“That’s his second shot at it,” somebody commented admiringly. “Who’d have thought old Henry had it in him?”
The miniaturised Corzyn clung to the frame for a moment, breathing heavily, and dragged himself through the opening into the interior of the building. A second later his head and shoulders reappeared and he waved his hand at the camera, grinning like a sports idol. Hasson tilted his head back and tried to see the actual event, but he could discern only a tiny star-like glimmering in the remote high darkness.
Werry raised his wrist communicator to his lips. “Henry, what do you think you’re doing? I sent you up there to look the place over — not to rupture yourself.”
“It’s all right. Al — I’m doing just fine.” Corzyn sounded breathless but triumphant. “This window I’m at is on the second floor, so I’m above the fire. It doesn’t seem like much of a fire, anyway — I might even be able to put it out.”
“That’s not your job.”
“Relax, Al. I’m going to have a quick look around and make sure the place is empty. I’ll have plenty of time to bail out if the fire gets worse. See you around!”
Werry lowered his wrist and stared accusingly at the man who had summoned him to the television unit. “This is your fault, Cec. Henry’s way too old and tubby to be making grandstand plays. He’d never have done it if you hadn’t been here.”
“He’ll be all right,” Cec replied carelessly. “We’ll give him an on-the-spot interview to himself when he comes down. Make his day for him.”
“You’re all heart.” Werry moved away from the group, taking Hasson with him, and looked up into the night sky where aerial spectators had begun to congregate, swarming like fireflies.
“Here they come,” he said. “The long-nosed rubbernecks — noted for their habit of gathering in large numbers at scenes of accidents, making loud honking noises and getting in everybody’s way. It looks like the whole city will be here in a couple of minutes.”
Hasson spoke in a low voice, choosing his words with the utmost care. “One citizen is notable by his absence.”
“That’s what I was thinking.” Werry scratched the back of his head, a gesture which made him look boyish and handsome in the uncertain light. “Rob, there’s no two ways about this, is there?”
Hasson shook his head, feeling a dreadful responsibility. “After the evidence you’ve heard, the very least you can do is talk to Morlacher.”
“I guess it had to come to this some day.” Werry glanced up at the hotel. “Things seem pretty quiet up there — I’ll go and have a word with Buck now.” He turned and walked away through the battery of golden headlight beams, casting multiple shadows on the broken ground.
Hasson stood and watched him depart, recounting to himself every one of his reasons for not getting involved, then he too walked towards the waiting police car.
eight
During the drive to the Morlacher house Al Werry produced the peaked and braided cap of his office — apparently it was a reserve he kept in the car for emergencies — and positioned it carefully on his head, leaning sideways to look at himself in the rear view mirror. It seemed to Hasson, watchful in the passenger seat, that he derived more reassurance from the resplendent headgear than from the pistol strapped to his side.
No other cars were visible when they emerged from the tunnel of shrubbery and crunched to a halt near the house’s panelled front door, but rays of light slanting from the tall windows showed the place was occupied. Hasson got out of the police cruiser with Werry and stood for a moment looking around him. The view from the low crest was exactly as he had seen it before — the Chinook Hotel was not even visible beyond the heaped embers of the city — but to his imagination the atmosphere was entirely different. He had a disturbing sense of being watched.
“Do you think they know we’re here?” he said.
“No doubt about it — Buck’s a great man for surveillance systems.” Werry went up the stone steps to the house, tugging, smoothing and adjusting his uniform in a manner which reminded Hasson of a peacock dressing its plumage. Hasson went with him, but hung back a little, suddenly aware that his own casual sweater and slacks could only detract from Werry’s ritual show of authority. Werry touched a bell push and waited for the door to open. Hasson smiled encouragingly, but Werry regarded him with the cool blank eyes of a stranger and remained that way until they heard the sound of a lock being operated. The door opened a short distance to reveal the wisp-bearded face of Starr Pridgeon. He looked at Werry and Hasson for a moment without speaking, maliciously amused.
“I want to talk to Buck,” Werry said.
“Buck doesn’t want to talk to you. Bye, Al.” Pridgeon closed the door, but Werry slid a gleaming boot forward and prevented it from nesting fully into the frame. The door opened again, and this time Pridgeon’s face was slack-jawed with resentment.
“Al, why don’t you do us all a big favour and stop trying to act like a real live cop?” he said with mock reasonableness. “You don’t fool nobody — so why don’t you just hop into your kiddycar and go back to where you came from?”
Werry moved forward a little. “I told you I want to talk to Buck.”
Something flickered in Pridgeon’s eyes. “I guess I can’t stop you coming in — but just remember you weren’t invited.” He moved back and swung the door fully open, leaving the entrance clear.
Hasson, his instincts aroused, got the impression that Pridgeon had been uttering a rehearsed statement — like a junior barrister going over a point of law — and at the same time he noticed the odd waltz-like movement with which Pridgeon retreated, a right-angled three-step which kept his feet off the area just inside the threshold. He started forward, grasping for Werry’s arm, but was a fraction of a second too late.
Werry stepped across the door sill, there was a sharp splat of released energy, and Werry sank to his knees. He remained kneeling for perhaps a second, shaking his head, then collapsed on to the parquet floor. His cap rolled a short distance on the polished wooden bricks.
“Deary me I” Pridgeon said, grinning. “Deary me! How unfortunate! Somebody must have left the intruder screen switched on.” He moved back, doing nothing to assist the fallen man. A door opened further along the hail and three men came through it, one of them carrying a beer glass. They exchanged nudges and advanced to stand behind Pridgeon, looking expectant and slightly self-conscious.
“What happened to old Al?” one of them said. “Has he had one of his turns?”
“It must be his time of the month,” Pridgeon replied, triggering yelps of laughter, before he fixed his bleak gaze on Hasson. “You! Al’s cousin from England! Get him out of here — he’s making the place untidy.”
Hasson moved forward and paused on the threshold. “Are you inviting me in, and is the intruder screen switched off?”
“This one doesn’t ever take any chances,” Pridgeon said over his shoulder, and turned back to Hasson. “The screen’s off now. It was a pure accident, Al barging into it like that. Just tell him that when he wakes up.”
Hasson knelt beside Werry and looked down into his face. The policeman was conscious, but his eyes were dulled and bubbles of saliva winked at the corners of his mouth. Hasson knew he had been subjected to a paralysing neuro-shock which had rendered him helpless by temporarily widening most of the synaptic gaps in his body, and that it would be a minute or two before he would he able to walk unaided. He slid his hands under Werry’s arms, dragged him to a high-backed chair at the side of the hail and wrested him on to it.