The other accepted this statement without question. He was completely hooked by his own eagerness to get credit for an important capture. Being what they were, the Kaitempi suffered from their own peculiar form of cupidity; the prospect of finding another victim for the strangling-post was something difficult to resist.
Reaching the car-park around the corner, Sagramatholou took his seat behind the wheel of a big black dyno. Tossing his case into the back, Mowry got in beside him. The car snored onto the street.
“Where to?”
“South end, back of the Rida Engine Plant. I’ll show you from there.”
Theatrically the agent made a chopping motion with one hand as he said, “This D.A.G. business is sending us crazy. High time we put an end to it. How did you get a lead on them?”
“We picked it up on Diracta. One of them fell into our hands and talked.”
“In great pain?” suggested Sagramatholou, chuckling.
“That’s the way to handle them.” He turned a corner, let go another chuckle. “They all blab when the suffering gets too cruel to endure. After which they die just the same.”
“Yar,” repeated Mowry with becoming gusto.
“We snatched a dozen from a cafe in the Laksin quarter,” informed Sagramatholou. “They’re talking, too. But they aren’t talking sense-yet. They’ve admitted every crime in the calendar except membership of D.A.G. About that organisation they know nothing, so they say.”
“What took you to the cafe?”
“Somebody got his stupid head knocked off. He was a regular frequenter of the joint. We identified him after a lot of trouble, traced him back and grabbed a bunch of his ever-loving friends. About six of them have confessed to the killing.”
“Six?” Mowry frowned.
“Yar. They did it at six different times, in six different places, for six different reasons. The dirty sokos are lying to make us ease up. But we’ll get the truth out of them yet.”
“Sounds like a mere hoodlum squabble to me. Where’s the political angle, if any?”
“I don’t know. The higher-ups keep things to themselves. They say they know for a fact that it was a D.A.G. execution and therefore whoever did it is a D.A.G. killer.”
“Maybe somebody tipped them,” offered Mowry.
“Maybe somebody did. And he could be a liar too.” He let go a snort of disgust. “This war is enough without traitors and liars making things worse. We’re being run ragged, see? It can’t go on for ever.”
“Any luck with the snap-searches?”
“There was at first. Then the luck petered out because everyone became wary. We’ve stopped making them for ten days. The lull will give the dodgers a sense of false security. When they’re ripe for the taking, we’ll take them.”
“That’s a good idea. One has to use one’s wits these days, hi?”
“Yar.”
“Here we are. Turn left and then first right”
The car shot past the rear of the engine plant, entered a narrow, rutted road, switched into another little better than a lane. All around was an unsavoury, semi-deserted area full of old buildings, vacant lots and garbage dumps. They stopped, got out.
Gazing about him, the Kaitempi agent remarked, “A typical vermin-run. A couple of years ago we smoked a gang of god-worshippers out of an old warehouse in this district”
Mowry put on a look of revulsion, “You mean a bunch infected with Terran religion?”
“Yar, true believers. When the noose tightened their praying tongues stuck out and went black the same as any sinners.” He laughed at the recollection of it, glanced at the other. “Where now?”
“Along this alley.”
Mowry led the way into the alley which was long, dirty and had a dead end. They reached the twelve-foot wall that blocked further progress. There was nobody in sight, nothing could be heard save a distant hum of traffic and the nearer squeak of a hanging sign, old and rusty.
Pointing to the door set in the wall, Mowry said, This is the bolt-hole. It will take me two or three minutes to get round the front and go in. After that you can expect anything.” He tried the door. It refused to budge. “Locked.”
“Better unlock it so he can make a clear run;” suggested Sagramatholou. “If he finds himself balked he’s liable to try shoot it out with you and I’ll be in no position to take part. These sokos can become dangerous when desperate.” He felt in a pocket, produced a bunch of master-keys. Grinning, he added, “The easiest way is to let him rush straight into my arms.”
With that, he faced the door, turning his back on Mowry while he meddled with the lock. Mowry looked back along the alley. Still nobody in sight.
Taking out his gun, he said in calm, unhurried tones, “You kicked the old geezer when he was down.”
“Sure did,” enthused the agent, still trying the lock. “I hope he dies slowly, the half-witted—” His voice broke off as the incongruity of Mowry’s remark sank into his mind. He turned round, one hand braced upon the door, and looked straight into the gun’s muzzle. “What’s this? What are you—”
The gun gave a whut no louder than that of an air-pistol. Sagramatholou remained standing, a blue hole in his forehead. His mouth hung open in an idiotic gape. Then his knees gave way and he plunged forward face first.
Pocketing the gun, Mowry bent over the body. Working fast, he searched it, replaced the wallet after a swift look through it but confiscated the official badge. Hastening out the alley, he got into the car, drove it downtown to within a short distance of a used car lot. Walking the rest of the way he looked over the big assembly of badly beaten-up dynos. A thin, hard-faced Sirian immediately sidled up to him, his crafty eyes noting the well-cut suit, the platinum fob and wrist-band. This, obviously, was harvest time.
“Lucky you!” announced the Sirian, greasily. “You have found the best place on Jaimec for a genuine bargain. Every car a real sacrifice. There’s a war on, prices are going to jump and you just can’t go wrong. Now take a look at this beauty right here. A gift, a positive gift. It’s a—”
“I’ve got eyes,” said Mowry.
“Yar, sure. I’m pointing out—”
“I’ve got a mind of my own,” Mowry informed. “And I wouldn’t drive around in any of these relics unless I was in a hurry to be struck dead.”
“But—”
“Like everyone else, I know there’s a war on. before long it’s going to be mighty tough getting bits and pieces. I’m in-terested in something I can strip down for parts.” He pointed.
“That one, for instance. How much?”
“She’s a good runner,” expostulated the salesman, donning a look of horror. “Purrs along like brand new. Got current plates—”
“I can see it’s got current plates.”
“…and is good and solid from front to back. I’m giving it away, just giving it”
“How much?”
“Nine-ninety,” said the other, again eyeing the suit and the platinum.
“Robbery,” said Mowry.
They haggled for half an hour at the end of which Mowry got it for eight-twenty. He paid and drove it away. It creaked, groaned and lurched in a manner that showed he’d still been soaked for at least two hundred, but he wasn’t resentful about that.
On a lot littered with scrap-iron a mile away, with nobody watching, he parked the car, smashed its windshield and lamps, removed its wheels and number plates, took all detach-able parts from the motor and effectively converted the machine into what any passer-by could see was an abandoned wreck. He walked off, returned in short time with the dead agent’s car, loaded the loose parts into it.
Half an hour later he slung the wheels and other items into the river. With them went Sagramatholou’s plates. He drove away bearing the plates taken from the wreck; the exchange had cost him eight-twenty in counterfeit money and was cheap at the price. A police patrol or another Kaitempi car could now follow him for miles without spotting the number for which undoubtedly they’d be seeking.