Finally someone spotted it. He was a shrivel-chested, spindly-legged youth with splotches of darker purple on his face. Halting by the gun, he stared at it, bent over for a closer look but did not touch it. Then he glanced hurriedly and, failed to see the watching Mowry who had retreated farther into the doorway. Again he bent toward the gun, put out a hand as if to grab it. At the last moment he changed his mind, hastened away. He crossed right in front of Mowry, his face wearing wearing a mixture of frustrated cupidity and fear.
“Wanted it but too. scared to take it,” Mowry decided.
Twenty more pedestrians passed. Of these, two noticed the gun and pretended they’d not seen it. Neither came back to claim it when nobody was near. Probably they viewed the weapon as dangerous evidence that someone had seen fit to dump—and they weren’t going to be chumps enough to be caught with it. The one who eventually confiscated it was an artist in his own right.
This character, a heavily built individual with hanging jowls and a rolling gait, went by the gun and noted its existence without batting an eyelid or changing pace. Continuing onward, he stopped at the next corner fifty yards away, looked around with the air of a stranger uncertain of his whereabouts, dug a notebook from his pocket and put on a great play of consulting it. All the time his sharp little eyes were darting this way and that but failed to find the watcher in the doorway.
After a while he retraced his steps, crossed the vacant lot, dropped the notebook on top of the gun, scooped up both in one swift snatch and ambled casually onward. The way the book remained prominently in his hand while the gun disappeared was a wonder to behold.
Letting the, fellow get a good lead, Mowry emerged from the doorway and followed. He hoped the other had only a short way to go. This, obviously, was a smart customer likely to notice and throw off a shadower if chased too long. He didn’t want to lose him after the trouble he’d taken to find a willing gun-grabber.
Floppy Jowls continued along the road, turned right into a narrower and dirtier street, headed over a crossroad, turned left. At no time did he behave suspiciously, take evasive tactics or show any awareness of being followed.
Near the end of the street he entered a cheap restaurant with dusty windows and a cracked, unreadable sign above it door. A few moments later Mowry mooched past, gave the place a swift once-over. It had an ominous look about it, a typical rat-hole where underworld characters took refuge from the sunshine while they waited for the night. But. nothing ventured, nothing gained. Boldly he shoved open the door and walked in.
The place stank of unwashed bodies, stale food and drippings of zith. Behind the bar a sallow-faced attendant eyed him with the hostile expression reserved for any and every unfamiliar face. A dozen customers sat in the half-light by the stained and paintless wall and glowered at him on general principles. They looked a choice bunch of apaches.
Mowry leaned on the bar and spoke to Sallow Face, making his tones sound tough. “I’ll have a mug of coffee.”
“Coffee?” The other jumped as if rammed with a needle. “Blood of Jaime, that’s a Spakum drink.”
“Yar,” said Mowry. “I want to spit it all over the floor.” He let go a harsh, grating laugh. “Wake up and give me a zith.”
The attendant scowled, snatched a none too clean glassite mug from a shelf, pumped it full of low-grade zith and slid it across. “Six-tenths.”
Paying him, Mowry took the drink across to a small table in the darkest corner, a dozen pairs of eyes following his every move. He sat down, looked idly around and ignored the grim silence. His manner was that of one thoroughly at home when slumming. His questing gaze found Floppy Jowls just as that worthy left his seat, came across mug in hand and joined him at the table.
The latter’s move in apparently welcoming the newcomer caused a sudden relaxation in the place. Tension disappeared, toughies lost interest in Mowry, the bar attendant lounged back, general conversation was resumed. That showed Floppy Jowls was sufficiently well-known among the hard-faced clientele for them to take on trust anyone known to him.
Meanwhile, he had squatted face to face with Mowry and introduced himself with, “My name is Arhava, Butin Arhava.” He paused, waiting for a response that did not come; then went on, “You’re a stranger. From Diracta. Specifically from Masham. I can tell by your accent.”
“Clever of you,” Mowry encouraged.
“One has to be clever to get by. The stupid don’t. They choke in a rope.” He took a swig of zith. “You wouldn’t walk into this place unless you were a genuine stranger—or one of the Kaitempi.”
“No?”
“No, I don’t think so. And the Kaitempi wouldn’t dare send just one man in here. They’d send six. Maybe more. The Kaitempi would expect trouble aplenty in the Cafe Susun.”
“That,” said Mowry, “suits me very well.”
“It suits me even better.” Butin Arhava showed the snout of Pigface’s gun pver the edge of the table. It was pointed straight at the other’s middle. “I do not like being followed. If this gun went off nobody in here would give a damn. You wouldn’t worry either, not for long. So you’d better talk. Why have you been following me, hi?”
“You knew I was behind you all the time?”
“I did. What’s the big idea?”
“You’ll hardly believe it when I tell you.” Leaning across the table, Mowry grinned straight into his scowling face. “I want to give you a thousand guilders.”
“That’s nice,” said Arhava, unimpressed. “That’s very nice.” His eyes narrowed. “And you’re all set to reach into your pocket and give it me, hi?”
Mowry nodded, still grinning. “Yes—unless you’re so lily-livered that you prefer to reach into it yourself.”
“You won’t bait me that way,” retorted Arhava. “I’ve got control of the situation and I’m keeping it, see? Now get busy dipping—but if what comes out of that pocket is a gun it’s you and not me who’ll be at the wrong end of the bang. Go ahead and dip. I’m watching.”
With the weapon steadily aimed at him over the table’s rim, Mowry felt in his right-hand pocket, drew out a neat wad of twenty-guilder notes, poked them across. “There you are. They’re all yours.”
For a moment Arhava gaped with complete incredulity, then he made a swift pass and the notes vanished. The gun also disappeared. He lay back in his seat and studied Mowry with a mixture of bafflement and suspicion. “Now show the string.”
“No string,” Mowry assured. “Just a gift from an admirer.”
“Meaning who?”
“Me.”
“But you don’t know me from the Statue of Jaime.”
“I hope to,” said Mowry. “I hope to know you well enough to convince you of something mightily important”
“And what is that?”
“There’s lots more money where that came from.”
“Is that so?” Arhava gave a knowing smirk. “Well, where did it come from?”
“I just told you—an admirer.”
“Don’t give me that.
“All right. The conversation is over. It’s been nice knowing you. Now get back to your own seat”
“Don’t be silly.” Licking his lips, Arhava glanced cautiously around the room, reduced his voice almost to a whisper. “How much?”
“Twenty thousand guilders.”
The other fanned his hands as if beating off an annoying fly. “Sh-h-h! Don’t say it so loud!” Another leery look around the room. “Did you actually say twenty thousand?”