KILLER'S LAW

WHEN Kyle stepped off the Capitol Limited and into the confused fury of Washington, a headline caught his glance:

SENATOR MORRAN BEGINS
COPPER QUIZ

A few hours from now, his own name would be blazing there, black as the ink in which it would be printed. Kyle knew nothing of prophecy; his interest was in getting through this stampede of people and completing his mission. Already he was creating a mild sensation. Palo Alto hat, silver thong, scarlet kerchief, high-heeled boots and his six feet three of gawky, bony height commanded attention.

He stood for a moment in the crowded, clanging dusk, looking toward the lighted dome of the Capitol, trying without much success to savor the scene and feel patriotic. A redcap, eyeing his huge bag now that Kyle had dragged it all the way through the station from the train, swooped down with confidence born of the stranger’s obvious confusion. The action met abruptly explosive resistance.

Kyle said, “Hands off.”

The redcap retained his hold as a legal right to a tip. Kyle gave the handle a twist which sent him reeling. A few people paused to watch.

A cop said, “What’s the matter here? Keep moving, you.”

Kyle said testily, “Move along, hell. I’m Sheriff Kyle of Deadeye, Nevada, and I got an appointment to meet Senator Morran—”

“Yeah?” the cop said.

“Could I be of assistance?” said a smooth-faced gentleman. “Your name, I think, is Kyle. Senator Morran sent me down to meet you.” He laughed good-naturedly and nodded to the cop. “That’s all right, Officer.”

The cop was satisfied. The redcap departed without tip.

“My name is Johnson, Sheriff,” the smooth-faced man said. “John Johnson. Just call me Johnny.” He laughed. “And now we’ll see about getting you to the senator.”

“Hold it,” Kyle said. “How do I know who you are?” He had to bend over to look at Johnson. He did so and said, “Why don’t you just run along and tell the senator I’ll be with him soon. I’m taking a cab.”

“Well—” Johnson turned toward a waiting limousine and Kyle’s glance collided with the chauffeur’s. He moved away while Johnson still hesitated, and hailed a cab.

“Soreham Hotel,” he told the driver.

The Soreham Hotel was lighted in every window, its walks aglitter with dinner gowns, its lobby thick with political cigar smoke and the aura of martinis. Kyle asked the desk clerk for the senator’s room number and a house phone.

The phone didn’t answer. He went up.

Senator Morran’s room was 310. Its door, open to darkness, surprised Kyle. The faint hall light reached poorly into the room, but showed a dark, irregular streak, running jaggedly along the floor.

Kyle was in the act of stepping backward when the room exploded into Roman candle brilliance. The pain came fractionally later, just as the lights careened out again. His last conscious impression was of himself, trying to push the floor away with his hands.

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