He stuck close to the balustrade, coming as far toward me as the corner where the railing made an L angle. There he turned and paced back up the terrace for the length of the wing, slipping out of sight for a moment where the wing joined the main house. He was never out of view more than a few seconds before he started back. Once I heard him speak to someone in a low complaining tone. That meant another guard on another part of the terrace. I didn’t like that, but I had expected it and there was nothing I could do about it. If I could get to P.P. fast enough it didn’t matter; if I didn’t get to P.P. fast enough it wouldn’t matter either. I would be dead.
I studied the L angle where the balustrade bent to run its short segment back to the wall of the wing. Right in the angle was one of the big stone jars, an amphora with its pointed base cemented to a plinth. A tangled cascade of flowers and tendrils dangled from the jar out over the balustrade like a miniature green waterfall. I thought about it for a couple of seconds and sighed and decided to try for it. The only game in town. And my timing had better be right!
When the guard passed out of sight the next tune I ran in. a crouching stoop for the L angle. I made it and was in under the thin drape of vines and flowers when the guard started back. I took a deep breath and held it.
This time he lingered for a moment in the corner, leaning to spit and muttering to himself, and the shine of his high black boots was inches from my face.
When he started back along the balustrade I got ready to go. I dumped the musette bag and the Tommy gun and pressured the sheath spring. The stiletto slipped down into my hand. I waited until he vanished around the wing, then leaped the balustrade and slipped behind the stone jar and under the canopy of flowers. I was one second in the doing, but it was a nervous second.
I didn’t dare look now. I had to go by ear. I heard the solid tread of his boots coming closer and closer. I made myself relax and take a deep breath. This had to be done quickly and silently and I didn’t want to kill him. Yet.
He stopped in exactly the same place. Still talking to himself about not being able to smoke on duty. I watched his boots. I was so close I could smell him, hear him belch, catch an odor of sour spice on his breath. When he turned I went for him.
I slapped my left forearm against his throat like an iron bar and tapped him lightly behind the ear with the haft of the stiletto and bore him back to the balustrade and over it and down into the drape of greenery. His boots scraped on stone as I hauled him over the balustrade, but that was the only sound. I straddled him, put the point of the stiletto against his jugular, and waited. I hadn’t hit him too hard.
He was a white man with a riffraff face and a stubble of beard. The black peaked cap hadn’t fallen off, and I saw the gold shield with blue letters — P.P. On the left arm of his tunic were three stripes. I had gotten myself a sergeant!
Just enough light reflected from the stone jar through the tiny falling jungle of bloom and vine; enough for me to see his face and for him to see mine. He opened his eyes and stared up at me and I pushed the stiletto an eighth of an inch into his throat.
I whispered: “You want to live?”
He nodded, his eyes frantic, his flesh trying to creep away from the blade.
“Answer my questions,” I said. “It’s your only chance. Don’t speak — nod yes or no. Understand?”
He nodded, his eyes rolling down, straining to see the shiny thing that was hurting him.
“Has P.P. gone to bed?”
He nodded.
I jerked my head back at the wing. “Does he sleep here?”
He nodded again and I felt a lot better. I wouldn’t have to go through a hundred rooms looking for the bastard.
“What floor does he sleep on? First?”
He shook his head.
“Second?”
Another negative.
“Third, then?”
A nod.
“Front of the wing?”
Shake.
“Rear of the wing?”
Nod.
I had all I wanted and all I had time for. I clamped my hand over his mouth and pushed the stiletto into his heart.
He bucked and heaved under me, his legs thrashing a bit, and I moved my weight back to stop that. I put the stiletto into him once more, then wiped it on the black uniform and put his cap over his face so it wouldn’t shine. I slung the Tommy gun and the musette bag and got ready to go.
There was no sign of another guard as I ran tippy toe across the terrace. For some screwy reason I thought of Tiny Tim and damned near laughed out loud. Hawk has, on many occasions, accused me of being a little nuts. My stock reply is that to be in this profession you have to be a little nuts.
The big studded door opened with a whisper of sound and an out-draft of cool air. Air conditioning, natch. Nothing but the best for old P.P. Probably hadn’t cost him more than a million to cool this palace.
I was in a big mosaic-floored foyer dimly lit by golden candle bulbs. The mosaic design was a figure of a lush black woman. At the rear of the foyer was a wide carpeted stairway leading up to a narrow landing and swinging right. On the landing was a small polished console with a Tiffany lamp on it. The lamp was dark.
I did not linger to admire the decor. I legged it up the stairs, making no sound on the thick carpet, and peered into a corridor that crossed the stair like a T. The Carter luck was good tonight. There was a black uniform walking the corridor, but his back was to me and he was heading the other way. I nipped around the bend and up to the second landing.
But this was not good. I couldn’t count on the luck to hold. I could count on there being a guard on every floor. I couldn’t linger on the landing because I was in double jeopardy. One of the two patrolling guards was sure to see me on the landing. It would be natural for them to glance at the stairs every time they passed.
It was getting down to the nitty-gritty now, but I did have a choice. I chose the second guard, the man above me. I crawled up the stairs and flattened my nose in the expensive carpet and waited. This was going to be a rough one. One out of the way noise and I’d had it. I—
I called myself a stupid bastard, which I was, and changed plans in a microsecond. I looked like a horror movie, with my bloody face and the white staring eyes, and I had been about to waste my advantage. I unslung the Tommy gun and the musette bag, unsnapped the web belt and dropped the .45 on the stairs. I straightened up and hugged the wall and waited on the top step just out of view of anyone in the corridor. I could hear him coming toward me, his boots making a swush-swush sound in the deep pile. Timing would tell the story.
Very few people can hear a dog whistle. I can. I waited until he was four strides short of the stair head, then I stepped around the corner and confronted him with my best zombie stare. I dragged my feet and lurched into the corridor.
Another white man. P.P.’s elite. Bald under the black cap and with a belly swelling the black tunic. Mean eyes narrowed at me. But not afraid of me. Exactly as I wanted it.
He stopped short and brought up the machine pistol. “What the hell you doing up here, zombie?” He knew all about the fake zombies, of course.
I took a step toward him and halted when I saw his finger go white on the trigger. I pointed up. “Message for Mr. Trevelyn, sir. Important. The sarge said I should bring it in person.”
The light was bad, but in about ten seconds he was going to see a white man, a strange white man, under the smeared blood. He took a step toward me and that helped. And he relaxed his finger on the trigger of the machine pistol. He scowled at me.
“You know you ain’t allowed up here!”