He touched the top of the casket with a gentle hand before withdrawing from the room and crossing to the Devereaux smoking lounge, there to hunch on a straight-backed chair, light a cigarette, and wait, but not for long. A man in a powder blue sports coat hove into view, coming from the hallway at a tentative gait to peer into the room where Rufe Devereaux’s casket rested, then turned to check the smoking lounge. His smile was halfhearted. He said, “Ah—Lockington.”
Lockington made no reply, watching him come into the lounge and park on a chair. He produced a cork-tipped cigarette, firing it to life with a chrome Zippo lighter. He crossed his legs and leaned back, blowing a gray plume of smoke in Lockington’s direction. He said, “I wanted to talk to you at Helga’s Place, but—well, you know how it goes.”
Lockington said, “No, how does it go?”
“Well, let’s just say that at this time, it’s a bit hairy.” He put out a hand. “I’m Steve Dellick.”
Lockington’s handshake was unenthusiastic. “I’m Lockington, but you already know that. What else do you already know?”
Dellick said, “Well, for one thing, you were at the International Arms yesterday, speaking with a Chicago police detective named Webb Pritchard.”
“Briefly, yes.”
“You know Pritchard?”
“After a fashion.”
“You were looking for Rufe Devereaux. What was your business with Devereaux?”
“We were going to overthrow the government, establish a police state, and declare war on Russia. We planned to attack through the northeastern tip of Turkey—saturation bombing, then heavy armor, then—”
Steve Dellick’s audible sigh was of the monumentally patient variety. He said, “Please, Lockington—we’re trying to bust a murder case. Rufe Devereaux was one of ours.”
Lockington said, “We—Knights of Columbus, San Diego Chargers—who’s we?”
“Central Intelligence Agency.” Dellick dug for his wallet. “Identification?”
Lockington waved the offer away. “Okay, I’ll buy it. I hadn’t seen Rufe Devereaux in more than a year. We’d probably have gotten drunk. We used to do that on occasion.”
“‘On occasion’—what would ‘on occasion’ amount to?”
“Once a week, once a month—it varied. Why?”
“I’m trying to determine if you two were close—were you friends or merely acquaintances?”
“I can’t say—probably a bit of both.”
“Tavern pals?”
“I suppose that’d sum it up.”
“In your last drinking sessions with Devereaux, did he tell you that he was taking an indefinite leave of absence?”
“No.”
“Did he at any time make reference to someone known as the Copperhead?”
“Once—passing mention. An expert assassin, he said.”
“Did he speak of a man named Sheckard—Sam Sheckard?”
“No. Who’s Sam Sheckard?”
“Probably an alias for the Copperhead.”
“You people believe that Devereaux was killed by the Copperhead?”
“We’ve considered that possibility.”
“Because Rufe was on the Copperhead’s trail?”
“Was he?”
“You tell me.”
Dellick shook his head. “Lockington, we just don’t know.” He studied the carpeting between his feet. “You’re an ex-cop, right?”
“Right.”
“With an itchy trigger finger?”
“Wrong.”
Steve Dellick’s knowledgeable smile bordered on a smirk. “And now you’re a private investigator?”
“That’s what my license says.”
“When did you last see Devereaux?”
“Winter before last—February, or thereabouts.”
“Any reason why he should contact you after all that time?”
“I didn’t know his reason. I assumed that we’d have lunch and a few drinks.”
“Did you catch a sense of urgency?”
There’d probably been an urgency, but Rufe had spoken with Edna Garson, and there was no point in dragging Edna into the picture. Lockington said, “No.”
“Do you know that Devereaux had in his possession an item of considerable importance?”
“Are you talking about the attaché case or the woman?”
“The attaché case. Webb Pritchard mentioned it?”
“Yes, but he didn’t get into details. What was in the attaché case?”
Dellick ignored the question, clearing his throat. Here comes the commercial, Lockington thought—funny how people telegraphed it by clearing their throats. Dellick said, “Uhh-h-h, look, Lockington, the Agency is beginning to wonder if you aren’t on the verge of getting involved in something that you have no business getting involved in—you know what I mean.”
“No, what do you mean?”
“Well, you see, this Devereaux affair is sticky—it figures to get stickier. Why get your hands dirty?”
“You’re jumping to conclusions. I haven’t turned a hair.”
“You’ve been asking questions.”
“What the hell, I’m curious. Any law against asking questions?”
Dellick’s gray eyes glittered in the half light of the smoking lounge, but his tone was laid-back—that of a third-grade teacher attempting to reason with the class spitball sharpshooter. “We want you to leave it alone, Lockington—just leave it alone.” There was a pleading, boyish sincerity about Dellick—the kid was doing his best.
Lockington said, “Is that a request or an order?”
“It’s friendly advice. Everything will be attended to.”
“By whom?”
“By specialists. We have a few of those.”
Lockington sighed. “You followed me here to tell me that? You could have picked up a telephone!”
Dellick said, “Let me finish, please. You come across straight—I believe we can do business.”
“What kind of business?”
Dellick dug into a jacket pocket to produce a white business envelope, handing it to Lockington. “There’s five thousand dollars there.”
“For what—blowing up the fucking Kremlin?”
“For staying out of this thing—for standing clear of it.”
Lockington tossed the envelope into Dellick’s lap. “I can stand clear of it for nothing.”
“Yes, but will you?”
“I don’t have the slightest idea.”
Dellick scowled. “All right, Lockington, it’s a free country, but watch your step. This is a major league ball game—in addition to snaffing it, you could get yourself killed.”
“By the Copperhead?”
“Doubtful. You’re a conservative—the Copperhead kills liberals.” He crushed his cigarette butt into a brown glass ashtray. “One more question—have you heard of an organization known as LAON—Law and Order Now?”
Lockington nodded. “Also Robin Hood and Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy.”
“You doubt its existence?”
“Definitely. What’s your point?”
“There are threads that may link the Copperhead to LAON. LAON doesn’t like liberals, and we’ve heard that it pays well—something like fifty thousand per job.”
“That’s hearsay.”
“LAON claimed responsibility for torching the Chicago Morning Sentinel last summer.”
“Anybody can make a crank telephone call—hell, you could claim responsibility for the next airlines disaster.”
Steve Dellick shrugged. It was the shrug of a man who’s just rolled snake eyes.
Lockington got to his feet, leaning to clamp a hand on Dellick’s shoulder, squeezing hard. He said, “Listen, son—you’ve taken up my time, you’ve attempted to bribe me, you’ve made veiled threats, you’ve inferred this and intimated that, you’ve cloak-and-daggered it to the hilt, and I know about half as much as I knew before you got here! Now, if we’re gonna talk, we’re gonna talk English! What’s behind the fucking curtain?”
Dellick ran stubby fingers through sandy hair. Tiny beads of perspiration glittered on his forehead. He stared up at Lockington with frustrated gray eyes. He said, “Rufe Devereaux was a man out of control—you didn’t know Devereaux, not really.”
Lockington released Dellick’s shoulder. He said, “Y’know, that’s been a problem of mine—I’ve never known anybody, not really.” He left the building. A misty rain was falling.