I tried to hide my impatience. “Do. you have that address, Mrs. Kohler?”
“Well no, no I don’t but it’s in the book, just a few blocks from here over on Shore Road.”
I thanked her and hung up, then scrabbled anxiously through the Brooklyn directory. Hell, I could understand why Kohler wanted a drink, a bottle for that matter, but why couldn’t he stay put tonight of all nights? I found Ernie’s, thought of calling, then decided to go directly over. I just hoped to hell he wasn’t soused yet.
The rain was letting up a bit by the time I found the joint, but I was already soaked to the bone. And my luck wasn’t running any better. The bartender said Kohler had just left.
1 got into the car and cruised slowly back along the way I’d come, finally spotting him on the same corner where I’d parked earlier. He was walking slowly despite the rain, a brown paper bag tucked under one arm. Booze, probably, to help sleep come. Poor Ed, he really believed he was off the hook.
As he started to cross the street toward his house I got out and followed him, calling out his name, softly at first, then louder when he didn’t turn around. We were about thirty yards apart when he finally looked back, squinting against the rain, and the headlights caught him square, pinning him like a moth. Before I could even shout, the car hurtled out of the shadows and struck him head on, flinging his body up and over the hood to land with a dull thud ten feet behind. He lay there in a crumpled heap, unmoving, but the car reversed slowly, and then with a sudden burst of speed backed over his body. There was a sickening crunch feat I could hear from thirty yards away, then another as the car ground forward across what was left of him and screeched off up the street. As it cornered I could see the driver’s face briefly but clearly in the yellow pool from the street lamp, mouth tight, eyes boring straight ahead. They didn’t turn in my direction as the car sped off, and I lowered the Schmeisser. The driver was Pete Beck.
It was pure reflex that sent me back to the car and after him, nothing more, and I would have lost the trail quickly if he hadn’t been returning to Manhattan by the same route I’d followed coming over. Even then it was a sloppy tail, and the only thing I had going for me was the bastard’s own self-confidence; Beck must have been doing the following, and the killing, for so long now he just couldn’t imagine the tables being turned on him. The rain helped some too, but it obscured my visibility as well as his, and I lost sight of him a half-dozen times before I caught a glimpse of the black Mercedes Rommel cutting off the Drive at Eighty-sixth Street. From then on it was fairly easy, and I kept a safe two cars behind until he pulled up on the corner of Ninety-eighth and Lexington, a block of fairly expensive townhouses. I sat hunched over the wheel, keeping a low profile, as Beck got out and headed up the street, stopping to look back and around, but only perfunctorily.
The rain was coming down hard again, drumming on the sidewalk and covering my footsteps as I followed him, and the only real risk came when he was opening the door of the old reconverted brownstone in the middle of the block. I had to cross the street before he could get inside so I ran then, quickly but softly, and he was pulling the key out of the lock when the butt of my Schmeisser slapped him hard over the right ear, the force of the blow sprawling him forward into the entranceway. I shut the door quickly and stood over him with the gun, listening for any signs of activity inside the house. There was nothing but Beck’s low, guttural groaning. I bent over him expecting anything, but he was in no shape to make trouble. Blood gurgled from an open wound on his head and he began to retch convulsively, spewing a little puddle of bile onto the parquet floor. I relieved him of his gun and frisked him, but there was only the one weapon, a bulky Walther P38 automatic. The groans were trailing off now and he started to crawl across the floor, breathing shallowly. When he managed to pull himself to one knee I waved the Schmeisser in his face.
“The safety’s off, Beck. Who else is here?”
He looked up at me, dazed, and slowly bewilderment began to give way to hate in his eyes. He said nothing.
I shoved the gun butt into his mouth, shattering the front teeth, and held it there, my other hand grabbing the back of his neck and shoving his mouth along the length of the barrel in an obscene parody of fellatio. He started to gag helplessly.
“You’ve got one more chance.”
I withdrew the barrel till it was just resting on his lips.
“Nobody.” He choked out the words, spitting blood. “Nobody but me.”
I stepped back and looked quickly around, keeping the Schmeisser leveled on Beck’s face. To my right was a large living room, richly carpeted and curtained but unfurnished except for a sofa and one straight-backed chair. The whole place smelled musty, unlived in, but if it were Beck’s safe house there could be some of his men around. I moved closer to where he crouched on the floor and lowered my voice.
“What’s upstairs?”
“Nothing.” The words were garbled by his broken mouth but they still came out too quickly. I’d have to check the place out, but that meant immobilizing Beck. Renegade or not, he was still Gestapo, and that meant his hands and feet were deadly weapons.
“Rope,” I said softly.
He shook his head as if trying to clear it.
“Not here—”
I leveled the gun on his right kneecap.
“Then I’ll have to cripple you.” It was only half bluff; if necessary I’d risk the shot and then nail anybody coming down the stairs.
“There’s… wire. In the kitchen.” Beck’s voice was flat, hopeless. Which didn’t mean a thing. He’d still try to get the drop on me the first chance he had. Hell, what did he have to lose?
“Lead the way.”
He started to get to his feet, but I stabbed the gun at him.
“Crawl.”
I kept a safe distance between us as he dragged himself crablike across the lush Oriental carpet and through a swinging door into the kitchen. A thin layer of dust lay over the ultra-modern fixtures, and an unpleasant aroma of rotting food clung around the fridge. Whoever lived in this place had left in a hurry.
I waved Beck into a corner and quickly scanned the room.
“Where is it?”
He pointed to a cupboard above the sink and I backed over, never taking my eyes off him. There was a small coil of baling wire on the second shelf, and a tool kit. I extracted a pair of pliers and tossed the lot to Beck.
“Do it. Until I can see the bleeding.”
He said nothing, and didn’t reach for the wire.
“You’re no good to your bosses dead,” I said reasonably enough, and suddenly, unexpectedly, Beck’s torn lips twisted into a semblance of a smile.
“You really surprise me, Haider.” Still squatting on the tiles he picked up the wire and started winding it around his ankles. “I don’t suppose it would do any good to say you’re making a mistake?”
I shook my head.
“I was out by Kohler’s. I saw it happen.”
“Ahh.” Beck nodded. “I figured that must have been it.” He snipped off the ends of the strands with the pliers and held out his hands. “You’ll have to do the rest.”
I approached him warily, the Schmeisser trained on his chest.
“It’s hair-trigger,” I said, taking the coil from him. “You wouldn’t have time.”
Beck’s voice was calm as ever. “I know.”
I had to use my left hand and it took around five minutes before he was secure, the wire biting deeply into both wrists. I ordered him to turn over so he couldn’t try a savatte kick and checked the wire around his feet. It was loose, as I’d expected, not enough to effectively hamstring him. I clamped down with the pliers till ribbons of blood started to ooze from each ankle, but Beck didn’t cry out.