“Hell, no, Santoni! Let the cops figure it out for themselves. I’m no dick. She was probably asking for it anyway.”
“I’m glad you figure that way, boy. Otherwise you and me might have had a little trouble, and that wouldn’t have been very damn healthy for you.” Santoni drew his lips back in a crazy, crooked grin.
“I’ll be back for you at nine o’clock,” Poronoff muttered. He turned away and walked out.
At nine o’clock Poronoff parked his hired black sedan in front of Lombard’s. Santoni was waiting, a light grey felt hat on his narrow head. Poronoff nodded to him and the kid followed the square brown man out to the car.
Poronoff slid behind the wheel. Santoni climbed in, slouched in the seat and lit a cigarette.
“Where’s this place, Jon?”
“Oh, about five miles out on the lake road. By the way, Santoni, you bring a gun?”
“Nuts! I can toss a knife into a guy’s arm while he’s just reaching for one. Never use ’em.”
“Okay, kid. I hope you’re right.”
The car droned on. They sat quietly. Poronoff’s eyes were steady, his square hands hard on the wheel. Then be glanced quickly over at Santoni. They turned into the lake road. The corner was dark. Poronoff reached his left hand down between the seat and the door and his blunt fingers touched the chill handle of a wrench. He stealthily grasped it, and with a quick motion, effortless and smooth, he swung it around. The heavy end chunked against Santoni’s slanted forehead. There was a gasp and then a spout of dark blood. Poronoff shifted the wrench to his right hand, and, with his eyes on the road he tapped it lightly against Santoni’s skull. The soft hat muffled the thuds of steel against bone. He looked at Santoni again. The frail figure had lurched over against the door. The arms hung slack. Poronoff smiled once, the small cool smile of a careful man, a man who could gamble.
He turned the car around and drove back toward that section the kids called Hunkietown. When he stopped for lights he could hear the rasp of Santoni’s breath, louder than the motor hum. He stopped by a high narrow frame house. It was a dim street. With cautious hands he fumbled with the senseless figure. He found three knives, two in crude scabbards under the armpits, one strapped to a thin calf. He was careful not to overlook any inch of the figure. His flesh crawled and hr felt an acid nausea as he fumbled in the dark car.
After a cautious glance at the silent street, he picked up the frail form and carried it quickly into the house. He carried it up to the second floor, to a cheerless room lighted by two feeble bulbs. He dropped Santoni from shoulder height onto the bare floor. Santoni’s shoes clattered as he thudded down.
Then Poronoff made many preparations. He moved quickly. He was finished many long minutes before Santoni began to stir. Poronoff sat in a straight chair, a small automatic in his brown hand. His eyes were sad as he watched Santoni struggle for consciousness.
After feeble stirring, Santoni rolled over onto his back. He opened bewildered eyes and looked up at the grey ceiling. Then his hand moved up and he felt tenderly of his forehead. He moaned. He raised his head and saw Poronoff. Sudden memory brought a bright light of bate into his eyes. He sat up and stared at Poronoff.
“What the hell are you doing? What’s the idea of slugging me? I’ll cut out your heart.” Poronoff saw his elbows press against his sides, feeling only the empty scabbards, saw him press his lean legs together and find the third knife gone.
“Be careful, Santoni; you shouldn’t wish to die with threats on your mouth. Better to die talking truth. Your knives are gone. Why did you kill Bella?”
Santoni snarled. His fingers worked. He glanced at the open door, saw the dark mouth of the stairs.
Poronoff lifted the automatic. “So I kill you before you confess.” His finger tightened on the trigger.
Santoni saw the light in the brown eyes and his face took on a greenish tinge. He showed that he knew he couldn’t reach the door and the stairs. His eyes widened and the words began to come — slowly at first. “Don’t do it, Jon. They’ll hang you. Bella wouldn’t talk to me, wouldn’t see me. I sent her a note with another guy’s name on it for her to meet me in the woods. She came. When she saw it was me she called me dirty. The next thing I knew I had thrown a knife into her. Please Poronoff...” The words became hoarse and shrill as the gun lifted and the heavy finger pulled on the trigger.
There was a dry click. He pulled the slide back, jammed it forward and tried again. Another empty click. Sudden comprehension came into Santoni’s face. He bounded to his feet. Poronoff fumbled with the gun. Santoni darted for the door.
“Don’t go down the stairs, Santoni,” Poronoff roared. “Don’t go down the stairs!”
The only answer was the clatter of feet as Santoni rushed down the dark steep stairway.
Poronoff stood listening — heard the sudden silence, the hoarse scream and the great crash as Santoni tripped over the wire across the stairs.
He slid the gun into his pocket, the gun that he had known was empty — for he had a heart which made it impossible for him to kill even an animal like Santoni.
He walked wearily into the hall and clicked on the lights. His square face looked older, there was a redness about his eyes.
He stood and looked down at the crumpled body — the body which had dropped down onto the thirsty points of the three knives held, points upward, in a sheet of cardboard. He thought of them sinking home into the flesh of the creature who, in his warped way, had loved them.
Two frightened old people walked timidly out in the hall and stared at the still figure of Santoni — shuddered as they saw the points of the knives protruding through his back.
The old woman looked up and said, “Yes, Jon. We hear you tell him not to go down stairs. We tell police. Big accident.”
“Jon, in a voice they didn’t know,” said softly. “It was for my wife. For Bella Poronoff.”