Suddenly a log came crashing across the road, dead in front of the cab!
The driver braked frantically.
There was a roar!
Three motorcycles leaped into view and stopped, two in front and one behind the cab!
The riders wore bandanas tied across their faces!
They had guns pointed at the cab!
"Throw down your guns!" the nearest rider said. "All passengers out! And don't try nothin' funny! We got the drop on you!" A stagecoach holdup! I knew! I had seen them in the films. The next order would be to throw down the Wells Fargo box! And I had no gun handy!
Gingerly, I moved out of the cab, holding my hands high.
The nearest rider stepped out of his saddle. He walked up to me. He gave me a push back. He reached into the cab and picked up the flight bag full of money!
He glanced into it.
He backed out and threw it to another rider. Then he turned to me. He reached into my pockets and got my wallet. He took it. He reached into another pocket and started to pull out my diplomatic passport. It was stuck crosswise.
"I will give it to you," I said. I reached up. But I didn't reach for the passport. I reached for my breast pocket.
Quick as a flash, I pulled out the plastic fork.
I jabbed it into the back of his hand with all my might!
"He's armed!" he screamed.
I dived under the cab.
A gun exploded!
Something hit the cab.
Three bike motors were roaring.
They were gone!
The taxi driver was holding his shoulder. "The dirty (bleepards)!" he said.
Hastily, I dived back into the cab. I unstrapped my grip. I got out the Beretta.
The cab driver stared at it wide-eyed. It was pointed straight at him.
"Get after them!" I gritted. "And quick!"
"I can't drive!" he moaned. "I'm wounded!"
I leaped out and opened his door. I booted him sideways and got under the wheel.
All set to drive, I had no place to go. There was no motor sound anywhere. Only the wind.
"Where are they going?" I grated at the driver.
He crouched on the floor in the empty place they usually put luggage, beside the driver's seat. "I don't know," he moaned. And then he passed out.
No honor amongst thieves, a thing I knew too well.
They had shot their confederate. They had probably also given him a false rendezvous.
On the run myself, I could not go to the police. If he told me anything at all, it would be just to lead me into another trap.
I sat there, hoping they would come back, now that I had a gun. But what would they come back for? They had the flight bag full of money. They had my wallet. They even had my diplomatic passport.
Any credit cards were in that wallet. But I could not use credit cards. The instant I presented one, the credit company would know exactly where I was. The full pack would come in on me from all over the world and stone me to death.
I dared not call Mudur Zengin.
The thought of going back to Istanbul made my forehead prickle with sweat.
If I called the New York office, they might turn me in.
I was in the U. S. without a penny to my name. I didn't even have anything valuable to sell. It was still cold winter and I had no idea whether I could survive sleeping in a park.
Wait a minute.
I knew where there was money.
A safe full of it.
It was early in the day.
Desperate and dangerous though it might be, I had only one place I could go.
Oh, it really put the chills up and down my spine to think of it. But not a soul would ever suspect I would go there.
I would complete my mission to end Heller's mission yet!
I started up the cab.
I headed out of Spring Creek Park. At Exit 14, I went away from Jamaica Bay and headed northwest. I worked myself on diverse streets, moving over toward the Manhattan Bridge. I crossed it, making the correct turn to the right, and got on Franklin D. Roosevelt Drive. I turned off to make my way toward Rockecenter Plaza.
My teeth gritting, but determined, I was heading stealthily for the apartment of Miss Pinch.
I parked the cab in an alleyway three blocks from the apartment of Miss Pinch. It was early afternoon and I knew I had lots of time.
It seemed a shame not to cover the trail again with an explosion but lack of bombs had me stumped. The hacker was still lying on the floor. He had not bled very messily. He was breathing shallowly. Served him right.
I wiped off all the fingerprints from places I might have touched. It really seemed a shame not to properly cover the trail. It left a loose end. They train you in the Apparatus never to do that.
Then I had an inspiration. It seemed highly probable that his radio was in working order and that he had just been pretending.
Watchful that I left no fingerprints, I turned it on and pressed the mike switch. "Dispatcher," I said.
"Yes," she said.
Aha, he had been lying!
"Miss," I said, "this is Officer O'Grunty. Your cab Number 73 is blocking an alleyway," and I gave her the address. "Your driver is creating an awful scene. He's claiming he is part of a gang that is about to steal the Holy Sepulcher from Christ. He's even pretending he's been shot, complete with fake blood. Would you please call the Bellevue Psychiatric Section for us and have them send the wagon?"
"At once, Officer," she said. "I always suspected that (bleepard) was nuts."
I put the mike back on the hook. I picked up my bag and walked away. It wasn't perfect, as nothing had been blown up. But if he tried to identify anybody, they wouldn't listen to a crazy. Maybe they'd even throw him in a cell with Doctor Crobe! I cheered up. I had covered my trail.
Now for the dangerous part: Miss Pinch. It would be untrue to say that as I approached that fatal place my skin did not crawl or that I could not taste hot dogs. But such was my dedication to the sacred trust of ruining Heller, I didn't even permit myself to flinch. Some things simply have to be done, come what may.
It was hours before either Miss Pinch or Candy would be home from work. I walked down the basement steps and past the garbage cans. I inspected the contents briefly: kleenex smeared with lipstick fresh as blood, beer cans that were still wet, a half-smoked joint and a newly broken rubber truncheon. That was all I needed to know. They still lived here and were up to their old tricks.
Masked from the street in the deep stairwell, I got out some picklocks and went to work. The iron grill was easy. The door had lately had a key jammed in it and was very abrased and stiff: it showed me they suspected nothing or they wouldn't have left a lock in that condition; it was very easy to pick.
When I opened the door I was hit with a blast of stale marijuana smoke and perfume. My hair tended to stand up but I smoothed it down, with iron control. I had my plans.
I took my bag inside. I checked to be sure there was no evidence of my entering. I closed and relocked both doors.
The main front room I would avoid. I knew it had a bank camera in it and if I guessed right that camera was keyed to the safe, and if anyone tampered with that safe the camera would start to take pictures. There even might be a connection to Miss Pinch's office. No, I would avoid that room. Just then I don't think I could have stood the sight of that bed and the shackles in there or the torture instruments, like cans of pepper and bottles of Tabasco sauce. I had been under strain lately.
I went down the hall that flanked the rooms. I looked out the rear door: the garden was just a mass of tin cans and leftover snow. The board fence around it prevented any view in.
I opened the hall door to Candy's room. Gingham everywhere, pink and white. Organdy curtains and a bedspread stained with lipstick.
Good. I would now get dressed for combat.
Something bit me. This had been going on for quite a while and I was getting tired of it. Here was my chance to get out of these clothes and get rid of some fleas.