Cast a Yellow Shadow (25 page)

“Are you all right?” I asked Sylvia.

“Yes,” she said, but her voice didn't sound convincing.

“It's over now,” I said.

“Not quite, McCorkle.” It was Magda talking to me from across the room. I turned and looked at her. She stood by the door with the automatic in her hand. It looked like a Beretta. She held it steadily; there was no tremor in her hand.

“We're going to stay here for two more hours—you, me, your wife and Miss Underhill. You'll send the others away.”

I just kept sitting on the bed. “You'll notice my gun is not aimed at you,” she said. “It's aimed at your wife. If you try anything, I'll shoot her. And if you're still moving, I'll shoot you in the kneecap which is quite painful, but most effective.”

“In two hours, Van Zandt will be dead, right?”

“Right.”

“You teamed with Dymec,” I said. I made it a statement, not an accusation.

“There was so much money involved.”

“Why shoot the guy downstairs?”

“He didn't know who I was. Why should he?”

“Now what?”

“Now you walk carefully over to that door. Open it and call down to your friends. Tell them that you'll take care of your wife and the Underhill child. Tell them to leave and to take the unwounded man with them. And to keep him safe.”

“Anything else?”

“If they ask about you, tell them that the girl and I are helping to dress your wife. We'll take her in the Cadillac when she's dressed.”

I continued to sit on the bed.

“Move,” she said. The automatic didn't waver. I got up and walked over to the door and opened it. Magda backed so that she had me in full view. I was in front of her, Fredl was to her left. Sylvia was to her left and slightly behind.

“Hardman,” I called.

“Yo!”

“They're getting Fredl dressed.”

“She O.K.?”

“She's O.K. You four take off. Take the guy that's not hurt with you. Leave the others. I'll meet you at Betty's. You got it?”

“What you want me to do with him?”

“Keep him someplace safe.”

“You need any help with Fredl?”

“No.”

“We're leavin then.”

Magda nodded. “Keep the door open,” she said. “I want to hear them leave.”

I kept it open until she could hear the front door downstairs close.

“Now you may go over and sit in the corner, McCorkle, like a good boy.”

“Which corner?”

“The one just behind you. But first, you have a revolver in your coat pocket. I want you to take it out very slowly and put in on the floor.”

“Gee, Magda you think of everything,” I said. I took the .38 out and put it on the floor.

“Now kick it gently towards me,” she said.

I kicked it gently towards her.

“What happens after two hours? You just walk out into the street and call a taxi?”

“Something like that.”

“I don't think so,” I said. “I think in two hours you'll leave, all right, but the three of us will be dead. That's your assignment from Dymec, isn't it?”

“You have two entire hours to worry about it.”

“How much was the payoff?”

“So much money, McCorkle. So very much lovely money.”

“Enough to retire?”

“Quite enough.”

“I always favored early retirement—especially after an active life.”

“You chatter too much.”

“I'm nervous”

Sylvia Under hill, slightly behind Magda, pulled up her skirt as if to adjust her hose. When her hands came up she held a nickel-plated .25 automatic in them. Her eyes were wide and she held the automatic with both hands, but it still shook. Her eyes asked me the question and I nodded my head just slightly and Sylvia Underhill shot Magda Shadid twice in the back. She held the small automatic in both hands and jerked the trigger. The first time, her eyes were closed. The second time she pulled the trigger, they were open. She looked as if she were going to cry.

Magda stumbled forward, caught herself and turned. “You little bitch,” she said and tried to get her gun up so that she could shoot Sylvia Underhill or Fredl McCorkle. I don't think she cared which. I was across the room by then, the switchblade was open in my right hand, and it went into her back and the blade scraped her spine.

She fell then with the knife still in her back. I reached down and pulled it out and wiped it on the bedspread. Sylvia was crying. She sat in the chair, bent forward, the small automatic still in her hands, and cried.

“Let's go,” I said.

She looked up at me. There was a lot of revulsion in her face. “I killed her,” she said.

“I helped.”

“I've never killed anything before, not even animals. Not even a bird.”

I picked Fredl up from the bed. She didn't seem to weigh very much.

“Let's go,” I said to Sylvia.

She rose, the automatic still dangling in her hand. “Put that in my pocket,” I said. “The one on the floor, too.”

She walked around the bed and picked up the .38 that I had kicked towards Magda and put it into my right coat pocket. She dropped hers into the other pocket where it clicked against the knife. I walked over to the door and turned. Sylvia was standing in the center of the room, staring down at the lifeless body.

“You'll have to open the door,” I said. “I have my hands full.”

“I didn't want to kill you,” she said to the body on the floor.

TWENTY-FIVE

It was a long, difficult drive to Betty's. I went fast, unconscious of the speed limits, crossing the Anacostia River on the Eleventh Street Bridge and turning right on Potomac Avenue. I cut left on Pennsylvania Avenue and followed it to the Library of Congress, turned right on First Street, sped past the Supreme Court and the Senate Office Building, wound around the maze in front of Union Station, got on to North Capitol Street until I hit Florida Avenue, then caught Georgia Avenue at the old Griffith Stadium site and drove past Howard University until I came to Fairmont.

Sylvia Underhill held Fredl in her arms while I drove. Neither of us said anything. I tried the car's telephone once to see if the conference call was still working, but it was dead. I parked in the no parking zone in front of Betty's apartment house, went around the car, and helped Sylvia out. She needed help. A reaction seemed to have set in and she was trembling.

“Hold on a few more minutes,” I said. I picked Fredl up and we walked up a flight of steps and into the building. I had Sylvia ring the doorbell. Betty answered it.

“Uh-huh,” she said. “Bring her into the bedroom. I'll get hold of Doctor Lambert. He's spectin to be called.”

I didn't take off my shoes as I walked across the white carpet and into the room with the big oval bed. I put Fredl down on it gently.

“She's very pretty,” Sylvia said from behind me.

“Yes, she is, isn't she.”

Betty came into the bedroom. “She sick or hurt?”

“Doped.”

She nodded as if it happened every day in her house. Maybe it did. “Doctor's on his way.” She turned to Sylvia. “Who's this?”

“This is Sylvia. She helped us find my wife.”

Betty looked at the girl carefully. “Look like Sylvia needs a drink. She's shaking.”

“So am I.”

Betty put her hands on her hips. She was wearing lime green stretch pants, a white blouse, and no shoes. “You know where the liquor is. You all go on in the livingroom and I'll get your wife undressed and tucked into bed. Don't look like she's gonna be waking up anytime soon.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“And take off your shoes.”

After I got my shoes off, I mixed two drinks and gave one to Sylvia. “Drink it,” I said. “It'll help your shakes.”

She nodded and drank. We sat in the livingroom until Doctor Lambert knocked on the door. He nodded at me. “Who's the patient?” he asked.

“My wife. She's in the bedroom.”

He went in, carrying his doctor's bag, and I sat there on the couch and stared at the white rug. Sylvia said nothing. The doctor and Betty came out in a quarter of an hour.

“I can't determine what they gave her,” he said. “But it was an injection—in her right arm. She's in no danger, but the best thing to do would be to let her sleep. I estimate she'll be out for another four or five hours at least.”

“You sure she's all right?”

“Yes.”

“Take a look at this one then,” I said, nodding my head at Sylvia.

“Has she been hurt?”

“In a way,” I said. “But it's mostly fright. She doesn't like herself very much either.”

The doctor's dark face was impassive. “Go take a look at your wife,” he said. “I'll see what I can do for your friend.”

I went back into the bedroom and looked down at the oval bed where Fredl lay sleeping, the covers drawn up to her chin. She stirred slightly, but not much. I stood there for what seemed to be a long time and looked at her and I found myself smiling. I put my drink down on the dresser, then went back to the bed, bent down, and kissed Fredl on the forehead. She didn't stir. I stood there for a while longer, just looking at her and smiling until my jaws seemed to grow stiff, then I picked up the drink and went back into the livingroom.

Dr. Lambert was handing Sylvia a capsule and a glass of water. “Some people,” he said to me, “seem to think that liquor is the cure for everything.”

I looked at the drink in my hand and then took a swallow. “I've known it to brighten a few dark moments,” I said.

“It's a depressant,” he snapped. “Not a stimulant.”

“I didn't think she needed a pep pill.”

“She needs to sleep,” the doctor said testily, “not to brood. This will help her sleep.”

“She can sleep on the couch,” Betty said. “You want the floor?” she asked me.

“I have to go,” I said.

“You don't look too well yourself,” the doctor said. “You look beat.”

“I'm all right,” I said and waved my drink at him. “I'll stick to the home remedy.”

“Liver,” Doctor Lambert murmured. “It gets them all in the liver.”

“What about the bill?” I said.

“Three hundred.”

I got my billfold out and paid him. “I'll drop back by in a couple of hours,” he said.

“Thanks.”

He picked up his bag and moved to the door. “When's the last time you had a complete examination?” he said.

“Five or six years ago.”

He shook his head. “A picture of health,” he said. “Just yellowing at the corners.”

“Thanks,” I said.

He opened the door and said: “No charge.” Then he was gone.

Betty went into the bedroom and returned with two pillows, some sheets and a blanket. She made up a bed on the couch, talking to herself as she worked. I went over and knelt on one knee by Sylvia. She was staring at her hands in her lap. “Get some sleep,” I said. “You need it.”

She looked up at me. “Are you leaving?”

“Yes.”

“I'd like to see him—just once more.”

“I'll tell him.”

“I don't think I can sleep.”

“Try.”

She nodded. I rose and walked over to Betty. “Thanks for your help,” I said.

She looked up at me and grinned. It was a wide, white grin with a lot of cynical sauciness in it. “You see Hardman, you tell him he better get me a maid.”

I smiled back at her. “I'll tell him.”

“Come on, Sylvia,” she said. “Let's get you to bed.”

I went over to the door and opened it. “They be all right,” Betty said. “I'll look after them both.”

“Thanks,” I said and left.

I parked Hardman's Cadillac on I Street and started walking the two blocks to the Roger Smith. It was two o'clock, three-quarters of an hour before Van Zandt's four-car motorcade was supposed to turn down Pennsylvania at the corner of Seventeenth. I found myself wondering how the old man liked taking a tour of Washington's sites, believing that he had only forty-five minutes to live.

I was approaching the corner of H and Eighteenth when a figure stepped out of a doorway and said: “You're late.” It was Padillo.

“I had a couple of things to do,” I said. “It took longer than I thought.”

“There's a bar around the corner,” he said. “You can tell me about them.”

We walked around the corner and went into a bar that had a surplus of dark oak fixtures. The luncheon crowd was almost gone and a waitress gave us a booth in the rear. I ordered a Scotch-and-water and Padillo said he wanted a martini. When the drinks came and the waitress left, Padillo said:

“We broke the conference call when Hardman said you were taking Fredl and Sylvia to Betty's.”

“You broke it a little soon.”

“How?”

“Sylvia had to help me kill Magda.”

I told him about it then and he listened as he usually did, without showing much more surprise than if I had been telling him that the electronics stock I had touted to him had taken a turn for the worse.

“Where did Hardman take the other man—the third one?”

“I don't know.”

“Is Fredl all right?”

“Yes.”

“Sylvia?”

“Not too well. She wants to see you. One more time, she said.”

He nodded and looked at his watch. “Now would be a good time to back out,” he said.

“It would, wouldn't it?”

“It's not really our do anymore.”

“No. Fredl's safe. Sylvia's all right.”

“We can just walk back to the saloon,” Padillo said. “Might even catch a cab.”

“We could do that.”

“Have a nice quiet lunch with a good bottle of wine.”

“Read about it in the papers tomorrow.”

Padillo looked at me. “But you won't.”