Hire a Hangman (28 page)

At the third-floor landing, Vance turned the knob on the metal-clad fire door. Slowly, cautiously, he drew the door open, stepped into the deserted corridor. Above the elevator doors, a Lucite bar glowed green: going up. He stepped back inside the open service doorway. The green light blinked out; the elevator was going higher, to the fourth floor. Once more he stepped into the corridor, let the fire door close on its pneumatic cylinder. Beneath his jacket he could feel the pistol. He’d been carrying the pistol for more than an hour, as if the heavy metallic bulk were an essential part of himself. The gun was identical to the army-issue .45 automatic, the gun he’d earned a sharpshooter’s medal with, in the National Guard. A round was in the chamber, and the safety was off. Cock the hammer, and the semiautomatic would fire until it was empty, eight shots, one shot for each squeeze of the trigger.

As he walked down the corridor to his own door, he took his keys from his pocket. Was the corridor always so quiet? Until now, he’d never wondered. Until now, he’d never—

At the far end of the corridor, from the doorway of the carpeted staircase that served the front of the building, he heard something move, caught a fragmentary glimpse of a hand and a sleeve, now quickly gone. In the open doorway of the front staircase, standing as he’d just stood on the landing of the rear stairway, someone was concealed.

A policeman on stakeout?

A burglar, waiting for someone to leave an apartment empty?

A killer, waiting?

He was standing at his own door, his key ring in his hand. Covertly eyeing the front doorway, he shifted the keys to his left hand; with his right hand he lowered his jacket’s zipper. As the zipper bottomed and the jacket came open, he touched the butt of the .45 with his right hand. As long as he remained facing the apartment door, he could draw the gun unseen. When he turned to face his assailant, the gun would be in position. Draw back the hammer, aim, squeeze, fire. Eight shots.

With his head still turned to face the apartment, he angled his gaze to his left, so that any movement in the hallway door would register in his peripheral vision. With his right hand on the .45’s butt, he used his left hand to insert the key in the lock. He began to rotate the key—and went hollow at his center, the emptiness of instantaneous panic. Because there was no resistance. The door was unlocked.

It was important, he knew, to remain calm, somehow to replenish the void within. Cold, complete discipline, all the difference, now. He could have forgotten to lock the door when he left. Imagining what Barbara would do during their meeting, distracted, he had forgotten to lock the door.

Either he’d forgotten—or someone was inside. There was no other possibility. Meaning that he must now return the key to his pocket, then begin turning the doorknob. In the next seconds he would—

The door refused to open. The lock was free, the doorknob was rotated to its stop, but the door remained closed.

Bolted, from the inside.

10:14
PM

Inside the lobby, Hastings looked at the elevator, looked at the stairway door beside the elevator, considered, then pulled the unlocked staircase door open and drew his revolver. Wishing he had a walkie-talkie, some connection with the reinforcements that were on the way, he began climbing the stairs two at a time, the carpeting muffling the sound of his steps. At the second-floor landing he stopped, listened. Was someone on the stairs above—the third-floor landing? Was it a sound, or was it his nerves? Someday, he knew, crouched in an alien hallway with his gun in his hand, he’d realize that he’d grown too old for field command. Aware that the butt of his revolver was slick with sweat, he began slowly climbing the stairs, looking up. At the landing between the floors, back flat against the staircase wall, revolver raised, he stole a quick, furtive look. Sylvia, the lady locksmith, stood beside her red tool kit on the next landing above. Hastings covered half of the distance separating them before she suddenly turned, eyes wide, startled. With her gaze fixed on the revolver, her mouth came open. Hastings urgently raised his forefinger to his lips, sharply shook his head. Three double steps took him to her side. “Where’s Bernhardt?” he whispered.

“Inside the apartment. And there’s someone at the door. Is it him?”

“Muscular? Good-looking? Dark blond hair? About forty?” Eyes saucer-wide, she nodded. Carefully avoiding the tool chest, he gestured urgently down the stairs. “Get down there,” he whispered. “All the way down. Get outside.
Now.”
As she nodded, then reflexively stopped to pick up her tools, he shook his head. “
No.
Leave them.
Go,
dammit.”

She frowned, hesitated. He grasped her shoulder, hard.
“Go.”
She blinked once, shrugged, obeyed. Hastings stepped around the toolbox again, raised the revolver, swallowed hard—and began inching toward the open doorway.

10:15
PM

As Vance released the doorknob, he heard the mechanism click, the sound so loud it might fill the corridor. Inside—whoever was in there, lying in ambush—they had surely heard the sound. Blood hammering in his ears, he stepped back, raised the Colt, looked toward the front stairway door. One was in his apartment, waiting. One was in the nearby doorway, watching. The police—surely the police.

Or had Barbara hired killers? After he’d called her, she would have had time to call the killers, give them their orders. She’d been terrified when he’d said he was leaving. She would do anything to save herself, to keep him from going.

With his eyes fixed on the open doorway sheltering its unknown occupant, he began backing toward the rear service stairway, back the way he’d come.

Someone hidden in his apartment, with the door bolted, blocking that avenue of retreat, of sanctuary. Someone hidden in the hall doorway, blocking retreat down the front stairs.

Leaving only the rear stairs.

If there were two of them, only two, then he could escape.

But were there more of them? Had one of the killers let him enter the building from the rear, springing the trap? In the alley, was someone hidden, waiting?

Only a dozen strides separated him from the fire door. Less than a dozen, now. And now his fingers touched the metal of the door. But should he go through the door, committing himself to the steel-and-concrete confines of the service staircase? With one of them below him and two of them above, he would be helpless, caught in their crossfire. Should he open the door, conceal himself, play the doorway game, cat catch a rat?

Cat catch a rat—

It was a game he’d played as a child.

The sudden memory, a wayward flash from long ago, was touched with hysteria.

Were they winning, then?

Was he losing?

All his life, even playing the games of childhood, he’d lost. Casting him up here now, cowering in this alien doorway, cat catch a rat.

Once he’d been the cat. But now he—

In the front hallway door he saw a flicker of movement, just a flicker. Then he saw first parts of the whole: first a shoe, then a leg—followed by a jacket-clad arm and a hand—

The hand holding a gun.

A revolver.

A short-barreled revolver.

A policeman’s weapon.

10:15:30
PM

With his foot and arm exposed—and the gun exposed—Hastings took a last look down the carpeted front stairway, drew a deep breath, stepped clear of the doorway. Vance’s apartment, he knew, was four doors ahead, on the left. What was Bernhardt’s situation, inside the apartment? Had Bernhardt bolted the door from the inside? If he hadn’t, he could be a captive—a hostage.

Friedman was in the front lobby. Canelli was covering the rear, standard police procedure. And help was coming, already on the way. In minutes, Friedman would begin sending in the reinforcements. So it was only necessary to—

At the far end of the corridor, something had moved—a hint, nothing more. Was someone leaving an apartment farther down the corridor, also on the left? Or was someone—

The doorway to the rear stairs. It must be the fire door where someone was hiding, showing only the point of a shoulder, part of a face.

A man’s face. Vance’s face? Someone else, a stranger?

With his left hand, Hastings drew his shield case from his pocket, draped it over the breast pocket of his jacket. Then, gripping the revolver firmly in his right hand, slowly and deliberately, the sheriff advancing down the dusty Western street, he moved across the corridor to the left wall, then began advancing toward number 305, Vance’s apartment. At any moment, Friedman would send the reinforcements in. He would send a man to reinforce Canelli. He would send two or three men up the front staircase. Tactically, therefore, Hastings should wait. If Vance had a gun—the .45, a killer handgun—then the odds were too long.

But where was Bernhardt? Was Bernhardt in danger? A captive?

He had reached number 305. Cautiously he gripped the doorknob, turned, heard the latch click, felt it release. The door was unlocked. He stepped back, drew a long, deep breath, blinked to clear his vision, swallowed once—and pushed at the knob. Nothing. Whoever was inside, Bernhardt or Vance, he’d bolted the door. Gently, Hastings drew the door fully closed, slowly rotated the knob until there was no more pressure. Then he glanced back at the front stairway. Had he heard sounds from the front stairway? Holding his breath, he listened. Except for background street sounds, he heard nothing.

Who was inside 305? Bernhardt? Vance? Both?

Who was concealed in the open service doorway? Could it be Canelli?

Always, it came down to this: crouching in a strange corridor, fighting to subdue the panic that rose like bitter bile. Hide-and-seek, a deadly game of guesses, loser leaves on a gurney, dead or dying. And if the cop was the winner, the reward was another hallway, another game of guesses. Another winner, another loser. And always there was the shameful secret: the paralysis of fear that could freeze the limbs in their sockets. Meaning that it was necessary to move forward. Not back, to safety. But forward, toward whatever waited in the shadows. Because others would come. Others would see—and would know.

10:16
PM

If he moved forward, took two steps into the corridor, raised the .45, aimed, fired, he could kill the detective who was flattened against the hallway wall, hand on the doorknob, eyes fixed on the door of 305. A split second, no more, kill or be killed, and Hastings would go down.

But instead of stepping forward he was stepping back—one step, two steps—surrendering his view of the corridor, surrendering his advantage. Meaning that he must turn, go silently down the stairs. Before more police arrived—before Hastings appeared above him on the stairs—he must be in the alley. Two choices: go for the alley, or fire on Hastings.

Kill or be killed.

10:17
PM

Canelli raised the walkie-talkie, keyed the mike, spoke softly: “Lieutenant …”

“Go ahead.” Friedman’s voice, too, was soft. “Anything?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing here. Are you sure there’s no other way out?”

“Not back here, there isn’t.”

“Okay.”

“I’m still in my unit,” Canelli said. “But I thought I’d get a little closer to that door, if he comes out. There’s a dumpster back here. And I could—”

In the alleyway darkness, the light changed on the steel door.

“Canelli? What is it?”

“I think someone’s coming out,” Canelli said. “I’d better go.” He released the Transmit switch, turned down the volume, holstered the walkie-talkie at his hip. Slowly he pushed the cruiser’s door open. Thank God, the dome light was disconnected, score one for the motor-pool mechanics. Or had the bulb simply burned out, the luck of the draw?

Eyes fixed on the steel door, Canelli drew his revolver as he slowly, soundlessly advanced, angling toward the dumpster with its thick steel sides and its deep, safe shadows.

10:17:20
PM

From the metal stairs rising two flights above, Vance heard the sound of footsteps descending: Hastings, closing in, blocking escape. Looking up, Vance saw a hand clutching the railing, giving up one grip for another grip, a foot farther down.

Years—months—minutes. All of them gone. Leaving only this: seconds, kill or be killed.

Or surrender. Throw down the .45, beg them for mercy, offer his wrists for the handcuffs.

Or escape. One last chance, through the alley.

He turned his back on the stairs, grasped the knob of the steel door—

Pulled it slowly open.

10:19
PM

Still midway between the open expanse of the alley’s entrance and the safety of the dumpster, exposed, Canelli saw the sheen of the flat steel door disappear, replaced by a rectangle of darkness.

And a leg, emerging from the darkened rectangle.

And an arm.

And a hand, holding the gun: the big, deadly automatic. Vance turned to face him.

Dropping into a crouch, revolver raised, the approved stance, Canelli shouted, “Drop it, Vance.
Now.”

10:20
PM

Standing motionless on the second-floor landing, risking a momentary look down over the railing, Hastings heard Canelli shouting to Vance.

A shot. A muffled cry. Another shot. And another. Hastings’s shoes rang on the steel stairs, echoing in the ringing silence after the shots. At ground level, the outside door was standing half-open.

Headlong, Hastings kicked the door open wide, flattened himself momentarily against the rough concrete wall beside the door. Above him, a single light in a wire cage illuminated his position. He was exposed: bad tactics. Vance firing from the cover of darkness: good tactics.

“Lieutenant. Watch it.”
Canelli’s voice, barely audible, choked with pain. Canelli, down.

Instinctively, a diversion, Hastings fired into the alley, aiming high, to draw fire. Five shots in the revolver, the hammer resting on an empty chamber, good police practice. Four shots remaining. Now he must—

Answering fire: two deafening, close-range shots, from the big .45. Sparks flew on the fire door, just above his head. Throwing himself forward into the alley, diving, rolling to his left, Hastings saw movement in the darkness: Vance, running. On his elbows, aiming, Hastings fired once, twice. A short-barreled revolver fired double-action, a waste of ammunition, only two shots remaining. He heaved himself to his feet. Was Canelli badly wounded? Bleeding to death in the darkness? Could Canelli—?