered, sort of half doubled up and sort of liable to fall.
"Don't stall," I said. "You know very well I sent Terb to tail Silva and get the money back."
He slumped all the way down and sat there with his back against the door, head bowed over. I could swear he was crying.
"Come on, come on," I said. "No stalling. It's too early in the morning for any tricks. Just hand over the money and don't try to hold any out!"
"He's dead," said Raht. "Tortured to death."
"Well, good," I said. "So Terb had a little fun. But that doesn't mean you two (bleepards) can keep the money."
He said, between sobs, "It's Terb that's dead."
I had opened my mouth to speak. I closed it. GUNSALMO SILVA WAS STILL ALIVE!
Quickly, I locked and barred the door. Hastily, I got another gun out of my bureau, a Smith and Wesson .44 Magnum revolver. I made sure the living room was empty, locked and barred. I scouted the terrace. No Silva. Yet.
I came back and grabbed Raht by his shirt front. "You better (bleeped) well tell me how you two fouled this up!"
He was so blue and so shaking with shock, it took him quite a while before he could do much talking.
"I never would have found him," he finally got out. "But we both wear bugs we can locate each other with. He didn't come back last night. They said he had gone to your place. I traced him by the bug sewn in his pants.
He was in a basement entrance of an old abandoned house." He halted.
"Was there anything on him?"
"His feet were burned half off. His teeth were all broken with grinding them. We always worked together. If he was following Silva, the man must have pretended to go in the house and then circled and got him from behind."
"Did he have my hundred thousand on him?" I demanded. You can never get a straight story out of such riffraff.
"Nothing. He had no weapons, no money—nothing."
"Did he talk?"
Raht had begun to cry again, sort of dry, choking sobs. Then he said, "I think Terb must have been too cold to fight."
What a way to try to pry money out of somebody for an overcoat! Believe me, I kicked Raht out right then.
He got to the elevator and was supporting himself against a piece of wall, head down, shivering and sobbing. I slammed my door. I had more important things to think about.
Had Terb talked?
Very likely.
I better stay very close inside. I better keep this gun on me day and night.
Leave it to those two to foul everything up!
Suddenly, I remembered Silva had impersonated the wife of the Director of the CIA, had kidnapped her and hung the murder on her. Utanc!
I got brave enough to cross the sitting room. I pounded on her door. After a long time, she opened it.
"Don't go out. Keep your door locked. Don't let anybody in!"
"Why?" she said in alarm.
"Silva. You remember Silva. The man you hired as a bodyguard once. He murdered the Director of the CIA and now he may be gunning for me."
"He did?" said Utanc, eyes flying wide. Then, "Are you sure?"
She needed convincing. It was still there on the sofa, slid behind a cushion: the I.D. of the Director of the CIA. I scooped it up and thrust it at her, bloodstains and all.
Her mouth was open in astonishment as she stared at it. Then she said, "You paid him to do it?"
"And tried to get the money back. He may be around any corner. Don't go out!"
Psychologists will tell you that murder and blood do strange things to women. Death stimulates them sexually.
She suddenly grabbed me and kissed me!
Then she raced around and closed all the drapes so the room was dark as pitch.
She threw me on the bed and was all over me!
We didn't go out that day.
Her mouth was hot as fire!
After two days of such isolation—and very rewarding isolation it was—I was feeling pretty cocky.
Because there had been nothing and no one strange in our vicinity, I had to conclude that it was possible that Terb had not talked.