The Silencers (19 page)

I gave her a shove with my shoulder that sent her sprawling.

It was that damn racket. I should have been watching the door, of course, and I thought I was, but you get in the habit of depending on your ears as well as your eyes—and ears were no use in there. My vigilance must have slipped for a moment. Suddenly Gunther was there, pistol in hand—the little nickel-plated weapon with which he’d shot LeBaron, by the looks of it—closing the door behind him.

We were all acting much too cozy and friendly, sitting there like three monkeys on a stick. Something had to be done about it fast, and I did it. Maybe it was a little rough on Gail, but on the other hand, it gave her a good springboard from which to dive into her act. After the first moment of shock, I saw understanding come to her. She started to look around, but checked herself in time. Her face puckered up nicely, and a couple of real tears trickled down her cheeks, as she stared at me reproachfully.

Gunther was above us now. “I declare,” he said, “a real pretty tableau. Let’s see those ropes!”

He checked my bonds and Romero’s, then went over to Gail, who was curled up in a woeful little ball, watering the floor with her tears. He tested the ropes on her wrists and ankles, and nudged her with his foot.

“Turn it off, honey,” he shouted. “This is Sam, Precious. Remember Sam, the guy who knows you like a book?”

Anyway, he said something like that. It was hard to make out the exact words through the steady, pounding racket. I wanted to tell him he was dead, standing there in his big hat and high-heeled boots. That was what he’d been put here for, of course. He thought he was being given the responsible job of watching the prisoners, but Wegmann had given me the hint, and I knew Mr. Gunther was merely being kept on ice, so to speak, until Wegmann decided how best to dispose of him along with the rest of us. He’d been groomed for the part of Cowboy, and he was going to play it dead.

I started to shout at him, to tell him so, but he would have thought it a trick to turn him against his friends—an old, corny trick to try on a smart man like him. It was better to let Gail handle it. She’d stopped sobbing at the touch of his foot. Now she raised her head, turning her streaked face up to him.

“Oh, Sam!” she cried. “Sam, I’m so glad to see you, honey! You’re going to help me, aren’t you? We’ve always been friends, haven’t we, Sam? You’re not going to let them...” She stumbled prettily and convincingly over the words, “...kill me?”

“Why the hell should I help you, Precious?” he asked.

“Oh, Sam,” she said, “you can’t fool me, honey. I know you’re good and kind...”

I lost the rest of that, as she lowered her voice slightly. She wasn’t following the script I’d roughed out for her, which was all right, but I was afraid she was overdoing it a little. It was pretty crude. But she knew her man better than I did.

“Good and kind, am I, honey?” Still interested, he laughed at her, lying at his feet.

“Yes, they tried to tell me you killed Janie—had her killed—but I know you didn’t do anything of the sort. I just know it!”

I didn’t like that at all. I could see that she might want the final word on her sister’s death, but it was the wrong place for detective work. I was getting the belt buckle around back where I wanted it, under cover of my disordered shirt, but if she annoyed him and lost his attention I’d have a hard time preparing and using it with him watching, particularly since my fingers seemed to have no feeling and hardly any strength.

I lost some more conversation with all the noise. He was laughing again. “...so you think you know Sam Gunther, all you rich bitches doling out a little money here and a little there in return for a lot of flattery and a bit of loving? Well, the time is coming, Precious, when you’ll be doing the flattering and I’ll be handing out the money... As for your sister, she was sent to kill me, did you know that. To kill me!” He sounded shocked. “She broke down and told me so herself!”

Gail said something I couldn’t hear over the noise.

“That’s right,” he shouted back, “but I could always get around her, remember? I had her eating right out of my hand. She was still in love with me, and she had a guilty conscience a mile wide, after what she’d tried to do. Also, she was a sucker for Dr. Naldi’s pitch, the silly little fool... Well, she wasn’t so little, come to think of it. She was a well-stacked kid; she really looked good on that stage, I’ll give her that. It was kind of a pity. But she knew too much, and things were getting tight. I didn’t want her delivering the evidence to me with a couple of coppers watching. So I snapped my fingers, just like that.” He snapped his fingers. “I can kill, too, Precious, if they force me to it. And when I’m through, I’ll have more men around me like the man who threw the knife that night, tough men, dangerous men, just waiting for me to snap my fingers again!”

She said something else, and he said something else, still telling her what a big man he was going to be some day. Or words to that effect. His type are always going to be big men some day. I’d heard the routine before so many times I didn’t bother to listen to the Gunther version. They’re always small men wanting to be big, and they never make it. They always wind up stooges for pros like Wegmann.

But he was giving me time, and that was fine, but then he stopped talking and started to move away. That wasn’t good. If he got to sitting down on the wooden stool over by the engine with his gun ready, watching, I’d never manage to do what needed to be done, unseen, with my clumsy, bound hands.

“Sam!” Gail pleaded desperately. “Please, Sam! I don’t care about Janie; I’m sorry I mentioned it! She hated me anyway, and you know why! Sam, please, you’ve got to help me! You’ve got to! Why, I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you!”

He stopped and frowned and came back. “Who’re you trying to kid, Precious?” he shouted. “You came up here with this guy, because you were so mad at him. You told us all about it down in Carrizozo, remember? You were getting back at him because he’d treated you disrespectfully, or something, back in El Paso.”

“Yes, that’s what I told you,” she admitted. “I was too proud to admit that I... Not to your face, Sam; not with people listening. Don’t you understand? He was going to kill you. I had to do something to prevent it, to warn you, to help you... Don’t you understand, Sam? I did it for you!”

I didn’t think he’d buy it. It was pretty damn corny. He looked down at her for a moment in silence, thinking it over. I saw to my surprise that be was flattered and intrigued. He’d made his living off women for years. I guess it came as no real surprise that there was one more in the world who found him irresistible.

He started to speak, then changed his mind. He laughed shortly, and turned away. He went over to the engine with a backward glance and sat down on the stool with his elbows on his knees, both hands supporting the little nickel-plated pistol aimed at us.

“Sam!” Gail cried. “Sam, please! You’ve got to believe me!”

He laughed, over there, and pointed to his ear, indicating that he couldn’t hear a word. She started to move, and he watched with great interest, clearly wondering if she’d really do it. I mean, it isn’t every man who can get a beautiful woman to come crawling to his feet, proclaiming her love.

I tried not to watch it. I mean, there are only three ways you can transport yourself any distance when your hands and feet are bound. You can roll like a log, you can squirm along on your side like a snake, or you can sit up and kind of skid yourself along on the seat of your pants. None of these modes of locomotion is anything you really want to see being employed by an attractive woman for whom you have respect and affection...

But it held his attention, that was the main thing. I guess he’d had to take a certain amount of stuff from her in the past; she might play, but she had kept him in his place. Watching the rich, arrogant and lovely Mrs. Hendricks, bound hand and foot, making her way across the oil-stained floor at considerable expense to her dignity and clothing, was a real treat to him.

The gun barrel drooped, as his eyes remained fixed on the slender, struggling, disheveled figure slowly drawing closer. It was time for me to reach under my shirt in back and peel the metal foil from the sharp edges of the trick belt buckle Mac had given me and cut the ropes on my wrists.

I got hold of the buckle all right. I even found a purchase for my fingernails, but that was as far as it went. I didn’t have the strength to take it from there.

You understand, the buckle was made of steel with the edges honed to razor sharpness, and in order to keep it from disemboweling me every time I bent over, it was clad in metal foil, carefully decorated with an Indian pattern, so that it looked like the massive, ornate silver buckles offered to tourists on both sides of the border.

In theory, it should have taken only an instant to strip off the foil and bring the edges into action, but the fellow who’d figured out the theory obviously hadn’t taken into account the fact that the buckle might have to be used by a beat-up gent who’d had his hands tied tightly behind him—in cold weather—for several hours. Like so many of the nice stunts thought up in Washington, it just didn’t work. The foil was too heavy.

I scratched at it feebly, but it might as well have been soldered on—and the distance Gail had left to travel was getting shorter by the minute. Gunther was getting tired of the entertainment, anyway. I saw him speak, although I couldn’t hear the words; then he rose and went to her. He set her on her feet and made a show of brushing her off magnanimously. He helped her hop to the stool on which he’d been sitting—I’d forgotten to mention that way of traveling, bound. You can hop, if your balance is good or you have someone to steady you.

She was speaking, as she sat down. He listened to her for a moment. I don’t know what line she was trying to feed him now, probably telling him how she’d yearned for him since childhood. I saw his face go angry. He lifted a hand and slapped her off the stool, looked down at her for a moment, frowning, glanced around suspiciously and came stalking over to check on Romero and me.

I couldn’t get that damn heavy foil off, and it was too late to cut myself loose, anyway, but I did have the belt unbuckled, ready to slip out of the loops. I didn’t know what Romero was doing and I didn’t really care. He seemed to be a nice enough guy when he wasn’t behind the wheel of a car, but he’d been here a day or so without accomplishing much, and I don’t have much faith in those security people, anyway. There wasn’t any sense in counting on him. I’d have to do it by myself, if I could.

As Gunther approached, holding the gun slackly, not really expecting trouble, I made a big demonstration of trying to rear up and meet him on my feet. He stopped and brought the pistol to bear, watching me warily. I lost my balance and did a comic back fall, landing heavily, hoping my boots weren’t too big for the trick that came next, that is, if he gave me a chance to use it by looking away briefly.

I have long arms, as well as long legs, and in tennis or street shoes I can usually manage to get my feet between my bound wrists, bringing my hands in front of me. It’s a handy stunt for a man in my line of work, and I’d practiced it from time to time, but never in winter clothes with boots on.

I waited, acting jarred by the fall. Gail had struggled up behind Gunther, but much too far away to reach him. She tried a couple of hops in his direction and fell painfully. He glanced around and laughed, and then I heard somebody shout over the pounding motor noises—and there was Romero on his feet, hopping like a kangaroo straight at Gunther.

Gunther turned. The gun came up, but Romero didn’t stop. It was a brave thing, but it was no time for me to be watching the show on the screen; I had business to attend to. I was dragging my wrists over my boots, losing plenty of skin, as the gun went off; then I was on my feet, grabbing the belt and pulling it clear. I heard the bullet hit, and saw Romero kind of hunch up and fall, but I had my weapon ready. It’s best used as a sort of murderous brass knucks, with the leather wrapped around the fist and the buckle out, but my hands were tied, and I needed more range than that to reach my man, anyway.

Like most novices at murder, he had to admire his handiwork briefly. He couldn’t just shoot one guy and turn to deal with the next, he had to watch the first one fall. Maybe he wasn’t quite sure of his marksmanship; maybe he enjoyed seeing him drop. I had plenty of time to get set, and I got him as he turned.

I raised both arms and swung the heavy buckle at the end of the strap. It sang through the air like one of those Japanese noisemakers you whirl on a string. It caught him just right, squarely across the face, and with that much power behind it, the foil made no difference at all. I couldn’t have done better, or worse, with a machete.

He lost the gun and staggered backward, screaming, covering his face with his hands. I took another hop and cut again, laying his hands open. I stood over him as he went down, using the belt as a flail until he no longer moved or yelled. Unfortunately, he had only fainted. The buckle hadn’t cut deeply. But there were a few things to be attended to before I finished the job; besides, I preferred to do it without witnesses—particularly official government witnesses like Romero. Mac had specified a smooth, discreet and competent job, remember?

I hopped over to the little man, lying doubled up on the floor.

“How bad, Dad?” I shouted over the steady noise of the big engine.

He raised his head with an effort. “Just a scratch,” he said.

“Yeah,” I shouted. “I know those little .32 caliber scratches. Hold this one for me.”

I sat down beside him and gave him the buckle to hold. There was no more trouble with the foil. Gunther had already helped peel it back here and there; I got the rest of it off without any trouble. Then I cut myself loose, hands and feet, and did the same for Romero. I went over and got Gunther’s pistol. One shot had been fired from it, but he had extra cartridges in his pocket.

When I got back, Romero was sitting up. His face was even pastier-looking, under the dirt, than it had been.