Almost, Warren Casey had to laugh.
He was between assignments, which was a relief. He knew he was physically as well as mentally worn. He was going to have to take the board up on that offer of a prolonged vacation.
Taking the usual precautions in the way of avoiding possible pursuit, he returned to his own apartment. It had been a week, what with one assignment and another, and it was a pleasure to look forward to at least a matter of a few hours of complete relaxation.
He shed his clothing, showered, and then dressed in comfortably old clothing. He went to the tiny kitchen and prepared a drink, finding no ice since he had unplugged the refrigerator before leaving.
Casey dropped into his reading chair and took up (he paperback he’d been reading when summoned a week ago to duty. He had forgotten the subject. Ah, yes, a swashbuckling historical novel. He snorted inwardly. It was all so simple. All the hero had to do was kill the evil duke in a duel and everything would resolve itself.
He caught himself up, Professor LaVaux” conversation coming back to him. Essentially, that was what he—what the Pacifists were trying to do. By filling the equivalent of the evil duke—individuals, in other words—they were hoping to solve the problems of the world. Nonsense, on the face of it.
He put down the novel and stared unseeing at the wall opposite. He had been an operative with the Pacifists for more than three years now. He was, he realized, probably their senior hatchet man. An agent could hardly expect to survive so long. It was against averages.
It was then that the screen of his telephone lit up.
Senator Phil McGivern’s face glowered at him.
Warren Casey started, stared.
McGivern said, coldly, deliberately. The building is surrounded, Casey. Surrender yourself. There are more than fifty security police barring any chance of escape.”
The Pacifist’s mind snapped to attention. Was there anything he had to do? Was there anything in the apartment that might possibly betray the organization or any individual member of it? He wanted a few moments to think.
He attempted to keep his voice even. “What do you want, McGivern?”
“My son!” The Politician was glaring his triumph.
“I’m afraid Fredric is out of my hands,” Casey said. Was the senator lying about the number of police? Was there any possibility of escape?”
Then whose hands is he in? You have him. Warren Casey, but we have you.”
“He’s not here,” Casey said. There might still be a service he could perform. Some way of warning the organization of McGivern’s method of tracking him down. “How did you know my name?” McGivern snorted. “You’re a fool as well as a criminal. You sat in my office and spoke in the accent of your native city. I pinpointed that, immediately. You told me you’d been a bomber pilot and obviously had seen action, which meant that you’d been in the last war. Then as a pseudonym you used the name Jakes. Did you know that persons taking pseudonyms almost always base them on some actuality? We checked in your home city, and, sure enough, there was actually a newspaperman named Jakes. We questioned him. Did he know a former bomber pilot, a veteran of the last war? Yes, he did. A certain Warren Casey. From there on the job was an easy one—criminal. Now, where is my son?”
For a moment, Warren Casey felt weary compassion for the other. The senator had worked hard to find his boy, hard and brilliantly. “I’m sorry, McGivern, I really don’t know.” Casey threw his glass, destroying the telephone screen.
He was on his feet, heading for the kitchen. He’d explored this escape route long ago when first acquiring the apartment.
The dumbwaiter was sufficiently large to accommodate him. He wedged himself into it, slipped the rope through his fingers, quickly but without fumbling. He shot downward.
In the basement, his key opened a locker. He reached in and seized the submachine pistol and two clips of cartridges. He stuffed one into a side pocket, slapped the other into the gun, and threw off the safety. Already he was hurrying down the corridor toward the heating plant. He was counting on the fact that the security police had not sufficient time to discover that this building shared its central heating and air-conditioning plant with the apartment house adjoining.
Evidently they hadn’t.
A freight elevator shot him to the roof of the next building. From here, given luck, he could cross to a still further building and make his getaway.
He emerged on the roof, shot a quick glance around.
Fifty feet away, their backs to him, stood three security police agents. Two of them armed with automatic rifles, the other with a handgun, they were peering over the parapet, probably at the windows of his apartment.
His weapon flashed to position, but then the long weariness overtook him. No more killing. Please. No more killing. He lowered the gun, turned and headed quietly in the opposite direction.
A voice behind him yelled, “Hey! Stop! You—
He ran.
The burst of fire caught Warren Casey as he attempted to vault to the next building. It ripped through him and the darkness fell immediately, and far, far up from below, the last thought that was ever signalled was That’s right!
Fifteen minutes later Senator Phil McGivern scowled down at the meaningless crumpled figure. “You couldn’t have captured him?” he said sourly.
“No, sir,” the security sergeant defended himself. “It was a matter of shoot him or let him escape.”
McGivern snorted his disgust.
The sergeant said wonderingly, “Funny thing was, he could’ve finished off the three of us. We were the only ones on the roof here. He could’ve shot us and then got away.”
One of the others said, “Probably didn’t have the guts.”
“No,” McGivern growled. “He had plenty of guts.”