McCorkle nodded politely and blew smoke at the ceiling.
Haynes said, “I had a visitor.”
“Tell me about him.”
“He came with a small bolt cutter for the door chain and a pass-card—one of those electronic gizmos you can stick in the slot to open any door in the hotel. You can buy them the way you used to buy passkeys, but they’re a lot more expensive.”
“What kept him out?” McCorkle said.
“Acting.”
“Acting?”
“He was working on the chain with the bolt cutter when I started playing two parts—myself and Tinker Burns. Tinker and I talked about what we’d do to the son of a bitch once we got him inside.”
Suddenly, an uncanny duplicate of Burns’s voice came out of Haynes’s mouth. “You hold him, Granny, and I’ll reach down his throat and yank his gizzard out.” Haynes paused and resumed speaking in his normal voice. “The guy left and I thought he might’ve stuck a piece in your face and made you come back with him. But you say he’s dead.”
“Shot dead,” McCorkle said and headed for the room’s small refrigerator. He removed a miniature bottle of Scotch whisky, poured its contents into a glass and drank half of it.
“Who was he?” Haynes asked.
“Harry Warnock called him Purchase.”
“And who’s Warnock?”
“The guy Padillo and I hired to look after us while we mind you till the auction’s over.”
“How’d it play out?”
“Purchase shot Warnock in the side. Then Warnock killed him.”
“Where were you?”
“After he shot Warnock. Purchase made a dash for the front entrance. I tripped him, stomped his gun hand and kicked his piece away.”
“Then turned your back on him, right?”
McCorkle nodded. “To see about Warnock.”
“Dumb move,” Haynes said. “You should’ve kicked his face in first.”
“I thought I had.”
“What were you doing in the lobby?”
“Making sure Harry was on the job.”
“He’s an ex-cop?”
“Ex-IRA. The Kuwaitis are said to dote on him.”
“But he got shot.”
“Right.”
“And let this guy Purchase make it up to my room.”
“When Harry gets better, maybe he’ll send you a nice little note of apology.”
“How hurt is he?”
“That’s what I have to find out,” McCorkle said. “But there’s no need to drag you into it.” He reached into a pants pocket, brought out a key case, removed a key and handed it to Haynes. “Know where I live?”
Haynes nodded.
“The key’ll get you in. You’d better get dressed, get out of here and find a cab not too close by. Once you’re inside my apartment, go down the hall to the last bedroom on the left. In the chiffonier, third drawer down underneath some sweaters, you’ll find a Chief’s Special.”
“Loaded?”
McCorkle looked at Haynes curiously. “Of course.”
“Handy, too,” Haynes said. “Third drawer down underneath the sweaters.”
“Forget it then.”
“I’ll think about it,” Haynes said. “Will Erika be there?”
“Probably.”
“What do I tell her?”
“Tell her you’re sorry.”
“For what?”
“For all your faults,” McCorkle said.
Chapter 37
Darius Pouncy, the homicide detective-sergeant, didn’t get around to McCorkle until after the body of the man identified as Horace Purchase was removed from the lobby of the Willard Hotel. By then it was 11:33 A.M. and Pouncy, after announcing he was hungry, invited McCorkle to join him for what the detective promised to be “a little light lunch.”
In the hotel’s glittering Expresso Cafe, Pouncy ordered a large bowl of lentil soup and what turned out to be an enormous ham sandwich. McCorkle confined himself to a Beck’s beer and a cup of the soup, which he found to be quite good.
Pouncy apparently didn’t like to let conversation interfere with his food. He ate silently and quickly with precise movements and frequent, even delicate use of his napkin. McCorkle thought the detective had the best table manners he had seen in years. When Pouncy finished his ham sandwich, he called the waitress over, ordered a cappuccino for dessert and urged McCorkle to join him. McCorkle said he would have another bottle of Beck’s instead.
After the cappuccino came, Pouncy took a sip, leaned back in the booth and examined McCorkle. “Mac’s Place, huh?”
McCorkle nodded.
“Ate there a couple of times. Had us some real fine rack of lamb for two and, the second time, a hell of a roasted rolled pork.”
“I hope you’ll come again.”
Pouncy nodded, as if he would have to think about it, and sipped his cappuccino. After putting the cup down, he said, “Understand you tripped him, stomped his hand, kicked his piece away, then kicked his face in. That right?”
“Yes.”
“You know who he was?”
“I knew he’d just shot Mr. Warnock.”
“But you didn’t know who Purchase was?”
“No.”
“But Warnock knew.”
“He called him by name.”
“What’d he say exactly—Warnock?”
“He said, ‘Hey, Purchase.’ ”
“And that’s when Purchase shot him, trotted by you, and you tripped him?” Not waiting for an answer, Pouncy examined McCorkle curiously and asked, “Aren’t you getting on up there in years to be pulling damn fool stunts like that?”
“Want me to promise never to do it again?”
Pouncy smiled. “Warnock works for you, right?”
“Not quite. My partner and I retained his firm to provide security for a friend of ours.”
“Granville Haynes?”
“Yes.”
“Granville doesn’t seem to be up in his room,” Pouncy said. “You think Warnock might’ve been keeping an eye on an empty nest?”
“I think Mr. Haynes may have decided to go somewhere more secure.”
“Where’d that be?”
McCorkle shrugged.
“Moving your shoulders up and down like that could mean, ‘I don’t know,’ ‘Who cares?’ or ‘None of your beeswax.’ Which?”
“It means he could’ve gone to see his lawyer, a friend or to another hotel.”
“But you’re pretty sure Granville was the target Purchase wanted to hit?”
“I assume so.”
“Lemme tell you a little about Horse Purchase and who he really was. Horse started killing folks for a living when he was nineteen years old. But it was all legal then because he was with Special Forces in Vietnam. When Horse got killed here today he was forty-five. He went to Vietnam in ’sixty-three and stayed on till ’sixty-nine. After he came home and got out of the Army, he went into the killing business as an independent contractor.”
“Who hired him?”
“Folks that could afford it. The street says he charged fifty thousand a job and tried to do at least two a year. He got half up front and the rest on completion. They say he never had a dissatisfied customer and I’d say you’re awful lucky to be alive, Mr. McCorkle.”
“You’re probably right.”
Pouncy finished his cappuccino, sighed his appreciation and said, “Ever know a Mr. Gilbert Undean?”
“No.”
“What about Isabelle Gelinet?”
“I knew Isabelle.”
“Tinker Burns?”
“I know Tinker.”
“Seen him recently?”
“Not since Friday, but my partner had a phone call from him Sunday. Yesterday.”
“Then he’s probably still alive,” Pouncy said. “Reason I say that is because Mr. Undean and Miss Gelinet were both murdered and Tinker Burns discovered their bodies. Now, there were only four mourners—I reckon they were mourners—at the burial of Steadfast Haynes on Friday and here it is Monday and half of ’em are already dead. What I’m getting at, Mr. McCorkle, is that I sure hope I don’t get another call from Tinker Burns telling me he’s just stumbled across the body of Granville Haynes.”