He looked back once to make sure that the cab had taken off, then peered cautiously over the parapet. There was the police ‘copter, sure enough, hovering outside the window of Luther’s top-floor bedroom. Underneath, five stories down, a white gondola was rocking in the surge of a small power boat. The gondolier’s ancient automatic curses drifted faintly up to him.
Now what? He had had a Vague notion that if he could eliminate the ‘copter somehow, he could get Art out through the window before the other Security men broke in. But eliminating the ’copter looked tough now, if not a impossible.
He risked another look. There was only one man in the ‘copter; that was a point in his favor, though he wasn’t sure how. But just to begin with, he couldn’t attract the man’s attention by shouting; he’d never be heard over the noise of the ’copters rotors. And he couldn’t very well show himself. As for the phone—
Wait a minute! The police would almost certainly be talking to each other by phone; in fact, he was positive of it. And these small transmitters didn’t reproduce intonations very well. It could work. Anyway—
George aimed the phone carefully at the man in the ’copter and said briskly, “On the roof! Quick!” Then he ducked out of the man’s visual range and watched the rotor blades. When they began to rise, he leaped away from the parapet and got behind the stairway entrance.
The door was open, and George could hear muffled banging sounds down the corridor. Good for Art, he thought abstractedly; he must have piled furniture against the door.
He looked around the corner of the entrance and saw the ’copter’s tail level with the parapet, Instantly he faced the other way, put his palm against the door frame and shoved himself violently backward.
He toppled out into view, legs going furiously to try to keep, his balance; then he let himself go and landed with a bone-crushing thump on the hard roof. He scrambled to his feet again, drew an imaginary knife from his jacket, and lunged back behind the entrance.
There was a thump as the ’copter landed on the roof, and then footsteps pounded toward him. George ducked around the opposite side of the entrance and ran silently, on the balls of his feet, completely around to the blind side again.
The policeman, a depressingly burly young man in pearl-gray jacket and shorts, was leaning half into the doorway, listening to the sounds from down the hall. Without hesitation, George launched himself at his back.
They tottered a moment. Then the policeman’s grip was torn away and they plunged together down the stairs. They landed with a jar that shook George from skull to knees. He sorted himself out and saw that the young policeman was also getting up, with a dazed expression on his face. George hit him on the point of the jaw, as hard as he could. The policeman collapsed and slid down another four steps.
Panting, George slid down beside him and took his gun. He could still hear the pounding down the hall. Evidently the others hadn’t heard the crash when they came down the stairs, though it had sounded loud enough to wake a regiment.
George hit the recumbent policeman thoughtfully behind the ear with the butt of his gun. He would have liked to get him out of the way, but strongly doubted his own ability to lug that steak-fed hulk any distance. He went back up the stairs, past the idling ‘copter, to the parapet again.
It was a good fifteen feet down to the window and no way to get there. He couldn’t take the ’copter down and simply invite Art to climb in; the rotor blades wouldn’t have enough clearance.
Swearing to himself, George ran back to the ’copter and rummaged inside it. In a locker just forward of the door, he found a rope ladder. But it took him what seemed like five anguished minutes to locate the hooks—diabolically hidden over the door inside the cab—which were designed to support it.
He climbed in and took the ’copter up, past the parapet and over, dangerously close, letting the ladder dangle against the window. For another agonizing interval, nothing happened. George was about to haul the ladder up again and tie a wrench to it, when the window suddenly swung open and Art’s red, wild-eyed face appeared.
George leaned out and gestured wildly. Art nodded, grasped the ladder, and swung precariously out into space.
George hovered carefully until Art was halfway in. Then he took the ’copter up and away in a wild swoop that nearly made Art fall out again.
Art closed the door and Jackknifed himself into the tiny space to right of the pilot’s seat. When he got his breath back, he said, “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it,” said George. “Did they want you very badly, Art?”
“Afraid so. Didn’t give them a chance to tell me. Ducked into the bedroom and locked the door when I saw them.” He took a deep breath and smiled. “Where to now?”
George felt an unexpected glow of satisfaction. Imagine anyone asking him what to do next!
“I’m looking for an empty landing stage,” he said. “We’ll ditch the ’copter there, and then get ourselves as thoroughly lost as we can.”
III
THEY left the ’copter on the roof of a theater building and stopped at the nearest public phone booth to try to reach Luther and Morey. Both were still out of range. Then they went looking for a suitable hiding place for Art.
In Venice—in any modern city—there were a million places to get very thoroughly lost. There were discreet apartment houses, residence hotels, ’copter courts— and there were the vice houses. George, knowing Art’s staid habits, chose one of the latter. The police would also know Art and might not look there.
For the benefit of those with scruples or reputations, entrance to the house was by way of a series of little cubicles lining one side of an arcade. The other side was rented to a group of second-rate but bona fide shops. Having inspected the merchandise displayed there and assured himself that no acquaintances were lurking in the corridor, a prospective client could simply step across into the nearest vacant cubicle and shut the door. Inside, a polite voice from a wall speaker asked to be allowed to learn your wishes, registered you under any name you chose to give, and allotted you a room, a suite, a wing or a floor according to your wishes and your pocketbook.
George, speaking German with a thick and slightly drunken Munschener accent, affected hesitation and asked for a resume of the house’s attractions. The invisible clerk immediately switched to impeccable Low German and suggested, “The Herren would possibly like to inspect-the ladies in one of the private salons before making a choice? Or perhaps one of the theaters first? Or if the Herren require any stimulation—?” He proceeded to describe some of the entertainments now being offered in the theaters, and to name the various species of stimulants that were available to clients.
“No,” said George fuzzily. “Later, later. We are already too drunk. Give us just a room—no, a suite. The best.”
“Certainly. Sixty lira, please.” George put the notes into the slot in the counter. A receipt and two door keys popped out, and the right wall of the cubicle rolled back to reveal a tiny self-service elevator. “Suite C 35,” said the clerk. “Turn right when you leave the elevator.”
The suite was eminently comfortable: three bedrooms, two baths, living room, game room, and even a tiny gymnasium; but Art grumbled. “Dammit, George, I suppose I shouldn’t complain when you’ve just saved my neck, but I can’t see your sense of humor. Anyway, what are these people going to think when I keep staying here but don’t have any women up?”
“Probably think we’re queer,” George suggested. Then, as Art seemed about to explode, he added hastily. “It’ll be good for you, Art — teach you humility and not condemning your fellow man and so forth. Anyhow, you’ve got to admit it’s safe.”