The Assassin (21 page)

‘Don't let it bother you, bud. When we organise we organise. You'll find the robe and the iron right where I said. It ain't none of your business how they got there.'

‘You say I get out through this exit.' Keller referred to the pencilled line. ‘How do you know it will be open, or isn't that any of my business either?'

The man held up one hand, half fooling, half conciliatory.

‘Now don't get mad! Sure it's open, but it's guarded. There'll be one man on it inside the door and another guy hanging around outside. It's right by the way the Cardinal comes through.' He lit another cigarette and began to eat through it at the same hungry rate; he didn't bother to offer one to Keller a second time. ‘All you have to worry about is the guy on the outside of the door,' he said. ‘The way I'm told it's gotta be is pretty simple: he comes in, you knock him over just after he's passed you, you make a run for that door and get the hell out and come back here, see?'

‘What about the gun—what do I do with that?'

‘Just drop it, bud. You wear gloves for this kind of thing, don't you? Anyways, I brought some. They'll fit most sizes.' He pulled a pair of white cotton gloves from an inside pocket and dropped them on Keller's knee. They were loose and when he pulled one on, it covered his hand without restricting the finger movement. The gloves gave him confidence, and by this time he was in need of something to convince him that he might live to spend the money. His employers organised with more than efficiency. The attention to such detail was perfectionist. It gave Keller the feeling that however impossible the project sounded, it must still be possible. Nothing would be allowed to go wrong from their side. He had to make the change, get the pistol out of its hiding place, shoot his man and get out. That was what he was being paid his enormous fee to do. And it made sense the more he thought of the circumstances of this particular killing. Anyone can shoot a pistol at point-blank range, and provided they get their victim through the head, they will probably finish him. But to be sure of killing at anything like a distance they needed an expert. Not just an expert marksman, but someone who knew the vulnerable parts of the human body. And the most difficult was a moving head among other moving heads. But if they didn't fail he wouldn't either. And he wouldn't allow himself to see the target in terms of a human being, or think of it as connected with the impassioned priest of the poor he had watched on Elizabeth's television screen. He had closed his mind in advance to whoever he was told to shoot; the initial shock of finding it was Cardinal Regazzi had been concealed from the gangster sitting beside him, and now it was dissipated by his attention to the mechanics of the assassination. And particular by the details of his own escape.

‘I brought somethin' for you.' The man got up and lifted a tool bag on to the bed. He opened it. There was nothing inside but a thick paper parcel. ‘Here's the first half—twenty-five thousand bucks. You get the rest after you come back here on Monday.'

‘When do I leave America?'

‘When it's cooled down,' the man said. ‘You stay right where you are till someone gives you the okay to move, see? You can count your dough if you get sick of lookin' at that,' He pointed to the TV. ‘You'll get a real good reception with that model,' he went on. ‘I got one at home myself. You better take a trip over to the cathedral this morning. Get the layout clear and know where that confessional is. But don't try going inside it; just say your prayers and get the picture into focus. The box, the door through the rectory, the route the Cardinal takes comin' into the cathedral, and your door out to 51st Street. That's all you need to know, but be sure and know it good, see?'

‘I see,' Keller said. He got up and ripped a corner of the paper away from the package. Hundred-dollar bills were packed in neat layers, bound with broad bands of paper.

‘Didn't you trust me?' the man grinned at him.

‘No,' Keller said. ‘I didn't.' He undid the package and began sorting the money. He looked up briefly to see the other man go.

Twenty-five thousand dollars. And that was only half. He played with the stacks of bills, ruffling them through his fingers like a card-sharp dealing himself aces. More money than he had ever seen in his life. With this he could buy a new identity, a new existence for himself. And for Souha. He remembered her with a shock. She was part of the deal tied in with the killing and the money. A new start for her as much as for him. He wouldn't let himself think of that other woman any more than he would visualise the man whose death was to pay for these dreams of the future. He closed his mind's eye to the face of Elizabeth Cameron, and smashed a fist into the mouth of his own conscience before it could make the name Regazzi into a reproach. He hid the money in his drawer under some shirts, switched off the TV set, and went out, locking the room behind him. The superintendent was in the downstairs passage, reluctantly sweeping the dirty floor. He looked up at him, and then away, wetting his lips.

‘You goin' out?'

Keller decided to make use of him. ‘How do I get to St Patrick's Cathedral from this part?'

The moist mouth sagged open; there was a hairline crack between his upper dentures and the gum, it showed black as the jaw gaped. ‘You goin' to
church?'

‘All Catholics,' Keller said, ‘go to Mass on Sundays.'

‘You take a cab—get out at Madison Avenue …' He stared after him, even when Keller had opened the front door and disappeared into the street; the broom supported him like a crutch. He said some obscenity under his breath and propped it against the wall. It was still there when Keller came back nearly two hours later.

Dallas woke with a cramp pain in her right arm. She had fallen across the bed, face down, with her arm doubled up underneath her. The muscular contraction brought her back to consciousness; it was immediately joined by a throbbing headache which pounded inside her skull as she pulled herself up.

She wore no watch; the light by her bed made her cringe for a moment, but it showed the clock face on her dressing table: six-thirty. She went to the bathroom, one hand to her forehead, her feet dragging as depression over last night's fiasco joined forces with the hangover. She peered at herself in the glass; three pain-killing tablets dissolved in her tooth mug. ‘Christ,' she muttered at the bleared, ravaged face, and it grimaced in sympathy. ‘You sure look like hell this morning.' She had a habit of talking to herself out loud; it was the result of being long periods without anyone else to talk to, when Huntley was busy. It was also the result of watching every word when she did speak. There had to be a safety valve, and it took the form of long, candid, often obscene monologues in private. Everything had got screwed up last night. She drank the aspirin down, and shuddered. She had got stoned, and said a lot of things to Eddi King—Christ Almighty, she remembered inviting him in—she stumbled back to the bedroom and sank down on the bed. If he ever told Huntley about that … If anyone saw her in the library with King and told Huntley she was drunk and calling that bitch niece names. It was all too much for Dallas. She rushed back to the bathroom and was sick. It made her headache worse, but it settled her nerves. Huntley mustn't know; the niece mustn't find out what Dallas had said about her; King must be persuaded to keep quiet. How the hell did she do that? How the hell did she shut his mouth? She cursed herself for letting go, for giving way; she cried a little and then stopped, remembering how awful she already looked. What could she do about King—the question chased round and round in her brain like a panic-stricken rat. The solution which occurred to her first was to renew the offer of the previous night. But he had turned her down. He had turned her down drunk and loused up with crying; maybe sober and looking right, he'd change his mind. It was a ghastly risk, but her own body was the only coin of exchange Dallas had ever possessed. That she knew how to use. Then he could hardly go to Huntley and say he'd cheated with his girl friend; it wasn't the same as saying he'd been propositioned and refused.

She went back to the bathroom and washed under the shower. She took more pain-relievers; the others had gone down the pan, and then very carefully she began to make her face up. She changed her Pucci one-piece gown for the see-through, frothy nightdresses she wore to please herself. Most men liked that kind of thing. She put on body scent and sprayed her hair and neck, and looked at herself. The face was disappointing but at seven in the morning he wouldn't be worried about that. The rest was as good as it had ever been. It was a terrible gamble, but despair made light of the odds. She had opened her mouth too wide last night, and she was completely in King's power. Trusting to the kindness of discretion of men was something Dallas Jay was not encouraged to do by past experience. They were all bastards. All any of them wanted with a girl was a screw. Well, that was something she could give, and give with the best. On her way through the bedroom door it struck her that she was being rather clever, involving Eddi King. The real gamble was whether he would pass up a second opportunity; he'd be sleepy, and the morning was a good time to catch a man in that kind of mood. She went on tiptoe down the corridor and slipped into his room.

King woke immediately at the sound of the door opening. He was sitting up with the light switched on before she had taken three steps towards him.

‘Dallas! What the hell are you doing?'

She came and sat on the edge of the bed. ‘I wanted to say thanks for last night. You were real good to me.' She bent over and kissed him on the mouth; her fingers began unbuttoning his pyjamas. King let her go on; he let his body respond, it would have been difficult not to without throwing the woman off. She was very skilful; she worked in silence, like the professional she was, until he'd pulled her into the bed with him. He knew now why Huntley put up with that vapid mind and gushing tongue, for ever saying what she supposed to be the right thing. In this context the woman was superb. He let himself go and climbed on the undulating body, determined to show that he had something to offer on his own account. When they had finished he began to carry out his original plan, formulated after cutting Elizabeth's telephone wire a few hours earlier. It had been a good plan then; now, with Dallas in complete alliance with him, it was a certainty.

‘Jesus,' she whispered to him, ‘I haven't had anything like that in years. You're an atom bomb, honey …'

‘You're a crazy girl,' King said, ‘but sweet. I like you, Dallas. I've always liked you; I just couldn't show it.'

‘I know,' she said. ‘I felt the same about you.' It seemed like the truth now. He had a lot of power; she felt like a racing car that had been given run at full throttle after choking and stalling through traffic. ‘Hunt would kill me,' she went on. ‘He'd kill both of us.'

In the semi-dark King smiled. That was it. She had involved him to keep him quiet about last night. She wasn't as stupid as she seemed. This was going to work out perfectly. He was even a little irritated that he hadn't thought of it himself.

‘You took quite a chance coming to me,' he said. He rubbed her big breast with his left hand, his voice soothing, intimate. ‘But I'm glad you did.'

‘So'm I,' she murmured. ‘It was worth it. You're quite a lover, you know that?'

‘You really want to marry Huntley, don't you?' She wasn't expecting that question, and for a while she didn't answer. She wished he'd stop caressing her while they talked; it make it harder for her to concentrate.

‘I want it,' she said at last. ‘I want to marry him more than anything.'

‘Then what has Elizabeth got against you?'

‘Against me?' She pulled his hand away and sat up, surprise ringing in her voice. ‘What are you saying, Eddi? What
could
she have against me?'

‘I'm not sure,' he said. ‘But she broke you two up deliberately last night. She thinks you're after his money, Dallas. And she's his only relative, remember that.'

‘For Christ's sake …' she said. ‘You mean she wants the dough for herself!'

‘Why not? A couple of hundred million dollars. She wouldn't approve of any marriage, I know that for sure. She's made that clear to me several times. Oh, it's not that she doesn't like you, Dallas, she's never said
that
. So long as he goes on keeping you, and doesn't make it legal, Elizabeth won't mind. It's nothing personal, don't think that. I guess it's just the money.'

‘Oh sure,' Dallas sat up, both arms round her knees. Her mind was seething with thoughts, obscene names for Huntley, Elizabeth, even for herself, for being fooled by the girl, thinking she was at least a neutral in the long weary war to win a marriage certificate out of the old bastard. ‘But the money's enough.' She turned to King. ‘What am I going to do, Eddi? If she's against me, I haven't a prayer.'

‘Would you like to let me help you,' he asked her. He reached up and pulled her down to him. He didn't want her sexually at that moment, but he judged the type. Being made love to was a necessity to Dallas; it seemed to bolster her self-confidence. It dulled the anxieties in her kind of personality, like stroking a nervous animal. He caressed her as he talked; his own body cold and detached from what was happening. ‘I have a lot of influence with Huntley. I don't know what Elizabeth said to him last night, but if it was anything about you, I can find out. I can maybe put it right.'

‘Oh, Eddi,' she sighed, ‘Eddi, if only you could do that. I'd be so grateful. I'd give you the best time you've ever had.'

‘You do what I tell you.' King's voice altered; there was a tone of authority in it. ‘You get her to take an early swim in the pool this morning; and you keep her there, till I've seen Huntley. Okay?'