The Black Stiletto: Stars & Stripes (30 page)

At that point, Michael stuck his head out through the curtains. “Wha—?” he muttered, and his eyes popped when he saw me.

“Get back in there!” Ivan commanded. “Do the job now! Now!”

I turned to grab Michael to keep him from completing his mission, but Ivan tackled me. We both tumbled to the carpet with him on top. He pummeled me with both fists as Michael disappeared into the box. For a moment I was stunned. Ivan ceased the onslaught, got off of me, and crawled across the hall to the gun. As soon as I realized what he was doing, I rolled over and performed a six-foot leap across the hallway to catch him. But he surprised me by using both hands to lasso a strip of wire around my head. He pulled it tightly and
oh my
God, dear diary, I was suddenly choking to death. The leather mask did little to protect me; all it did was prevent the wire from cutting into my skin, which wouldn't have been pretty either. Ivan had attacked me with a garrote, an instrument that killers often employed to strangle or decapitate their victims. Fiorello told me all about them.

While gripping the wire around my throat, Ivan stood and
pulled me up with him. I was in great pain and couldn't breathe— but I'd instinctively drawn my stiletto. What was my choice? Stop Ivan from killing me, or stop Michael from murdering Kennedy?

I flung the knife across the hall, where it bisected the red velvet curtains in front of the theatre box. I didn't see it happen, but the soft thud of the blade hitting its target was music to my ears. Nevertheless, after a few seconds, Michael emerged from the box and started moving awkwardly down the hall toward the exit. My stiletto stuck out of his back. He was making a run for it.

That left the Russian, and I knew I had only seconds to turn the tide before I blacked out. Ivan was strong and powerful, but I was lithe and swift. I performed a back kick and struck his left leg. He grunted, so I knew it hurt him. I did it again, harder. But darn it, the Russian just wouldn't submit to the pain. I aimed for the knee itself but simply ran out of steam. The hallway became dark. I was out of oxygen. A panic set in. I was dying.

And then I thought I was aware of something dark and
fast
broadside us. We both fell and Ivan released the garrote's tension! Gasping for breath, I rolled forward, carrying the blasted wire with me to keep it out of his hands. With sweet air filling my lungs, I looked up and saw what had happened.

Billy
stood in a traditional
wushu
stance and faced Ivan, who was still recovering from whatever attack my young Chinese friend had used on the Russian. As soon as Ivan focused on his assailant, Billy advanced and struck him several times with Praying Mantis slaps and punches. I got to my feet and coughed, still trying to open my windpipe, and watched Billy let Ivan have it. As I got my breath back, I wondered if anyone could hear us down below in the ballroom. So far the fight had been surprisingly silent. Did I dare call out for help? What would I do if Secret Service agents or police stormed the hallway? I'm not sure I wanted that to happen.

I snapped back to Billy and Ivan—just as the Soviet agent punched Billy hard, knocking the boy down. In the tiny second it took for me to react and attack, Ivan spied the gun laying a mere
couple of feet from his shoe. His eyes met mine. I knew, and he knew I knew, that he could pick up the gun before I was able to stop him. And that's exactly what happened. The man crouched, snatched the pistol, and aimed at me just as I propelled myself at him. He may have succeeded in retrieving his weapon, but I bowled him over before he could fire. I clutched his wrist with both hands, attempting to squeeze him so hard that he'd drop the handgun; however, he managed to twist his hand anyway and point the barrel at my head. I moved my right hand off the wrist and snapped it onto his hand. Then the struggle became a tug-of-war with the gun, only we were pushing and not pulling. With every ounce of vigor I could muster, I threw my body into it, gaining a bit of leverage by digging into the carpet with the heels of my boots. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Billy get up and shake his head. I couldn't rely on my friend to save my rear end this time, so I concentrated on overcoming Ivan's uncanny strength.

The hand and gun moved an inch toward the Russian's side of the arc. Then it slid two inches in my direction. And so on, back and forth, just like arm wrestling. I grunted and he gritted his teeth. Our eyes met and I felt the hatred pour out of them. I had ruined his big plan. No matter what happened now, the plot to kill Kennedy was kaput.

And then there was a muffled
thump
as the Smith & Wesson jolted in our hands. It was loud, but it wasn't as noisy as a gunshot. I didn't know what had happened, but Ivan was obviously in distress. The look on his face went from surprise to that of sheer terror. His white shirt blossomed with blood red that spread over his chest. He died right there in my arms, face-to-face and locked in combat.

The Smith & Wesson dropped to the carpet, and that's when I noticed the barrel was different. There was a thick cylinder on the end that I hadn't previously noticed.

Billy helped me get to my feet, the gun in my hand. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah. How about you?”

“I'm fine.”

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

“I came up to listen to Kennedy's speech from one of the empty boxes.”

“Well, you got here in the nick of time, Billy. Thank you.”

“You're welcome. Now we're even!” He grinned broadly, very proud of himself.

“You did great, Billy.” I looked at the handgun. “This wasn't very loud.”

He indicated the barrel. “It has a silencer.”

“What?”

“That's a sound suppressor on the barrel.”

“Oh, is that what it is?”

The sound of applause in the Grand Ballroom snapped me back into the situation at hand. I quickly moved to the box and parted the curtains. The sniper rifle was on the floor. I took the opportunity to glance down at the crowd below. Kennedy and Nixon sat at their respective spaces, apparently oblivious to what had just happened two floors above them. Even the Secret Service men had no clue. They hadn't heard nor seen us.

I picked up the rifle and left the box. Billy waited for instructions and I indicated Ivan. “We have to get him out of here,” I said. “The less the public knows about this, the better.” Billy pointed at the bellhop cart. I nodded. “Good idea.”

Billy helped me lift Ivan and place his body on the cart, and then we covered it with a tablecloth. I threw the sniper rifle and Smith & Wesson underneath, too.

Dear diary, I can't believe what Billy and I did. We managed to roll that cart through the hall, up the ramp, and then
carry
it down the stairs to the fourth floor, where we skirted around the corner to the employee elevator, and called the car. Not a single person saw us. The only explanation I could figure was that the entire staff was busy doing something else. After all, a major celebrity-filled banquet
attended by a senator from Massachusetts, the vice president of the United States, and many other VIPs was going on in the hotel ballroom. The route we had taken was indeed off the beaten track and used only by employees in between shifts. Nevertheless, we were very lucky.

“Thank you, Billy,” I said. “I want you to leave now. Please don't say anything to anyone, all right?”

“You don't want me to go to the police?”

“No. We can't get involved in this, believe me.”

“You sure you're all right?”

I looked down at my outfit. Ivan's blood had soiled much of my jacket.

“Yes. Now please, Billy, you must go.”

“Okay.”

“Thank you.”

“Okay.”

The elevator came. I rolled the cart into it and Billy took off. I thought I might know where Michael had gone. Once I was on the 27th floor, I squatted, lifted the tablecloth, and reached into Ivan's trouser pocket to retrieve the key to the suite. I found it and then silently unlocked the door. I fully expected to find Mitch and Alice and Michael in the room, guns in hand and ready to blast me away, but I swung open the door anyway.

Michael lay face down in the middle of the living room. He had collapsed from the knife wound, and the stiletto was still sticking out of his back. Blood was all over the carpet. The bedroom door was closed, so I crept to it and carefully opened it.

Empty.

I went back to the door and rolled the cart inside.

The first thing I did was remove my stiletto, and then I washed the blood off of it and my outfit the best I could. Then I thought about where I was and what I'd done. The Black Stiletto was alone in a hotel suite with two dead Russian agents. I knew the police and
FBI would eventually have a hand in the case, so I mulled over what story I could tell them by arranging a crime scene. It wouldn't be the real scenario, but perhaps they'd buy it.

When I was done, I removed my mask and put it in the backpack, slipped my trench coat on over my outfit, and left the hotel suite. I took the passenger elevator to the ground floor. With the dinner still going on in the ballroom, or perhaps just finishing, I walked out of the hotel as if nothing had ever happened.

Luckily, I knew where I'd find Mitch and Alice. They'd discover my handiwork in the hotel suite and then run home, where the Stiletto would be waiting for the treasonous couple.

O
CTOBER 19, 1960

Outside their apartment building on E. 52nd Street, I stepped into shadows, put on my mask, and crammed the trenchcoat in my backpack. I was the Stiletto again. I knew which fire escape “terrace” was Mitch and Alice's—the sixth and top floor. I could easily pick out the silhouettes of the plants, for there was a light on in the window. And, guess what—the black Packard was parked several spots down on 52nd.

I carefully considered what I was going to do; the trick was climbing the fire escape without being seen by pedestrians. The time was between 9 and 9:30 so, alas, there were plenty of people about. I didn't want the Black Stiletto associated in
any way
with what had gone on so far. The police would surely talk to people at HQ, and I, Judy, would be interviewed. Something might inadvertently connect me with the Stiletto. I also believe it would have been bad publicity for my alter ego, even if I did save the day.

Luckily, there was a lull in sidewalk traffic. The nearest persons were at the other end of the block, headed my way. I ran across the street, stood below the fire escape, swung my rope and hook, and pulled down the ladder. I was up in the darkness of the fourth-floor platform by the time the pedestrians passed underneath. From there, I slowly ascended to the top floor and looked in the window. I remembered
the “terrace” was outside Mitch and Alice's bedroom.

I was surprised to see Alice lying on the bed, still dressed in her gown. An open suitcase sat next to her, but I couldn't see what was in it. It appeared that Mitch and Alice had left the dinner early and were getting out of town, but why the heck was Alice taking a nap?

I tried the window and it was unlatched. I slid the pane up and stepped inside. Only after I approached the bed did I realize what had truly happened. Alice's eyes were open, staring blankly ahead. White foamy stuff was all over her mouth and she'd drooled it onto the bed. I guess she wasn't kidding when she told me about the poison tablets. She was gone, and I felt a little sad. After all, we
had
been friends. I'd actually
liked
her. I liked her
and
Mitch! But they fooled me. And for that I was angry.

Another shock awaited me when I glanced at the open suitcase. It was full of money, stacks of high-denomination American bills. The payment Alice had eluded to?

I looked up to see Mitch standing in the doorway. I must have been too jolted by my discoveries on the bed not to have heard him.
Of course
he pointed a gun at me. The reflexes kicked in, for I leaped to the side just as he fired the weapon. The gunshot was loud and would certainly attract the police, but he missed me. I performed a forward roll on the floor at the end of the bed and came up on the other side, close enough to grab Mitch's gun arm, drop onto my back, and throw him over my head. The gun sailed across the room. I quickly got to my feet, drew the stiletto, and pointed it at him as he cowered on the floor.

“Please don't!” he stammered.

He was scared to death, and not necessarily of me.

“Going somewhere?” I asked.

Mitch nodded.

“Leaving the country?”

He nodded again.

“What happened to Alice?”

“When nine o'clock came and went and nothing happened, we got up from our table and left. We knew something had gone wrong. Alice was too frightened. She—insisted—”

“Why didn't you kill yourself, too?”

Mitch's mouth trembled and his eyes darted around the room. “I was afraid,” he answered. “Please—Judy—let me go.”

Judy? He called me Judy!

“It is you, isn't it?” he said. “I thought you might be her.”

That certainly made things more difficult. I didn't want to tie him up, leave him for the cops, and have him tell them that the Black Stiletto, alias Judy Cooper, caught him. What was I going to do with him? I didn't want to
kill
him in cold blood, I could never do that.

“You still have your pill?” I asked him.

He nodded.

“Don't you think that's preferable to prison?”

Mitch shook his head. “Prison is preferable to what happens to us when we fail.”

With that, he abruptly jumped up and darted to the window. I bolted after him and caught his leg just as he scampered onto the fire escape platform. Mitch kicked me hard, loosening my grip, and he got away. I crawled out the window and followed him up the fire escape stairs to the roof—but before he reached it, one of the bolts that attached the top of the ladder to the edge of the building broke free. Bits of brick and concrete showered us as Mitch lost his grip and footing. He fell. I had the temerity to reach out and catch his arm, but his weight pulled me down. I plummeted to the sixth-floor platform. Mitch, however, hit the guardrail and bounced the other direction into thin air. There was nothing I could do. He screamed all the way down. When I brought myself to look, I saw his body splayed on the sidewalk below.