"We were going to be married after she finished this job," Alan said suddenly. It was his first conversational effort in a long time. "Jean's professional pride wouldn't let her quit in the middle of it, but afterwards we were going to get out of this dirty business and be normal human beings for a change. We'd never had a real home, either of us. We were going to make one together."
"Sure," I said. "She'd have been the mother you'd always wanted, and you'd have been the baby she'd yearned for all her life."
His head came around sharply. "You callous beast! Just because she was a little older-"
"Cut it out, Alan," I said.
"I loved her," he said.
"Cut it out," I said. "Go away. Die. Or just shut up." He started to speak again, but I cut in, "The one thing you could have done for her, you didn't do. You let a stranger do it. Then you got mad because it turned out wrong and went for him with a club. And now, by God, you start talking about love!" I grimaced. "Do me a favor. Hemorrhage."
He was staring at me. "You think-you think I should have done that? To her?"
"Somebody was going to have to do the stinking job if she was to carry out her assignment. Why not you? What makes you so damn special?" I looked at him. "If I loved a woman enough to talk about it, if something like that simply had to be done, if she really wanted it done, I'd damn well do it myself and see it was done right by somebody she knew and trusted. At least I wouldn't sit across the way wringing my hands while it was happening, and then take it out on the guy who got stuck with the lousy operation I was too damn delicate to perform. Now stay here and brood, while I discuss your survival problems with the medical profession."
The Jaguar had pulled up behind us. I liked the sound of it, even idling. They don't put the full-race mill into the sedan, but it's no truck engine, either. Dr. Perry got out of the bucket seat beside the driver and came to meet me as I went back there. The driver, a big man, got out and went around to get something out of the trunk, presently disappearing into the darkness. I thought this a little peculiar, but maybe I was not supposed to notice. The car had a buggy-whip antenna for radio-telephone communication. I thought it was probably Mac's personal vehicle.
"How's the patient?" Dr. Perry asked.
"Alive," I said. "Bitter."
"With some justification, I would say."
"I know," I said. "I've already been told I should have treated him more gently. Wait till it's your head he's swinging a stick at from behind."
"I wasn't referring to that," Perry said. "The female agent who died at your hands-I understand there was some emotional involvement."
I looked at him for a moment. The headlights bounced enough light our way that I could see him clearly: a clean-cut young professional man with horn-rimmed glasses, neatly dressed, in good physical condition. I wondered what quirk of psychology or fortune had brought him to us-the Foreign Legion of the undercover services-but it isn't something one asks. Maybe he was just getting himself a wide range of medical experience before settling down to a profitable society practice.
I asked, "Why did Jean die, Dr. Perry?"
He blinked. Obviously, he thought it was a strange question for me to ask. After all, I was the guy who'd killed her, wasn't I?
"Why, I don't know," he said. "I wasn't there, how could I say? I rather assumed-" He stopped, embarrassed.
"That my hand slipped? It seems to be a common assumption in these parts," I said. "And a convenient one, for some people."
"If you're implying there was something wrong with Jean-"
I said, "Obviously, there was something wrong. With Jean, or you, or me, or somebody else. She's dead. Maybe you should have examined my hands before clearing me for the job, Doctor. You might have prevented the slip, if there was a slip."
His voice was stiff. "Maybe I should have."
"Maybe," I said, "you should examine them now."
He didn't get it at once. He said impatiently, "Really, I'd better see to my patient-"
"Look at them," I said gently. "The right one is of special interest, Doctor." There was a little silence, as he saw what I was driving at. I said, "Note the weapon. It uses the.38 Special cartridge firing a one-hundred-and-fifty-grain bullet with a muzzle velocity of eleven hundred and fifty feet per second and a muzzle energy of three hundred and sixty-five foot pounds. Now note what happens when I exert pressure on the trigger-"
"Eric." His voice was professionally calm and soothing. "Eric, put the gun away. There's no need for hostility. I am certainly not trying to duck my share of the responsibility for your unfortunate mishap. Careful!"
"Don't panic, Doc," I said. "It's a double-action revolver. Not much happens immediately as the trigger moves back, except that the cylinder rotates, bringing a new cartridge into line and the hammer rises, so. This being a pocket pistol, the hammer has no conventional spur, just a little grooved cocking piece that won't hang up in the clothing. Now I catch it with my thumb before the hammer can drop, so."
He couldn't help a sharp intake of breath as the hammer fell a fraction of an inch before being arrested by my thumb.
"Eric-"
I said, "Let us review the situation, Doctor. There is now a loaded cartridge lined up with the firing pin and, of course, with the gun barrel. The trigger is back as far as it will go, rendering all safety devices inoperative. The hammer is fully cocked, held only by my thumb. The muzzle is aimed at your abdomen. The range is about three feet. I ask for your prognosis, Doctor. What will happen when your driver, sneaking up behind me, clouts me alongside the head with a blackjack or gives me a karate chop to the neck-and the hammer slips out from under my nerveless thumb? I think the matter deserves our most careful consideration don't you?"
There was a space of complete silence. The big man behind me, belatedly aware of the situation, had stopped moving. Dr. Perry licked his lips, watching the gun with fascination.
I said, "There is a time element involved, of course. It's quite a strain, holding a gun like this. When my thumb gets tired, and maybe a little slippery with sweat- Don't forget, I'm the guy whose hand keeps slipping and killing people."
"Eric," he said. "Eric, don't be hasty. I can understand the resentment you feel towards me, but I swear the instructions I gave you seemed perfectly safe, well within the bounds of what the subject could tolerate-"
I laughed. "Doctor, you flatter yourself. I'm not mad at you, although I do think you might at least wait for the autopsy results before talking as if it were all my fault. After all, you had a hand in it, too. But the hell with that. I'm not pointing a gun at you for personal reasons."
"Then what-"
I said, "You got a call from Washington while you were driving here, didn't you? You were told that my attitude seemed to be somewhat uncertain, and that it might be a good idea to make absolutely sure that I came in as ordered. Am I correct?"
He hesitated. Then he nodded reluctantly.
"All right," I said. "Well, here's a message to take back. Tell the man upstairs that limited measures have failed and the full mad-dog treatment may be indicated. Tell him that I recommend a silenced rifle with a telescopic sight. A shotgun could do the job, but it would be pretty damn noisy and messy. A good man with a pistol might deliver, but he'd be taking chances. I may have a superman complex, Doctor, but I'm not laboring under the delusion that I'm bullet-proof."