“All right.”
The effects of the drug had mostly worn off by now, but Grofield was still a little shaky when he stepped out of the car. The cold air slapped his face, waking him up and making him dizzy at the same time.
The stranger said, “You okay?”
“I’ll do until the real thing comes along.”
“That’s the stuff.”
“I bet it is.”
Grofield tottered away, and had a boring walk past open restaurants and closed stores on Rue Sainte Anne, Rue des Jardins, Rue Buade, Rue du Trésor and back to Rue Sainte Anne again. By then he was more than ready to cross the Place d’Armes and go on into the hotel.
He didn’t know if anyone paid attention to him in the lobby or not. He didn’t really care. He simply walked over to a waiting elevator, told the uniformed boy, “Three,” and was taken up to the third floor. He walked tiredly down the long hall to his room, reflecting that he’d been out of bed less than three hours and was already exhausted again, and fumbled with the key until he got the door open.
He went in and the lights were on. Henry Carlson was sitting in the same chair as before, slouching, his book open on his chest. Ken was at the telephone, and had turned to stare in disbelief at Grofield.
Grofield said, “Did I come back too soon?”
“I wouldn’t have believed it,” Ken said, and cradled the phone. He came quickly across the room toward Grofield, his face twisted with rage. “You son of a bitch, you had the gall to come back!”
Carlson wasn’t moving. A hilt jutted out of the middle of the book. The book had been stuck to his chest with a knife. Carlson wasn’t ever going to move again.
Grofield looked from Carlson to Ken and saw Ken’s fist coming at his face.
Ten
Grofield closed his left hand around the wrist just past Ken’s fist, made a half turn to the left, threw his right hand up against the underpart of Ken’s elbow to keep it locked, made a further half turn leftward, doubled over, levered Ken’s arm down toward the floor, and the momentum of Ken’s punch carried his body up and over Grofield and through the middle of the air and into the door, slamming it shut.
Grofield kept hold of the wrist, and used it to flip Ken onto his back. He put one knee on Ken’s chest, bent Ken’s arm in on itself to where it wasn’t quite breaking, and touched a finger of his other hand to a point on Ken’s throat. “If I hit you there very hard,” he said, “you’ll stop breathing.”
Ken said nothing. He was breathing hard and his eyes watched Grofield without blinking.
Grofield said, “If I killed Carlson, I will now kill you.”
Ken still said nothing. His mouth was still twisted in a grimace of exertion, or maybe of pain.
Grofield tapped Ken’s throat with his fingertip. He waited a few seconds more to be sure the message had sunk in, and then quickly released Ken and got to his feet, moving back out of range.
Ken sat up slowly, rubbing his arm. “I don’t know,” he said, sullen and reluctant. “You’re the natural for it.”
“Why?”
“You were trying to run out on us. You bought new clothes, you were getting set to welsh on our deal. Henry was your watchdog here, so you killed him.”
“If they’re all as bright as you down there in Washington,” Grofield said, “I’ll put my money on the Third World. Ignoring the fact that it would be stupid and unnecessary for me to kill Henry at any time, and that I try whenever possible to avoid doing the stupid and the unnecessary, ignoring that for just a second, let me assure you that if I was going to kill Henry I wouldn’t do it before I bought the new clothing, I’d do it afterward. Would I leave a corpse in my hotel room, where any passing maid could see it and leave me with no place to change clothes?”
“Maybe you let something slip. That you were going to run out.”
“I don’t let things slip,” Grofield said.
“Damn it, Grofield, he’s in your room!”
“Exactly where I left him. I told you he came to see me, and he wanted me to leave first so he wouldn’t be spotted going out.”
Ken sat there on the floor, rubbing his arm and frowning at the body across the room. “I don’t know,” he said again.
“Well, I do,” Grofield said. “Maybe Honeybunch Kamdela came back and Henry threw a pass at her and she protected her honor.”
Ken glowered at Grofield. “That’s in pretty poor taste, Grofield,” he said.
“Sometimes,” Grofield said, “I find you hard to believe. You’re such an oaf. I’ll go out and circulate for a while, and when I come back I’ll expect you and your friend to be out of here.”
“Just a minute!” Ken struggled to his feet, favoring the bad arm. “You’ve got to help.”
“The hell I do. I’m a specialist.” Grofield headed for the door.
Ken blocked his way. “What if I walk out, and let you explain the body by yourself? It’ll be found sooner or later.”
“It has occurred to me,” Grofield said, “that I am too valuable for that. At the moment, in this particular situation, I am the irreplaceable man. You can’t get along without me. Therefore, you will protect me, you will see to it I am not bothered by police investigations, you will get your friend out of here before I come back.”
Ken backed against the door. “I was emotionally upset when you came in here,” he said, “or I wouldn’t have thrown that easy punch. I know a little something about self-defense too, you know.”
“It’s lucky for me you were too stupid to remember it. Move over, Ken, if we start to fight you could break the transmitter in my shorts.”
Ken stared at him a few seconds longer, then said, “You won’t help.”
“You’ve got a small army here, you don’t need me. What your problem is, you don’t want the rest of the team to know one of their number’s been bumped off. You get little morale problems like that often?”
“I hope you screw up, Grofield,” Ken said. “I hope you screw up so bad I get the order to take you right back and turn you in for that armored car job.”
“And let the Third World capture Peoria? Move over, Ken, I’m off to save my country from the pygmies.”
Ken moved over. “You cynical bastard,” he said.
Grofield stopped with his hand on the knob. “If I don’t come back from this mission,” he said dramatically, “I want you to tell the folks back home. Tell them to be on their guard. Tell them to — tell them to — watch the skies!”
He went out chuckling, and Ken slammed the door behind him.
Eleven
In a corner of the lobby was sitting Miss Vivian Kamdela, in textures of black. Black leather boots disappearing up under a black suede mini skirt, a black turtleneck sweater showing under an open, fitted black Russian coat decorated at collar and cuffs and hem with fluffs of black fur. The smooth texture of black skin and the woolly texture of black hair completed an arrangement that was somehow simultaneously wildly erotic and heavily menacing. The men walking by the cul-de-sac where she sat alone and apparently oblivious had a tendency to stare at her and fall over suitcases.
Thanking God he wasn’t a masochist, Grofield entered the cul-de-sac and sat down in the other short sofa facing her. “Hello again,” he said.
She looked in his general vicinity, but not directly at him, and said nothing.
Grofield persisted. “I’m ready to talk,” he said. “How about taking me to Marba?”
She looked away again. Her manner said that he did not exist.
“What’s up?” Grofield said. “I’m here to talk.”
This time she did look directly at him, eyes cold and impersonal. “You’ve made a mistake,” she said. “We haven’t met.”