"Matt," she whispered. "Matt, darling."
I grunted, snorted and sat up abruptly. "What-"
I reached for the light switch. The sudden illumination made her blink. She was wearing another sweater, this time a fuzzy tan job with a big loose collar-very dramatic but not much good for keeping the neck warm- and a pair of tapering tan pants. I suppose they're still called pants. They ended short of the ankles and were very, very snug. I looked at them and pursed my lips in a soft whistle.
"Don't be corny, darling," she said. "I'll have you know they're very expensive and very chic. I'm sorry to wake you but I didn't want you to think I… I'd run away, or anything."
"Where are you going?"
She shook her head mysteriously. "I'm not going to tell you. It's just an idea-"
"Little Gail, girl detective," I said sourly. "Look, glamor girl, don't you realize that a couple of people have already been killed very dead? If you've got an idea, tell me about it, and we'll figure out what to do about it together."
She shook her head again. "No, I want to do this myself. You said some things that weren't very nice this morning, remember? You acted as if you thought I..Anyway, I want to try. Maybe I can help."
I hesitated, and said sulkily, "All right, be the expert. Get yourself killed. Why bother to wake me up to tell me?"
"Oh, Matt!" she said, in a hurt little-girl voice. I didn't say anything. She started to speak again, changed her mind and turned towards the door.
I said, "Gail." She looked back. I reached down into one of my boots lying by the bed and came up with my.38 Special revolver. "Here, damn it," I said. "Do you know how to use it?"
"Well, I've shot them-"
"Okay," I said. "It's loaded. It kicks like a mule. Try not to blow your fool head off. Now get the hell out of here and let me sleep."
I watched the door close behind her. A diligent detective type would, I suppose, have hauled on his pants and followed, but I just let her go. The risk of being caught tailing her was too great; besides, I didn't figure she was going very far, just to the filling station a couple of blocks away, where Mr. Wegmann would, no doubt, be very glad to see her.
XVIII
I don't apologize for going to sleep; there wasn't anything else to do, and it might have been a long time before I got another chance. When the knock came at the door, it took me a moment to realize what it was and where I was. It was a soft little knock, the kind of diffident knock a woman might use who'd forgotten to take the key and hoped she wasn't going to have to wake anybody up to get herself let back in.
Well, that was all right, and as a matter of fact I hadn't seen her take a key, but we have a routine that covers doors and the opening thereof in the middle of the night when the situation warrants a red-alert rating. I made some kind of a sleepy sound to let her know I was coming and she didn't need to break it down. I sat up and put my feet into my boots-people have sustained painfully smashed toes, opening doors barefooted. I looked around the darkened room, placing the furniture in my mind so I wouldn't have to look again. Then I got up and stole silently to the door and yanked it open from a certain angle in a certain way, stepping aside quickly.
The first man in was easy. He must have been braced against the door, ready to shove it open hard to throw me off balance. He came hurtling past me like an Army fullback getting up steam to hit the Navy line on a bright fall day along the Hudson. I merely had to stick out my booted foot innocently and he spilled headlong. I made a note of the fact that he seemed to be armed, and it therefore wouldn't do to leave him unattended too long, but it was time to deal with Number Two, who was bigger and cagier.
He had a gun, too, but I kicked it out of his hand- which was a mistake. It's always a mistake to kick at a high target, even with the best kicking technique in the world, unless you know the man opposing you is a fool, or expect the kick to be immediately disabling. Well, the real karate and savate experts can get away with it, maybe, but I'm not in that class.
I knew I was exposing myself to retaliation the instant my knee straightened beyond a certain point and I was letting myself fall backwards towards a clear space in the room even as he made the standard response of grabbing my foot and dumping me on the back of my head. He scored the point, but I got my foot out of hock, hit the floor in a back somersault and was up again before he could reach me.
There was a groan off to the side. I knew where Number One had landed. He'd rammed the bed with his head as he pitched forward, which was a step in the right direction, but I thought I'd better do something more permanent about him while Number Two was still taking things easy and sizing me up. I jumped up on the double bed. The big one couldn't figure out what I wanted up there, and he wasn't in a hurry to find out. He came forward slowly, alert for a trick.
Finally, he lunged for me. I vaulted to one side, dropping over the foot of the bed and landing on his partner, driving the boots in hard. It wasn't a very nice thing to do, but I wasn't feeling very nice. A girl had made love to me, smiled at me, and gone out to sell me to the highest bidder. Even if it was what I'd expected and worked for, it didn't make me very happy.
I jumped on the first guy hard and threw myself away from the reaching arms of Number Two. That was enough of the Douglas Fairbanks routine. I'm not really that young or that acrobatic except when I have to be. Number One was safely out of it now; he was due in the shop for body work and engine repairs. But his big com padre was still coming after me like a great bear, only after that first neat, foot-twisting throw I wasn't kidding myself: this bear knew unarmed combat.
The fact is that all this karate-judo stuff is really effective only on people who don't know how. Sure, I'm acquainted with a lot of bare-handed ways of knocking out or even killing an unskilled man, or one who isn't aware that mayhem is coming his way. But when the other guy is hep and ready, then everybody's got trouble, and the best thing to do, particularly if he's bigger than you, or if you can't find yourself something to chop, stab, or shoot with, is to depart the joint and take to the hills.
The trouble was, I was in pajamas, he was between me and the half-closed door and while the motel carpet was downright littered with firearms-well, two-a feint towards the nearest one showed me that the big fellow was just as aware of them as I was. If I wanted a gun, I was going to have to fight him for it, and that was just what I was trying to avoid. We don't do this stuff for fun, you know, or even for exercise. Some people do try to play at it, but it's not really a sport, like boxing or wrestling. Basically, it's for keeps.
He was one hell of a big guy, towering square and black against the dim illumination of the door and window-a mountain of a man without a face. He made me feel spindly and fragile for all my two hundred pounds and six feet four. Maybe I had the reach on him by a little, but it didn't cheer me up remarkably. I didn't really want to reach him-with anything less than an axe.
Then we were mixing it, if you could call it that. What it amounted to was that he'd try something in a careful and experimental way, and I'd catch the shadowy movement and show him that I knew the answer, and he'd cover up quickly. Then I'd trot out one of my pet tricks, and he'd let me know he'd read that book, too. Two guys who know the stuff don't take any chances with each other, and it's very dull to watch.
That is, it's dull if you don't happen to be one of the guys. I knew that lightning would strike the instant I made a mistake or let myself get trapped in a corner or tangled in the furniture. As we shuffled around each other warily in the dark room, the thought of Gail returned to my mind. It wasn't anything to be bitter about, I told myself. It was what we'd wanted, Mac and I, wasn't it? I remembered Mac's words: You can't trust her, but untrustworthy people can sometimes be very useful.