Fallen Sparrow (25 page)

The blue eyes were cold beneath their sudden narrowing. “How do you figure that?”

“Because I know who killed him.” Kit spoke the name quietly. “Christian Skaas.”

Otto was on his feet. “Where do you get such dope?”

“Christian Skaas told me this tonight.”

Otto didn’t understand. Nor did he believe. His cry was harsh. “You’re lying!”

Kit shook his head. “I’m not lying. He told me he killed Ab Hamilton. And that you killed Louie Lepetino.”

Otto’s face was ugly. “You planned a trap, didn’t you? You figured if you’d get me away from my uncle, you could work on me, make me confess something I’d never done. Don’t I know him well enough to know if he had killed a man he’d never let anyone find it out? Do you think he’d sit down, confess a murder to you, and let you walk out and tell the police?”

Kit spoke softly, slowly. “He didn’t expect me to walk out and tell the police. He didn’t expect me ever to tell anyone. But he—died.”

Otto’s eyes were wide and blank. He asked huskily, “Dr. Skaas is—dead?”

“Yes,” Kit said. “He’s dead.”

Otto took the certainty in silence. Something was roiling within him; what, Kit didn’t know. But if was changing him before Kit’s eyes and when he finally lifted his square shoulders, settled them, he had lost that which had made him acceptable; there was no arrogant charm remaining, nothing but brutality further brutalized by fear. “He told you I killed Louie Lepetino?”

“Yes.”

“Who else did he tell?”

“I was alone with him but that makes no difference. I’ve got the proof.”

Skaas broke in, “What you going to do about it?”

“Louie Lepetino was my friend. I came into this mess to get the man who killed him. I’m going to deliver you to Inspector Tobin.”

He was suddenly staring up into a blue black steel cylinder. Colt automatic. He’d been stupid. He hadn’t given Otto time to prepare but a gunman was never divorced from his tools.

“That’s what you think.” Otto Skaas suddenly dropped the Oxonian accents. “I’m not going to take the rap for that job. It wasn’t my idea.”

“You killed him.”

“All right, I killed him. It was a job, that’s all. That dirty lying Skaas promised I’d be safe on it. He can’t leave me holding the baby.”

“He’s dead. You’re caught.”

“Not yet.”

“What do you mean?” Kit tried not to look at the gun; it was steady as the Washington Monument.

“I’m in the clear so far. You’re the only one knows it. This fellow that’s coming to see you—this fellow that’s counting on me to spot the proof—he won’t be here for an hour.” He was thinking out loud, without emotion, precisely. “When he comes we’ll wait for you. We’ll have a long wait. Because you never showed up.” Kit’s voice was throaty, repeating, “What do you mean?”

Otto Skaas showed his teeth. “I put a bead between Louie’s eyes before he fell out the window. This room’s on a court. There’s still a silencer on my gun. It’s a hundred to one shot anybody’ll be looking out the window when you fall out. Maybe you won’t be found for a couple of days. And when you are, I’ll add my two bits. Maybe the spy that did away with your friend Hamilton got you, too. Barby won’t know; I told her to stay in there till I called her. I won’t know. All I’ll know is I waited and waited—but you never showed up.”

Kit shook his head as if he hadn’t understood. “You mean you’re going to kill me?”

“What do you think?” Skaas’ lip curled. Breath returned to Kit. He could smile. “You’ve forgotten. You can’t do that.”

The man laughed harshly. “Why not? You got a rabbit’s foot?”

“No. But you can’t kill me. You know if you kill me the high command will get you wherever you go.”

Skaas looked at him as if he were crazy. “What high command? My orders come from Doc Skaas. And he’s dead.”

He was an underling. He didn’t know about the goblets. Kit spoke rapidly, “If you return to Germany without the cups and with the news that I’m dead—well, I wouldn’t want to stand in your shoes.”

Skaas crinkled his nose as to a bad smell. “What cups? And why the hell would I want to go to Germany?”

Kit’s heart catapulted into his knees. It wavered there. Otto Skaas wasn’t putting on an act. He didn’t understand a thing Kit had said. Kit asked wondering, “Who are you? Where are you from?”

Otto swaggered, “Didn’t the Doc tell you that? My name’s Schoonmacher. I’m from Jersey. Born in Newark. He wanted a bodyguard. Somebody could speak German. I learned that when I was a kid. My folks came from the old country.”

“Bavaria,” Kit murmured.

“How’d you know that? But the Doc wanted somebody besides that could act right in high society and even put on an English accent. He said I’d do if I didn’t talk too much. I always was good at taking off people. Once I played the English nob in amateur theatrics in Newark. The Bund recommended me to him.”

Kit scorned, “So you’re a member of the Bund?”

“I am not,” the fellow denied with heat that was near rancor. “I’m an American. I wouldn’t belong to anything un-American like that. I’d been a bodyguard for one of the Bund, that’s all, and he recommended me. I took the job. A guy’s got to make a living.”

Kit asked quietly, “Didn’t you ever wonder why Dr. Skaas wanted a bodyguard?”

“I knew why. The Gess-tay-poo were after him and he couldn’t take care of himself because of his bum feet.”

“And Louie?”

“He was making a deal to send the Doc back to Germany. But I didn’t know there was going to be murder mixed up in the job or I wouldn’t have taken it. I always kept my skirts clean.”

“Yet you’re going to kill me?”

“That’s different. I’m not going to sit on the hot seat. I learned a thing or two from old Doc Skaas. I can make out an accident good as he can.”

“It wasn’t good enough,” Kit reminded.

Skaas grinned. “You won’t be around to get suspicious this time.” His lips set. “That’s enough gab. That guy might come early.” He moved the barrel of the gun. “Get up.”

Kit could have killed him then. He could have started a shooting match at any time. But Otto wasn’t worth killing. A punk. A Jersey hoodlum, with no knowledge of the forces of evil behind his job. He had killed Louie; he hadn’t given Louie a chance; but Kit couldn’t do it that way.

He gripped the arms of the chair, hesitated. He spoke simply, truly, “You know, I don’t want to die.”

Skaas was unmoved. “You should have thought of that before you got mixed up in something that was none of your business. Keep your hands in sight. Up.” The nozzle pointed steadily as he walked towards Kit.

Kit didn’t move. “If you’d be willing to drop that gun, we could talk it over. You might have a case.”

Otto said, “Get on your feet. I’m not going to burn.”

Kit rose. He did it with deliberate care. He couldn’t afford a misstep now. He knew he had never been so close to death. But here was none of the creeping, crawling fear on his skin as there had been in Christian Skaas’ presence. He knew what he had to do. Doing it was a matter of timing, of precision.

Otto said, “Put your hands over your head high. Then turn around.” His voice was sure. “I’ll take that gun you used on Doc Skaas.”

Kit looked into the cylinder and he obeyed. He raised his arms high. He took a step away from the chair to facilitate the turn, and he didn’t turn. He had a chance. Otto wasn’t primed to kill, not until he had maneuvered him to the window where he could fall, another suicide, no blood traces in the room. He wasn’t expecting attack now.

Kit stumbled. His left hand crunched Otto’s knuckles, deflecting the silenced shot into the rug. He swung his body clear with the attack, synchronized the cut of his right fist into the man’s face.

Otto staggered back. Kit wrenched the gun from his hand. He flung it across the room. In that split second, Otto’s punches caught him off guard. Kit dropped heavily. His jaw was paralyzed. Blood curtained his left eye. He rolled free as the heavy brogan was raised viciously to his temple. He pushed up to his feet and met the full chunk of the man’s power below the belt. He crumpled like a paper sack. That wasn’t a woman sobbing; it was his breath. Through the red fog he saw the scorn splattered on Otto’s face. The man mocked, “Want to play tough some more?” He hadn’t bothered to retrieve the gun; he didn’t need it. After he’d beat up Kit he could get it and finish the job. Right now he was enjoying the detonation of bone crushing flesh; the stench of his pleasure sweated from his pores.

Disgust was what Kit needed. The fog split. He sprang and caught Otto about the knees, crashed him to the floor. The flail of the man’s arms hammered his head. He didn’t let go. He clung. He was on top. He clubbed his fists over the man’s face. He liked it too; the sound of a vicious drum thudding. His hands found the gunman’s throat, clutched in hate there. The other’s blows were getting inaccurate. They were weakening. He pounded the yellow head against the floor, beat it there. He heard his own voice as on a grooved record, “I could kill you. I’ve got a gun. I’ve got a gun. I could kill you.” Suddenly the insanity rushed out of him. He was killing a man. His hands fell away.

Otto lay there. He wasn’t dead. He was breathing. Kit stood up, shaken, sick. It was easy to be a beast, easy to kill; that lay too near the surface, too little was needed to awaken the instinct. He knew it now. The strong men were those who refused to revert to the slime, who turned their backs on the easy way.

He saw Barby then in the doorway. She held Otto’s gun in her hand. She was pointing it directly at him. She said, “You killed him. I’m going to kill you.”

He walked straight into the path of the bore until he stood touching it, looking down into her face. It was white with hatred, with surprising grief.

He said, “No, you’re not.” The flat of his palm knocked the gun from her hand. He caught her arm as she dived for it, held her in vise fingers. He said, “He tried to kill me.”

It didn’t matter to her. All she cared about was the man she’d known as Otto Skaas. She tried to wrench away. She breathed, “I’m going to call the police.”

“No, you’re not.” His grip tightened on her; he swung her to face him. Anew, revulsion of her welled in him. Only the framework in the black lace negligee was beautiful; within she was rotten. “No, you’re not,” he repeated. “You’ve done enough. You killed two men. You killed Louie Lepetino just as sure as if you fired the gun. You turned him over to Christian Skaas.” He’d been looking for a dame; he hadn’t dreamed a week ago it would be Barby. “You killed Ab Hamilton the same way.” He hoped his hands were hurting her physically; he couldn’t touch her spiritually; she was empty of any spiritual value. “I’m leaving here now. Don’t worry. I’m not walking out on what I’ve done. I’d advise you to get dressed and skip out as fast as you can, before tike F.B.I. gets here and you’re mixed up in this. You don’t have to go. If you want you can stay here with your New Jersey punk until he rots. He isn’t dead.” He shoved her away. She was looking at him blankly. At the door he flung, “His name is Schoonmacher. He was born in Newark.”

The corridor was empty. He rang for the elevator without feeling. He ignored the flunkey’s stare, ignored the night clerk’s incredulity. He reported, “There’s a man in eight-forty-one the F.B.I. have been looking for. Get them here fast.” He didn’t know he grimaced. “Have them bring a doctor along.”

There was dim light behind the curtains of the bay window. Someone still waited in these early morning hours. He took a deep breath before he went inside, up the stairs. He knocked on the door, turned the knob. It opened. Toni was huddled in the big chair. The macabre candles were extinguished, one lamp burned.

She looked at him. Despair was in her eyes.

He asked, “You’re alone?”

“Yes.”

“Where is your—where is the Prince?”

She didn’t plead with him. She stated, “Det took him to a nursing home this afternoon. He had a slight heart attack. He’s very old. Det’s own doctor is taking care of him. He’ll be safe until you want him.”

“Det still intends to protect him?”

“She will see that he does no harm, communicates with no one. She has known that Prince Felix holds dangerous views. He does not believe in democracies. But he helped Det once. When his son tried to shut her in an insane asylum. Prince Felix helped Det get away in time.”

“Where is she now?”

“I persuaded her to go home. I told her I was not afraid.”

“Did you call the police?”

“No. I waited for you.”

He said, “I killed Christian Skaas.”

“I know.”

“You sent him to kill me.”

Her lips trembled. “I had to do as I was told. I hoped you would kill him first.”

“Toni—”

She put up her hand and he sank down again. “You knew I had to obey.” She was like something broken. “I will tell you why now. I am the wife of Otto Skaas.”

He said, “The F.B.I. have him.”

Her eyes flickered. “The real Otto Skaas is in the Luftwaffe. We were married on a holiday in the Tyrol, before the war, before he learned to follow the Leader. We have a daughter. She is three years old. She is somewhere in Germany. She is held as hostage.”

He said brokenly, “Toni—”

“Don’t. I was called to do this because I am French, and because I happen to resemble portraits of the Andrassy family. The Prince himself picked me from a group. He was delighted to help. To him it was heresy to think of the goblets coming to this country. I didn’t know why I was being sent to Paris until I was chosen. I was told then I must do this—or something would happen to my little girl.”

He didn’t say anything.

“It didn’t seem too bad a thing, an attempt to find out where the Babylon goblets were hidden, exchange the replicas for the real. I didn’t know there’d be murder. After there was, I told Det my story. She knew your danger. She asked me to help keep you safe. I tried to do what I could but I had to obey orders. I thought you realized that tonight was a trap. Maybe you don’t believe me—but I didn’t want you to die. I hoped you would understand.”

“I understand, my dear.” He went to her then. “My dear—my dear—” She was as far away as a star.

She said, “It was better we had not met, Kit.”