"I heard the lieutenant in charge of the Mountie party shout, 'It's the law! Get 'em up!' And then there was a mixture of single shots and bursts from the chopper"— he grinned—"sorry, sub-machine-gun, and, somebody screamed. Then the lieutenant shouted, 'Get that man!' and the next moment the lock blew off the door beside me and a man charged in. He held a smoking machine-gun tight against the hip, which is the way to use them, and he whirled from right to left in the bed-sitter, looking for Boris. I knew it was Uhlmann, the ex-Gestapo man. One's had to get to know the smell of a German, and of a Russian for the matter of that, in my line of work, and I had him in my sights. I shot at his gun and blasted it out of his hands. But he was quick. He jumped behind the open door. The door was only a thin bit of wood. I couldn't take a chance on him having another gun and firing first, so I sprayed a wide Z of bullets through the wood, bending my knees lower as I did so. Just as well I did this, because he fired a quick burst that nearly parted my hair when I was almost on my knees. But two of my bullets had got him, in the left shoulder and right hip as it turned out, and he crashed down behind the door and lay quiet.
"The rest of the battle outside had disappeared down the stairs after the gunmen, but a wounded Mountie suddenly appeared at the entrance to my room on hands and knees to help me. He said, 'Want a hand, feller?' and Uhlmann fired through the door at the voice and—and, well, he killed the man. But that gave me the height of Uhlmann's gun and I fired almost as he did, and then I ran out into the center of the room to give him some more if need be. But he didn't need any more. He was still alive, and when the remains of the Mounties came back up the stairs we took him down and into an ambulance and tried to get him to talk in hospital. But he wouldn't—a mixture of Gestapo and SPECTRE is a good one—and he died the next morning."
James Bond looked me in the eyes, but his own didn't see me. He said, "We lost two of our side and another wounded. They lost the German, and one of theirs, and the other two won't last long. But the battlefield was a nasty sight and, well"—his face looked suddenly drawn and tired—"I've seen enough of this sort of thing. After the various post-mortems were over I wanted to get away. My headquarters, and the Mounties backed them up, wanted me to report the whole case to Washington, to our opposite numbers there, to get their help in cleaning up the American end of the Mechanics gang. The Mechanics had been given a nasty jolt, and the Mounties Special Branch thought it would be a good idea to follow up while they were still groggy. I said all right, but that I would like to drive down and not just dash off in an aeroplane or train. That was allowed so long as I didn't take more than three days, and I hired this car and started at dawn this morning. I was going all right, pretty fast, when I ran into the hell of a storm, the tail of yours I suppose. I got through it as far as Lake George, and I meant to stay the night there, but it looked such a hellish place that when I saw a sign up at a side road advertising this motel I took a chance." He smiled at me, and now he looked quite cheerful again. "Perhaps something told me you were at the end of the road and that you were in trouble. Anyway, I had a puncture a mile from here, and here I am." He smiled again, and reached out and put his hand on mine on the counter. "Funny the way things work out!"
"But you must be absolutely beat, driving all that way."
"I've got something for that. Be a good girl and give me another cup of coffee."
While I busied myself with the percolator, he opened his case and took out a small bottle of white pills. He took out two and when I gave him the coffee he swallowed them down. "Benzedrine. That'll keep me awake for tonight. I'll fit in some sleep tomorrow." His eyes went to the mirror. "Hullo. Here they come." He gave me a smile of encouragement. "Now just don't worry. Get some sleep. I'll be around to see there's no trouble."
The music on the radio faded, and musical chimes sounded midnight.
Twelve: To Sleep—Perchance to Die!
WHILE Sluggsy made for the back door and went out into the night, the thin man came slowly over to us. He leaned against the edge of the counter. "Okay, folks. Break it up. It's midnight. We're turning off the electricity. My friend's getting emergency oil-lamps from the storehouse. No sense wasting juice. Mr. Sanguinetti's orders." The words were friendly and reasonable. Had they decided to give up their plans, whatever they were, because of this man Bond? I doubted it. The thoughts that listening to James Bond's story had driven away came flooding back. I was going to have to sleep with these two men in the adjoining cabins on both sides of me. I must make my room impregnable. But they had the passkey! I must get this man Bond to help me.
James Bond yawned hugely. "Well, I'll certainly be glad of some sleep. Came a long way today, and I've got plenty more to cover tomorrow. And you must be ready for bed, too, with all your worries."
"Come again, mister?" The thin man's eyes had sharpened.
"It's a pretty responsible job you've got."
"What job's that?"
"Oh, being an insurance assessor. On a valuable property like this. Must be worth half a million dollars, I'd say. By the way, are either of you bonded?"
"No, we ain't. Mr. Sanguinetti don't need to bond no one what works for him."
"That's a great compliment to his staff. Must have good men. Quite right to put a lot of trust in them. Incidentally, what's the name of his insurance company?"
"Metro Accident and Home." The thin man still leaned, relaxed, against the counter, but the gray face was now tense. "Why? What's it to you, mister? Suppose you quit with the double-talk and say what's on your mind."
Bond said carelessly, "Miss Michel here was telling me the motel hadn't been doing so well. I gather the place hasn't been accepted for membership in Quality Courts or Holiday Inns or Congress. Difficult to do much trade without one of those affiliations. And all this trouble to send up you fellows to count the spoons and turn off the electric light and so on." James Bond looked sympathetic. "Just crossed my mind that the business might be on the rocks. Too bad if it is. Nice set-up here, and a fine site."
The red fleck that I had seen once, terribly, before was now in the thin man's eyes. He said softly, "Just suppose you bag your lip, mister. I ain't standin' for no more limey cracks, get me? You suggestin' this ain't legit? Mebbe you think we set one up, huh?"
"Now don't burn yourself up, Mr. Horowitz. No need to sing the weeps." James Bond smiled broadly. "You see, I know the lingo too." His smile suddenly went. "And I also know where it comes from. Now, do you get me?"
I suppose he meant this was gangster, jailbird language. The thin man certainly thought so. He looked startled, but now he had conquered his anger and he just said, "Okay, wise guy. I've got the photo. You gumshoes are all the same—looking for dirt where there ain't none. Now, where in hell's that pal of mine? C'mon. Let's hit the sack."
As we filed out through the back door, the lights went out. James Bond and I stopped, but the thin man went on along the covered way as if he could see in the dark. Sluggsy appeared round the corner of the building carrying two oil-lamps. He handed one to each of us. His naked face, yellow in the light, split into a grin. "Happy dreams, folks!"
James Bond followed me over to my cabin and came inside. He shut the door. "Damned if I know what they're up to, but the first thing to do is see that you're properly closed down for the night. Now then, let's see." He prowled round the room, examining the window fastenings, inspecting the hinges on the door, estimating the size of the ventilator louvers. He seemed satisfied. He said. "There's only the door. You say they've got the master key. We'll wedge the door, and when I've gone, just move the desk over as an extra barricade." He went into the bathroom, tore off strips of lavatory paper, moistened them, and made them into firm wedges. He rammed several under the door, turned the handle, and pulled. They held, but could have been shaken loose by ramming. He took the wedges out again and gave them to me. Then he put his hand to the belt of his trousers and took out a short, stumpy revolver. "Ever fired one of these things?"