Six

 

 

My key turned in the lock and I pushed the door open. I reached to the wall and found the switch-plate. I clicked it on, and nothing happened; the room remained dark. I threw myself to the side, and there was a roar and a bright orange muzzle-flash that lit up the black.

Laying on the floor, I got my jacket open and yanked out the .380 I reached out with my foot and knocked the potted palm over. It fell to the floor with a crash. I heard the shooter move, and there was another bang and a flash. A slug crashed into the wall, nearer to the palm than to me. The .380 bucked in my hands as I fired it four times at the flash’s origin. I crawled on my belly across the carpet, to the other side of the room, sheltering myself behind the arm of the couch. In the dark, there was a rustle, and then a heavy thud, muffled by carpet. A man made a sound like a baby’s gurgle, and then was silent. My ears rang, making the sound of neighborhood dogs barking at the gunshots sound distant and muted, as if underwater. Two white ovals danced in my vision, like holes cut out of the blackness. My blood hummed in my veins and my heart rattled around in its cage. I felt my way along the carpet and turned on the floor lamp, ducking back behind the couch as I did so.

Andrews lay dead, face-down on the carpet. Blood spread and had begun to pool beneath his ruined head. His gun lay on the floor, just under the coffee table.

I set my own gun down on the table. I went to the phone, and dialed.

“This is Eliot O’Ryan,” I gave them my address. “I’ve just killed a burglar. You’ll want to send someone over . . . yes, I’ll stay on the line.”

I stood there looking at my former client’s corpse.

And then my eyes caught on something else—a slip of white paper placed neatly in the center of my desk, and in neat block-printing:

 

Mr. O’Ryan . . .

Helen says hello.

Will return her safely to you for the $500,000 taken from me by Sarabeth Andrews.

If not, she goes the same way as Sarabeth.

I’ll contact you—don’t try to find me.

Find the money.

 

And next to the letter, a lock of Helen’s hair. I set the phone down on the table and picked the letter up, folding it carefully and placing it in the bottom drawer of my desk, between the pages of my phone-book. The lock of hair, I flushed down the toilet in the bathroom. I picked the phone up. The police dispatch operator was saying my name, over and over again, in a monotone. “Mr. O’Ryan . . . Mr. O’Ryan . . . Mr. O’Ryan . . .”

“Sorry. I was sick.”

The dispatcher made a sympathetic noise. “I understand. Are you better now?”

“I think so.”

“We’ll have units there momentarily.”

“I can hear them.” The sirens were a steadily increasing, ghostly scream out on the Boulevard. “You may want to call Captain Holt. Homicide, in Clearview. The man I killed is a suspect in an investigation of his.”

The dispatcher’s tone was unchanging. “I see. I’ll notify him.”

With a whoop the sirens died out, and there was the sound of hard-soled shoes in the courtyard. I opened the door and two blue-uniformed LAPD bulls stepped in with their guns out. I had my free hand in the air.

“The cops are here.”

“Fine.” I hung the phone up.

One of the cops whistled, staring at Andrews. “Good job, buddy. Nice shot.”

I smiled dully at him. All I could think about was Helen, out there somewhere.

And $500,000.

I had a new client.

 

 

THE MANUSCRIPT ENDS HERE