“At your service,” I acknowledged the introduction.
“Hanson will be very glad to see you. He’s been up all nigh: worrying about your whereabouts.”
"Gee, I'm all choked up.”
“Which Steve Victor are you?” the hunchback wanted to know. “Are you the murderer? The Russian agent? The Irishman?”
“Well, to tell the truth—” I paused.
“That’s what I want you to do. It would be wisest. I have you at a disadvantage.” He leveled the gun at where my underpants should have been. “Go on. You were about to say—”
“That I have this identity problem,” I finished my thought for him. “Sometimes I just can’t be sure who I am. It really bothers me in the morning when I’m shaving. I mean, first thing in the morning to look in the mirror and not be quite sure who’s looking back at you-— Well, it’s disconcerting. Know what I mean?”
“Exactly.” He lifted the gun almost casually and cracked it across the side of my head.
It wasn’t hard enough to knock me unconscious, but it knocked me off my feet. I sprawled on the floor and looked up at him, dazed,
“They say that a blow on the head may help restore the sense of identity,” he told me.
I was still trying to merge his three heads into one, so I didn’t answer. I just kept staring.
“Now then,” he said. “Will the real Steve Victor please stand up?” He slammed his toe into my ribs so I’d be sure to get the idea.
But the idea the toe gave me wasn’t the one he’d been trying to get across. It was a different idea entirely that I grabbed onto along with the toe. And the tug I gave was filled with fury and resentment.
It took the hunchback by surprise. He was just enough off balance so the sudden yank sent him sprawling. I dived for the hand holding the gun as he fell. However, Cronin managed to keep a tight grip on it as we wrestled.
Grappling, we struggled to our feet in each other’s embrace. Cronin worked the gun around so the barrel was pressed against my chest. His finger tightened on the trigger. I lurched and twisted his wrist desperately. The gun went off. Sudden shock filled the hunchback’s eyes. He crumpled to the floor, a red stain spreading over his shirtfront. He fell on his back, wobbling from side to side on his deformity. The last breath escaped his throat with a rasping sound, but still his body rocked.
I took the gun from the corpse’s still clutching hand. I turned to Dr. Palaro. “Turn around,” I instructed the lab-coated figure.
Dr. Palaro put the guinea pig back in its cage. The small wire door was shut and the latch slipped into place. Only then did the doctor deign to obey. The he-she figure turned to face me, the eyes regarding me calmly, levelly.
“Doesn’t it bother you that I’ve just killed your boss?” I asked, taking a wild stab and watching carefully for some response.
But I didn’t get any. The doctor just kept looking at me with that same steady, inscrutable glance.
“Cronin was the big cheese in S.M.U.T., wasn’t he?” I tried again.
Dr. Palaro merely shrugged.
“Answer me!” I clicked the safety on and then off the gun pointedly. “Wasn’t Cronin the one who gave you orders?”
“He was one.” The high-pitched voice was emotionless. “One of many.”
“Which was the real boss, the ultimate authority?”
“I don’t know. I’m only an underling. I didn’t concern myself with the question. It didn’t interest me, nor does it now. Only pure science interests me.”
“Who rated higher?” I persisted. “Cronin, or Hanson, or perhaps Bruce?”
“All were superior to me.”
“But which is-—or was-—superior to the other two?”
“I don’t know.”
It figured that Palaro was lying, but I saw no way of forcing truth from those firm, feminine lips with the well-trimmed masculine moustache above them. “Maybe you’re the head of S.M.U.T. yourself,” I suggested.
Dr. Palaro merely smiled in a self-deprecating way and didn’t answer.
The sound of footsteps outside reached my ears. Probably they had been attracted by the noise of the shot. I realized that I’d better get out of the lab before it was too late. “Come on.” I waved the gun at the doctor. “We’re leaving now.”
“I’m afraid I can’t accompany you. I must remain and check the results of the injections I’ve just administered.”
“That’s tough. But you’re coming anyway. You’re my life insurance. If they want me, they have to sacrifice you. They try for me, and I’ll see that you get yours first.”
“You overestimate my importance.”
“We’ll see. Come on.”
“No.”
“No? What do you mean, no?”
“Just that. No.” The doctor was quite firm.
“If you don’t start moving, I’ll shoot you.”
“I don’t think so.”
“What the hell do you mean?”
“I don’t believe that you’ll kill me in cold blood. My pragmatic judgment tells me that you are not capable of such an act.”
“Your pragmatic judgment, my Aunt Fanny! I just killed one man. What makes you think I’ll stop at another murder? ”
“That wasn’t in cold blood.” Dr. Palaro turned away. There was contempt in the maneuver. The back of the white lab coat presented an easy target. “The sentimentalism—squeamishness, even—of most people is one of S.M.U.T.’s greatest asset.” The observation was an over-the-shoulder taunt at me.
For a moment the flaunting almost did tempt me to shoot. But the so-and-so had me pegged right. I couldn’t shoot another human being in the back, in cold blood. “I’ll see you again!” I assured the enigmatic back. I ran from the lab and back around the bend in the hallway I’d rounded before.
I waited there until the door opened from outside and the footsteps went into the lab. Then I bolted past the lab door and out of the building altogether. Somebody yelled as I emerged, but I didn’t stop to say hello. I just dived into the underbrush and kept on going. I didn’t plan it that way, but after a while my flight brought me back into the vicinity of the main house again.
Behind me, I’d again picked up some pursuers. They were beating the bush for me. But there wasn’t a soul stirring in front of me, where the house was. Not seeing any other choice, I sprinted for the verandah and slipped inside through the French doors.
Opposite me there was a staircase leading to the upper rooms of the house. Two factors prompted me to go up it. First, I thought that a search of either Hanson’s or Cronin’s bedroom might turn up something indicating who the real head of S.M.U.T. was. Second, I was tired of running around without any pants, and I thought I might steal a pair from one of the men.
Cautiously, I eased open the door of the first room I came to at the top of the stairs. I was lucky. It was empty. There was a door leading off one wall that looked like it might be a clothing closet. I tried it. It wasn’t. It led to a small bathroom adjoining the next room. The door joining them was open. I had a clear view inside.
A breakfast table had been set up in front of the window. Hanson and Mavis were seated at it over coffee. She wore a negligee, he a dressing gown. They were chatting cozily.
“This is such a nice idea,” Mavis was saying. “Do you and Leslie have breakfast up here every morning?”
“No. Just once in a while. And even then I usually end up by myself. Leslie’s an early riser. She likes to grab a cup of coffee and get out of the house. I like to linger over my breakfast,” Hanson answered.
“So do I. And this is particularly nice since it gives me a chance to get to know my brother-in-law. It’s a shame we haven’t seen more of each other. Leslie’s been a very naughty girl keeping us apart.”
“With such an attractive sister,” Hanson said gallantly, “it was probably the course of wisdom.”