Mourner (11 page)

1

Parker awoke to darkness, and something burning his side. He was lying on his back on a lot of rocks with an invisible flame searing his side. He moved, and the rocks made noises under him, scraping together, and then memory imploded into his mind.

They'd underestimated the fat bastard. They'd figured him to wait till they were clear of the house, maybe even clear of the city, and he'd second-guessed them. He'd dragged that crazy little gun out from somewhere, and now he was gone with the money and the mourner, and here Parker was lying on broken pieces of statues with a burning in his side.

He rolled over to the right because the pain was on the left side, and got his knees under him, then stabbed out with his hands till they hit a pedestal. Slowly he climbed up the pedestal till he was standing on his feet. He was weak and dizzy, and when he took a step it was bad footing because of all the broken pieces of statue everywhere on the carpet. He made it to a wall, and then felt his way along the wall to the end and made the turn, bumping into the bookcase. Now he knew where he was. He kept going around the wall till he got to the door and found the light switch. He flicked the light on.

Everything was a mess. The room was a mess, broken statues and tipped-over pedestals everywhere, the mourner and the suitcases both gone. His side was a mess, shirt and trousers cold and sticky with blood. And Handy sprawled over there like a dummy dumped off a cliff, was an even worse mess. From the look of the blood on him, and his dead-white face, he was gut-shot.

Parker went over, still very shaky on his feet, and dropped to his knees beside him. Handy was still breathing, very slow and shallow. Both guns were still there, the.380 and the Terrier, lying on the floor among the broken statues. The fat bastard had been in a big hurry.

It was a good thing. If he'd taken his time, he might have done the job right.

Never underestimate the power of a smooth-talking amateur.

Parker gathered up the Terrier, got back to his feet, and lurched over to the door. He opened it, and saw light. Down at the far end of the hall there was a staircase the front staircase, not the one they'd come up and light was coming up from there. And, dimly, party noises.

Parker looked at his watch. Twenty to twelve. He'd been out for over three hours. Kapor was home, the party was going on.

He thought it out, came to a decision, and sat down on the floor next to the door. He kept the door slightly open, so he could hear when the party ended, be warned if anybody came upstairs.

When he pulled his shirt out of his trousers, so he could look at the wound, the pain suddenly intensified, almost blacking him out again. A kind of green darkness closed in all around him, like a camera lens closing. He leaned his back against the wall and breathed deeply until the green darkness went away. Then he looked at the wound.

The bullet had ploughed a deep furrow in the flesh along his side, just above the belt. His whole side was discoloured, grey and purplish and black, and sensitive to the touch, like a Charley horse. The furrowed flesh was ragged, and smeared with dried blood. Fresh blood still oozed sluggishly from the wound. As far as he could tell, the bullet wasn't in him, but had scored his side and kept on going.

So he'd come out of it better than Handy. All he had was a pain in the side. It wouldn't even disable him badly, once a doctor had seen to it.

He looked at his watch again. Ten to twelve. The party was still going on. To his right he could hear the shallow, laboured breathing of Handy. If the party lasted too long, Handy wouldn't make it.

His left arm was stiffening up. The fingers wouldn't work right. He transferred the Terrier to his left hand, so he could get out a cigarette, and the hand wouldn't hold on to the gun. It fell to the carpet, Parker cursed under his breath, and left it there. He lit a cigarette, and leaned his head back against the wall, and sat there with the cigarette in his mouth, listening to the party noises and Handy's uneven breathing. His feet were out in front of him, and his arms were hanging at his sides, the hands resting palm up on the floor. A pins-and-needles feeling kept running up and down his left side and down his left arm. His fingers on that side felt like sausages, thick and unresponsive.

The seconds limped by, dragging sacks, forming into long lines. Every line took for ever to form, and then was only one more minute. Parker lit a fresh cigarette off the butt of the old one. Then that cigarette was smoked down, and he lit another fresh one. And again.

They were happy as hell downstairs.

This was six. Six times in his life he'd been shot. And this was the second time he'd been left for dead. The first time, it had been a heavier slug, and well aimed, but it had hit his belt buckle instead of his stomach, and he'd managed to crawl away from that one with only the loss of appetite for a while. In England, in forty-four, an MP had winged him when he'd taken a truckful of stolen tyres through a roadblock. And three other times it had happened. He was almost as shot up as Tom Mix.

He tried to lift his left arm so he could look at his watch, but the arm felt as though it had been injected full of lead. He reached over with his right hand and grabbed his left wrist and lifted. It was a quarter after one. The sweep-second hand was in no hurry; the other two hands were just painted on.

They were too happy down there. Why the hell didn't they go home?

What if Kapor decided to show somebody all his pretty statues?

Parker grimaced, and reached over with his right hand to pick up the Terrier. He held it in his lap, and smoked, and waited. Whenever he finished a cigarette, he butted it against the wall board. There weren't any ashtrays handy.

Handy sounded like he was snoring. Blood in his throat, probably. So maybe he wouldn't make it, and the fat bastard would be batting five hundred.

It was getting quieter downstairs. He lifted his hand again to look at his watch, and it was twenty to two. He felt as though he'd been sitting here for days. The burning had lessened in his side, and so had the pins and needles. Now there was a dull numbness, with a low throbbing pain behind it.

Quieter and quieter. He reached up and, grabbing the doorknob, pulled himself upright. The green darkness closed in again, and he waited, leaning against the wall next to the doorway, until slowly it faded away again. The cigarettes hadn't helped; they'd just made him more lightheaded.

When he could take a chance on walking, he went through the doorway and lurched across to the opposite wall, so he could lean his right side against it. He moved along, more slowly than he wanted, until he got to the head of the stairs. He peered around the edge of the wall, and he was looking down at the big front hall, with a parquet floor. The front door was open, and people were leaving. Kapor was smiling and nodding, and telling them all good-bye. They were speaking a lot of different languages, French, and German and some others. Nobody was speaking English.

It took them a long while to clear out. Two or three loudmouthed women in furs took the longest. Then the front door closed at last, and only Kapor and his butler-bodyguard were left standing in the hall.

Kapor said something, and the bodyguard bowed and went away. They were both wearing formal dress, like waiters. Kapor yawned, patted his mouth with the back of his hand. Then he took out a flat gold cigarette case and took his time lighting a cigarette. When he finally had it going, he turned around and started up the stairs.

He was short and slender and a dandy, with a hawk face and ferret eyes. His hands and face were so pale they looked as though they'd been dusted with flour. He didn't see Parker until he was all the way to the top of the stairs. When he saw Parker, and the gun, he opened his mouth wide without making any sound.

Parker said, "Keep it soft. Walk ahead of me to the trophy room."

"The what?"

"The statues," Parker said.

Sudden alarm showed on Kapor's face, and then was wiped away again. "What are you doing here?"

"We'll talk. In the trophy room."

"Shall I shout for help?"

"You won't shout twice. Move."

Kapor hesitated, thinking it over, but his eyes kept flicking past Parker towards the room where the statues were. He wanted to know if the money was still in the Apollo. He shrugged and walked past Parker down the hall.

"Move slow."

Kapor glanced back at him. "I see you've been wounded."

"Just move slow and steady."

Parker braced himself, and then staggered over to the opposite wall. He wanted to keep his right side as a support.

Kapor walked into the room first, and stopped short in the doorway, staring at the wreckage. Then he saw the Apollo, with its head off. "What has hap"

"That's right," Parker told him. "It's gone."

Parker followed him in, and closed the door. He leaned his back against it. He would have liked to sit down on the floor again, but it would have been wrong psychologically.

Then Kapor saw Handy lying there, breath still bubbling faintly in and out of him. "Is he the one who shot you?"

"No. You ever hear of Menlo?"

"Auguste Menlo?" Kapor looked surprised, and then frightened, and then artificially surprised. "What would the Inspector have to do with this?"

"We're going to make a deal, Kapor."

"We are? I don't yet know what you're talking about."

"The hundred grand is gone. Go take a look in the statue. It's gone."

"I can see that."

"I can get you half of it back."

"Half?"

"That's better than none."

Kapor glanced at Handy. "He's dying," he said.

"If he dies, the deal's off."

"What deal? Say what you've got to say."

"I can tell you things you want to know. And I can get you half the dough back. That's what I do for you. What you do for me you get a doctor who won't make a police report on bullet wounds. In your job, you must know a doctor like that."

Kapor nodded briefly. His eyes were wary.

"You also take care of my partner. Keep him here till he's on his feet. When he's well enough to travel, I give you your dough back."

"How do I know you can get it back?"

"I know who's got it, and where he's going."

"You seem sure."

"I am sure. He's too greedy not to go there."

"Whatever that may mean. This other point. You said you could tell me something I might want to know. What would that be?"

"Is it a deal?"

"How do I know, until I've heard what you have to tell me?"

"Forget that part. That's bonus. For half the dough back, is it a deal?"

Kapor shrugged, and looked at Handy. "I think he will die anyway. Then you won't give me the money."

"So make up your mind quick. The sooner he sees a doctor, the better."

"If he is going to die and I get no money, why should I deal with you?"

"It's worth the chance."

"Possibly."

"Definitely. You don't have a week to think it over."

"Very true. All right, it's a deal."

"I want a doctor. Fast. For him, to keep him alive. And for me, to tape me up so I can travel. If I can't travel, I can't get you your dough back."

"Now, what do you have to tell me that I want to know?"

"After the doctor gets here. Where do I find a bed?"

"I see." Kapor smiled thinly. "There is no trust wasted between us, eh? Am I permitted to know a name by which I may call you?"

"Pick one you like."

"Of course. You may use the bedroom directly across the hall. As to your friend, I do not think we should move him without medical advice."

"That's right."

Parker slid over until he was clear of the door, then opened it and went out to the hallway. He angled over to the opposite doorway, shoved the door open, found the light switch. He didn't see anything else in the room at all, only the bed. He went over and dropped down on to it and rolled over on to his back. He kept the gun in his hand. He closed his eyes, because the ceiling light made them burn, but he wouldn't let himself lose consciousness.

After a while, he heard a movement and opened his eyes. Kapor had come in. "I've called the doctor. I'll have him look at your friend first, of course." Kapor switched on the table lamp beside the bed, then went over and turned off the ceiling light. "That will be more restful," he said. "When you see the doctor, it might be best to tell him nothing."

"Don't worry."

"I seem to have much to worry about. But I will try to take your advice."

He left, and Parker lay there, gripping the gun and holding to consciousness. The green darkness closed down around him again, leaving only one small opening in the centre. He lay that way, suspended, not awake and not asleep, until the doctor came in.

The doctor was a stocky man with a brown moustache. He looked angry. He didn't say anything at first, then he said, "Put that damn gun away."