I regained consciousness with the sound of voices in my ears, voices that swelled into sound, receded and then boomed back into noise like the pound of distant surf on a coral reef.
I was only dimly conscious of the ache in my head. I was primarily concerned in fighting for breath. My hands were tied so I couldn’t reach at the gag which had been stuffed into my mouth, and I was barely getting enough air to keep from strangling.
For what seemed hours, I tried to time my breathing so I could get enough air to keep alive. Before I could get my lungs fully filled, I had to exhale. Before I could get the dead air out, I was fighting to get fresh air in.
For a long time, the sounds I heard didn’t mean anything.
Then I became aware that the sounds were words and the words conveyed ideas, although the meaning seemed impersonal and detached despite the fact that it concerned my life.
A man, speaking in well-modulated tones, seemed to be very much put out. There was an accentless quality in the speech that enabled me to identify the voice. It was that of the well-dressed man in the gray suit with the pearl-gray tie. He said, “You damn fools need a guardian. Don’t you know that those ropes will leave marks that will be visible at the post-mortem, and that gag—how the hell are we going to make it look like a hit-and-run case with the marks of ropes on his arms and a gag in his mouth?—Give me that knife.—He’ll stay unconscious until we get ready to dump him. He’s a frail little drink of water. Why tie him up? If he comes to, we can beat him back to sleep. Here, give me that knife.”
I felt a crushing weight on my chest, then cold steel along the back of my neck. By an effort I managed to remain limp and motionless.
The knife cut through the cloth gag. I felt it loosen, and it took all of my control to keep from sucking in a lungful of fresh air. I managed to breathe slowly and evenly.
“Jesus,” he said, “he’s half blue already. You smother him with that gag, and then try to make it look like an accident. God, if I could only get someone who had half the intelligence of a medium-sized canary bird. I don’t mind having to work with rats, but I’d like to find someone with a quarter of the sense that God gave a half-grown, reasonably well-nourished rat.”
The knife cut through the ropes that held my wrists. I could feel blood tingling into my numbed fingertips as though an electric battery was pouring current into my arms.
Above me the tirade went on and on, a monologue of well-modulated accusation and abuse.
No one tried to answer him. I couldn’t tell whether he was talking to one person or half a dozen.
“All right, fools, dumbbells,” he said angrily, “give me a hand. Get him in this car. Cover him with this robe.—Now get the hell out and build alibis for yourselves.”
Alfred’s voice said, “Better let me go, boss, in case you need—”
“Don’t be a damn fool,” came the interruption of that cold, accentless voice. “The more men, the more alibis we have to fake. Get out and get on the job. Scatter. Leave this little runt to me. He isn’t any bigger than a second hand on a lady’s wristwatch.—And, Christ, look at the trouble he’s caused. Well, he’s all washed up now. He’ll return to the scene of the crime, prowling around the Mountain Crest Apartments, and some hit-and-run driver will knock him into the morgue. That’s all there’ll be to it.”
Hands clutched at my shoulders, at my ankles. I was lifted and tossed into an automobile. The jar of hitting the floor of the automobile sent me back into oblivion.
When I came to again, there was no noise save the rumble of the running gear as the tires rolled along the paved highway. That rumble was magnified by my aching head until it felt as though a pneumatic riveter was at work on my brain.
I lay there, taking stock of the situation. Because I’ve always been too small to put up much of a fight, I’ve developed a general technique of fighting. It’s conserve your energy, play a waiting game, never hit until you can land a knockout, and when you do hit, have no rules of sportsmanship to hamper your technique. Don’t use your fist, if a club’s handy. Don’t use a club, if there’s a gun.
Bertha Cool says I have a warped disposition, that I’m plain poison.
Well, this was the end of the trail. I was nauseated from the beatings I’d received, and just about half conscious. If I’d been fully conscious, I couldn’t have done anything. At the first move from me, the driver would turn around, smack me with a slung shot as casually as he’d have hit a fly with a flyswatter. I’d have gone back down with a fractured skull. I’d been beaten, pummeled, kicked, and clubbed. I’d dabbled with crooked politics and had lost out. I was holding the short end of the ticket. The telephone line to Bertha Cool’s office had been tapped, of course. They’d been waiting for me when I picked up the letter at general delivery. I knew the chances I’d been taking. Bertha Cool had warned me of them, but I’d wanted that letter. What the hell. I’d taken a gamble and lost.
I couldn’t have mustered enough strength to have struggled free of the folds of that automobile robe even if I’d known I could have caught the driver unawares. I was in that border state between consciousness and unconsciousness which is like the few minutes before slumber comes at night or wakefulness in the morning. My mind was a warped lens projecting a distorted image on the screen of my consciousness. I knew it was the end. In one way I didn’t care. I’d absorbed too much of a beating to want to fight back. My bruised body only wanted rest. Physically, I was licked. Mentally, I wasn’t. I wanted revenge. I knew I was going, but I wanted to take this guy with me. I found myself wishing my skin was stuffed with nitroglycerin, that I had some way of exploding myself and taking us all into eternity. I couldn’t plan intelligently because my mind wasn’t functioning clearly enough, but I did make up my mind that when he stopped the car and opened the door to take me out, I’d feign unconsciousness until the last, and trust that I could drive my heel into his chin hard enough to give me a chance.
It was just an idle dream. After what seemed a succession of jolting hours, the car came to a stop. The door opened. I felt hands tugging at the auto robe. Then a hand caught my leg and jerked. My head hit something, and the blackness of unconsciousness engulfed me.
It was the fresh air and the cold pavement which brought me to. I could hear the steady chirp of frogs in a pool somewhere nearby. The stars were blazing down with calm splendor. The night air was cool and bracing, and the oiled surface of the road was like a cake of ice.
A car was standing in the center of the road facing me. The headlights were glaring into my tortured eyes. A tall figure was walking away from me, toward the car.
I lunged forward and up. I tried to take a swift, running step. My knees buckled. I came down in a heap.
I saw the silhouetted figure against the headlights turn, start running toward me.
I knew I couldn’t trust my legs. I threw myself in a twisting headlong spin which sent me rolling dizzily down the banked roadway into the deep ditch.
I had a hazy second of unconsciousness. Then, above me, I saw a figure bending down. I could hear the rattle of loose rocks sliding down the steep grade of the embankment.
I tried to close my right hand into a fist. The fingers were clutching a rock.
The man bent over me. I could hear his heavy breathing. He raised his arm.
I flung the rock.
The expenditure of energy was too much for me. I went into the blackness again.
I don’t know when it was that I regained consciousness. Dew had commenced to form. My hair was damp. The rocks were slimed with moisture. A weight lay across my waist, a weight which pinned me down.
I felt stronger now. I struggled to a sitting position. The weight was that of the inert body of the man who had taken me for a ride.
I thought at first he was dead and acted on that assumption. After a while, when I got strong enough to roll him off my legs, I felt for a pulse. There was a thin, barely perceptible throb at his wrist.
I fished through his pockets and found a flashlight. There was a gun in a shoulder holster under his left armpit. I turned on the flashlight. It was the man in gray. My rock had struck him on the left temple. There was a big, bruised welt from which blood was slowly seeping. His face was almost without color.
I went through his pockets. The driving license and cards showed he was Ralph Cerfitone. He had money in his wallet, something over a thousand dollars.
According to the rules of fair fighting, I should have left the money. To hell with that stuff. I don’t fight fair. The money represented sinews of war. No one had been particularly ethical with me. I stripped every dollar out of the wallet. Sitting there in the cool of the mountain night, I began to feel stronger. I slipped the gun out of the holster. Its weight was reassuring. I snuggled the butt into my hand, and then realized that it was a thirty-eight caliber Smith & Wesson police-positive. The flashlight confirmed the impression.
I guess my brains were really woozy from the beatings I’d received. The significance of the gun didn’t register with me. I pushed it into my hip pocket and got to my feet.
Getting up that embankment was a major job.
The road was a mountain road which ran up to some cabins. At this season of the year, it was practically unused except for Sunday picnickers. Cerfitone’s automobile still stood in the center of the road, the motor idling. God knows how long it had been there.
I climbed in and got the feel of the wheel and gear shift. I eased in the clutch and started driving straight ahead without having any clear idea of where I was going. After a while, I came to a boulevard stop and saw lights to the right. I turned right, and the Mountain Crest Apartments came into view with its blood-red neon sign blazing against the white stars.
Not until then did I get the idea.
I stopped the car to think it over. I took out the gun and looked at it. Undoubtedly, it was one of the three guns Cunner had bought wholesale. Evidently, he’d wanted one for himself and one apiece for two friends. Cerfitone had been one of the “friends.” The guns were identical except for numbers—
I drove the car down to the crossroad where I’d hid the murder gun. I dug out the gun, slipped the exploded shell out of the cylinder, and put in a fresh shell from Cerfitone’s gun. I drove back to where I’d left Cerfitone. He was still unconscious, still breathing. I slipped the murder gun into his shoulder holster and drove away.