13

It was a calculated risk, but no worse than the other option. I slipped alongside the parked cars, coming up on the driver’s side of the vehicle with the watcher. It was an older model, and when I glimpsed the plates I had to stifle my surprise. Perhaps, though, I should have known.

The driver was too intent on the drama across the street to notice me until I had jerked open the front door. When he turned to confront me I had my hand in my pocket, my finger aimed at his midsection.

“Move over,” I whispered. “Make a sound and I’ll blow you in two.”

The surprise caught him off guard and he slid over docilely.

The police were both on the front porch now and another car had pulled up behind the first one. The second one began to play its spotlight on the parked vehicles and I forced my captive down in the seat as the glare played over us. It hovered for what seemed eternity and I pushed farther down into the seat, and then the light moved on to the next car. Doors slammed and I heard a disgruntled exclamation. The first car started away and the man beside me stirred, but I reached out with my hand and grabbed him by his hair, forcing him down into the seat. He gave a little yelp but the second police car was moving away now. I let go and moved back to an upright position.

“All right, Scott, now maybe you’ll tell me why you followed me from your mother’s house,” I said. “And why you called the police to tell them I was here.”

It was a rugged face that turned toward me, with fashionably long brown hair. He had the square jaw that gave an appearance of determination but I could see in the eyes that he had lost some nerve by being caught off guard.

“You’re an escaped killer,” he said sarcastically. “That ought to be enough.”

“And you’re just doing your duty, right? How did you know I was with her? The dishes on the table?”

He nodded. “I knew somebody was there, so I decided to wait outside. When I saw you leave I recognized you because of the …”

“Because of my arm. It’s okay, I’m used to it.”

He relaxed fractionally. “I figured you were hitting on her. I figured you were trying to step in now that Indiana Jones’s in jail.”

“Indiana Jones? Is that what they call him?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, your mother is an extremely attractive woman. She deserves a life of her own. But my relationship with her is strictly professional. For better or worse, she’s still pretty hung up on Thorpe. Though I believe her when she says he’s never responded.”

Scott made a noise of disbelief. Then he turned to face me. “Man, you don’t have a gun, do you? You never had one.”

“No,” I said. “I never did.”

“You can’t make me stay here.”

“Not for long. Though a one-armed man learns a few tricks to defend himself. Want to see one?”

The flicker of indecision in his eyes told the story. “Naw,” he said. “So what did you want over here at Leeds’s house?”

“I was hoping I could find something to tell me who he hung out with, might have confided in. A girlfriend, for instance.”

Scott grunted. “Man, that’s a snort.”

“Oh?”

“A girlfriend? Sweet Gordie?”

A big piece of reality shifted, took on a different shape. “Gordon Leeds was homosexual?”

“That’s the word. He kept it quiet. Discreet is the word. But I went with some friends to a gay place down in the Quarter last year. Curiosity, you know? And there he was, hanging all over some leather-jacket type. He didn’t see me and we left. It isn’t my scene.”

“You didn’t tell anybody?”

“No, why should I? If that’s how he gets off, let him. Seemed to fit right in with the rest of the crew: Thorpe; that dingy girl, Astrid; and gold teeth, the Mayan.”

“You never saw the man he was with in the Quarter that day?”

“No, man. I just wanted to get out before I barfed on somebody.”

I reflected. Suddenly it all made sense. “Tell me, you ever hear of Claude St. Romaine?”

“You mean the dude they say you offed?” He shrugged. “He was a big frat rat a couple of years ago. Sigma Chi. Look, man, everybody on campus knew he was pumping Thorpe’s old lady. It used to be the talk of the Greeks. Everybody thought it was a blast, you know?”

I thought for a moment, then came to a decision. “I’m going to have to try to find out who killed him,” I said. “It’s the only way to clear myself. And there’s the little matter of who killed Leeds, too. I’m betting they’re one and the same. I’m going to leave you here and you can call the law again, if you want. But I’d rather you didn’t.”

He blinked and then nodded very slowly. “Okay, man. I may be crazy, but I trust you.”

I reached out my hand and he took it. We shook and then I left him.

I remembered some of the names in the funeral register. Thomas Fedders. Karl Hahn. Fred Gladney. And there were a few others that I would have to dredge up from my memory if I didn’t hit on the first three.

Somehow, I didn’t see Gladney in the role. That left Fedders and Hahn.

Was it just a coincidence that one of the names began with a K?

I stopped at a phone booth and called Directory Assistance. Karl Hahn lived on Dauphine, a stone’s throw from my own apartment. It could hardly be a coincidence. But it would be a risk going there, because I was known in the neighborhood and the cops would all have my description.

I didn’t have any choice.

Fortunately, there was a lot of Saturday-night traffic. I found a place down on Esplanade and slipped into the shadows, on the part of the sidewalk nearest the buildings. A little knot of people was gathered in front of the saloon at the corner of Chartres and Esplanade, but they seemed uninterested in just another passerby. I went two more blocks, was propositioned by a hooker, and told her some other time. I sensed her eyes on me as I walked away, wondering if she noticed the arm; whether she listened to police bulletins; whether she needed money or a favor bad enough to hail the next cop car.

I turned at the corner, walked southwest, toward Canal, and then turned right again onto Barracks, the street named for the barracks John Law built for the provincial troops. Right now I was more worried about troops of another sort. I came to Dauphine and stopped. The place where Karl Hahn lived would be in this block. I went left, counting the house numbers.

It was a narrow, brick-faced apartment with grilles on the windows and a step up to an iron-bar door. The downstairs was dark, but overhead, behind the balcony, I could see lights in the windows. I went into the entranceway and squinted at the names on the mailboxes. His name was on the one for the upstairs apartment. I pushed the buzzer.

There was a long interval of silence and then a voice croaked against a background of static.

“Who is it?”

I mumbled a reply that I knew would be inaudible and rang again.

“Who is it?” the voice demanded again.

I mumbled again and there was more silence.

Something moved in the corner of my eye and I shifted my head slightly: A pair of figures emerged from the corner of Gov. Nicholls Street and turned up Dauphine, toward me. A passing car caught them in its lights and I saw the uniforms.

I jabbed the button again.

“Who is it?” the voice cried and even through the static I recognized an edge of panic.

The policemen had crossed over to my side of the street, were a mere half block away.

“Leeds,” I said, hoping the shock would work.

The uniforms were only yards away now.

“What?” The voice in the static was choked.

“Leeds,” I said. “Gordon Leeds.”

They were almost on me and the one on the inside was looking over at me with awakening curiosity. I pressed myself further into the shadows.

I jabbed the button again as the policemen drew abreast.

The lock clicked as the electronic signal from inside released it and I shoved the grille open, plunging into the merciful blackness. The gate clanged shut behind me like a prison door and I realized my escape could be only temporary. But there was no going back now.

On the right a stairway gaped like an open mouth, blacker even than the darkness around it, like a vortex to annihilation. I took a deep breath and started upward, conscious of the gun-shot creaking of my feet on the boards. The stairwell smelled of dust and I had the suffocating sensation that the walls were about to close around me.

What if Hahn was the murderer? What if I was walking into a trap?

Suddenly, as if in answer, the doorway above me jerked open, blasting the stairwell with light. A stick figure blotted the glare, swaying slightly, its hand pointing at me with a magically elongated finger.

“Stop right there!” it cried, the voice hovering on hysteria. “I’ve got a gun and I’ll shoot, I swear to God.”

I froze, letting my eyes adjust to the sudden light.

“It’s all right,” I said quietly. “I’m not armed.”

“I don’t know that. You may be lying. You used Gordon’s name. You lied about that.”

“Then why did you let me in?”

“You can’t hide forever. You’d find a way. I know about you people. Gordon told me before you killed him. Well, now the shoe’s on the other foot. And I’m going to kill you.”

The hand with the gun wavered and I tried to keep my voice steady. “I didn’t kill him,” I said. “I’ve been hired by Gregory Thorpe to find out who did.”

It caught him by surprise and his body jerked, the hand with the gun waving from one side of the passageway to the other.

“You’re police?” he demanded, his voice rising an extra octave.

“Private detective,” I said. “I thought you might have some information nobody else had.”

There was a moment of quiet while he digested it and I got a look at his features. He had a round face, with a brown mustache that seemed stuck on as an afterthought. His hairline had receded well back on his skull, but he had carefully combed his hair to cover his baldness, at least on one side. He was wearing a wine-colored smoking jacket, but his appearance was of only secondary importance to me right now. I was far more interested in the pistol in his hand. It was a nickel-plated revolver, an old High Standard .22 with a nine-shot capacity, in case you missed the first six times.

“You ought to put that down before somebody gets hurt,” I advised.

He looked down at the gun as if he had just discovered he was holding it, and his hand lowered slightly, then snapped back up to center squarely on my chest.

“No, you don’t,” he said. “If you’re who you say you are, show me some identification.”

I hesitated and then gave a little shrug.

“Sure,” I said, reaching toward my top pocket and taking a step upward at the same time.

His eyes followed my hand as I unbuttoned the top of my pocket and the gun lowered just a fraction. I brought my right hand down suddenly in a quick chopping motion, missing his hand but knocking the gun barrel away. His mouth gaped in surprise and he stumbled backward, into the room. I saw the gun coming up again and this time I kicked out, connecting with his wrist. He grunted, more in outrage than in pain, and the gun crashed onto the floor. I scooped it up a half second ahead of him and let him look down the barrel for a change.

“Good for plinking,” I commented, “but my guess is you haven’t used this for a long time. Maybe never. It’s a bad habit, keeping a gun you don’t practice with.”

He stood glaring at me, left hand holding his wrist. “It’s for protection,” he said. “A friend gave it to me. The Quarter is too dangerous these days.”

“Your friend’s right there,” I said, and shoved the door closed. I turned the lock with the same hand holding the gun, an awkward maneuver, and saw sudden realization flood his face.

“You,” he said. “You’re the one …”

“The one-armed man?”

He flinched. “I didn’t say that.”

“Of course not. You meant to say the man who was wanted for killing Cora Thorpe’s lover. And who escaped from the St. Tammany Parish jail.”

His lips moved but he couldn’t think of anything to add. I could see him better now, in the light. He was in his mid-thirties, older than Leeds, and just slightly puffy around the jowls. He exuded the aroma of cologne and his hair glistened from brilliantine.

“Do we have to stand here?” I asked. “It seems unnecessary.”

He nodded assent and sat down quickly on the couch behind him. I took in the rest of the room. It was tastefully furnished, with potted plants along one shelf and a mobile of stained glass hanging from the ceiling. At one end of the room was a giant mirror that made the small living room seem spacious. The furniture was a combination of antique and modern and I could tell that it had been waxed and dusted in the past twenty-four hours.

“Who are you afraid of, Mr. Hahn?”

He bit his lip and I could see that he was trying to make up his mind whether to say anything more.

“Look, you’re scared shitless of somebody. You think whoever killed Gordon is coming here to kill you. Now if you’ll trust me, maybe we can work this out together. Whoever killed Gordon managed to frame me, because with me out of the way they’re safe. With you out of the way they’re probably safer. But if both of us know the same thing, killing either one of us won’t do them any good. Tell me who it is. Give me something to go on.”

The man across from me frowned and then stared down at his slippers. His shoulders heaved and then he started to tremble all over. He started to say something but his voice cracked and suddenly he was crying.

“He told me they were after him,” he said through his tears. “He told me that night. He was here. He said he was going to see somebody, somebody that could help him. He said it was only a few blocks away. I offered to go with him but he wouldn’t let me. He said it was too dangerous; he wouldn’t let me take the risk.”

Hahn buried his face in his hands and wept.

“He was going to see me,” I said. “But whoever it was got him first.”

Hahn wagged his head from side to side, disconsolate. “If I’d have gone with him, just walked alongside …”

“There’d be two of you dead now,” I told him. “You don’t have anything to reproach yourself for. There was nothing you could do.”

He looked up through tear-filled eyes. “Do you really believe that?”

“Yes, I do.”

He dipped his head slightly in acknowledgment. “Thank you. That means a great deal.” He reached into his pocket and brought out a handkerchief and I watched him wipe his face. “I’m sorry. I … I loved him, you know.”

“I know. And I’m sorry.”

Hahn nodded again. “Yes. How did you find out my name? Gordie and I agreed … We wouldn’t advertise our relationship.”

“There was a bottle of Amaretto at his house with your initial. You were the only person with a K in his name who signed the funeral register. When I looked up your address it was in the Quarter. It seemed worth checking out.” No need, I thought, to tell him about my conversation with Scott.

“I understand,” he said, shaking his head slowly from side to side. “We decided to keep everything quiet. No more of the leather-jacket bars that he used to go to when I first met him a year ago. I convinced him they were too dangerous. He agreed. I suppose they weren’t any worse than the streets, though.”

“Who was after him, Mr. Hahn? Who was he so afraid of?”

“A man,” Hahn said bleakly. “He wouldn’t tell me his name. He just said it was a very powerful man.”

“How did he meet this man?”

“It was an accident. It was all an accident. That’s what was so absurd. Everything was an accident. Just the way he found the artifacts. An accident.” He stared over at me, demanding my agreement, and I nodded.

“Go on.”

“You see, we used to go shopping sometimes. I was helping him furnish his apartment. Some of the things he had in there before we met.” He wagged his head again in disapproval. “Atrocious. I make my living as an interior decorator. The furnishings must mediate between the essence of the architecture and the personality of the inhabitant. We were in a flea market near Fat City. I think Gordie was just teasing me. Pretending he was going to buy some perfectly horrible trash. He started talking with the proprietor, a Mr. Tanoos. Lebanese, you know.” He shifted slightly in his chair. “They started talking and Gordie mentioned that he was an archaeologist. This Tanoos began to warm up to him, though, of course, I knew he was only interested in making a sale. I wanted Gordie to come along and just when I thought he was ready, this man told him that he had some things that would interest a discriminating person. Naturally, Gordie was curious, so he followed Tanoos into the back and Tanoos went to a big chest he had in one corner of this horribly untidy little office. He opened it and we looked down inside.

“There were several sacks and he lifted them out, one by one, and placed them on the desk there. Then he began to empty them in front of us. Some contained spear points, made of obsidian and flint. Some were fragments of pottery, and there were some little clay dolls. And there was a small object of polished stone that Gordie told me later was an unusual jade.

“Well, I thought it was fairly interesting, because Gordie had taught me a little about Mayan artifacts. But I was hardly prepared for his reaction. He stared down at them as if he couldn’t make up his mind what he was seeing, and then he began to examine them one by one. He turned a deathly pale and for a minute I thought he was getting ready to faint. His eyes were bright, like somebody with a fever, and then he asked Tanoos how much he wanted for them.

“Naturally, Tanoos knew he had a victim and I’ve no doubt whatsoever that he doubled the price. As it was, Gordie wrote out a check for four hundred dollars. I was appalled. I helped him gather up the artifacts and we left. It was only when we got home to my place that he explained what they were.”

He looked down at the floor and tried to find his next words. I waited, trying to imagine the scene: Gordon Leeds, the bags of artifacts on the coffee table, checking each item again and again. Because I already had guessed part of the answer.

“They were all from Ek Balam, weren’t they?” I asked.

Hahn looked up, surprised. “Yes. They were. He said he remembered excavating some of them himself. But most of them he’d never seen. It was just the style, and the fact that they were associated with other items he knew he had dug up, that allowed him to conclude that they were all from the same place. The only thing that wasn’t from Ek Balam was the little jade object, but he said it was in the Mayan style. He said they traded a lot of things like that back and forth.”

“So what did he do?” I asked.

Hahn waved a hand and the big red stone of his ring gleamed in the lamplight. “He anguished. That’s what he did. He knew someone had robbed the site, had actually been smuggling out things while they were working there. Naturally, his suspicion fell on this Indian fellow, the chief of the native crew. But he knew he had to be in cahoots with somebody else, somebody with good contacts, somebody who could set up the deal. He also knew that what he’d bought had to be just a small sample of the less valuable artifacts. Nobody would go to that much trouble for just a few things.”

I got up and walked to the other side of the room. The air conditioner must have cut on because suddenly it seemed very cold inside.

“The next day he went back to talk to this Tanoos,” Hahn went on, “but Tanoos had left and nobody knew where he was. People didn’t seem to want to talk about it. Somebody had gotten to Tanoos and scared him away. I’ll remember Gordie’s face for the rest of my life, the way he came in that day, bitter, his eyes angry. He told me he knew who’d done it. He knew who’d stolen the artifacts.”

“And who did he say it was?” I asked.

Karl Hahn looked me in the eye and when he spoke again his voice was cold. “He said it was his professor, Dr. Gregory Thorpe.”