Authors: Peter Rabe
Tags: #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Mystery, #Literature & Fiction, #Contemporary Fiction
The Box (22 page)
“Quinn, what…”
“Out of the way,” said Quinn. “To the wall.”
Quinn wasn’t looking at Whitfield at all and when Whitfield had moved, as if hypnotized, he saw where Quinn had been looking.
Cipolla was coming out of the warehouse. He walked slowly, as if wading in water, and the water was very cold.
“Spread out,” he said, and then Quinn saw the two sailors whom Cipolla had brought along.
Quinn was not winded but he now started to breathe in an inhuman way. He crouched forward a little and breathed with a sound which was deep and loud. He reached back with one hand and touched the box behind him. He barely touched and then pulled his hand away.
“It’s no good,” he said, “unless I’m alive. You know that, don’t you, Cipolla?”
“That’s why,” said Cipolla. “That’s why you’re still standing there.”
“You going to take me alive, Cipolla?”
The small man didn’t answer. He showed his teeth for courage and he swung his arms like an ape, a big ape twice his own size. For the moment he did nothing else. What crazy eyes, thought Cipolla. And he moves like a cat and maybe got nine lives—
“Ah,” said Quinn and smiled very slowly. It was hard to tell by the high bulb light over the pier what the smile meant, but Whitfield, by the wall, thought the smile was sad. “Ah,” Quinn said again. “And Santa Claus knew Ryder all the time, didn’t he?”
“I told you that was Mafia country,” said Cipolla. The remark made him feel strong and no longer alone. “All right!” he said to his helpers.
Whitfield, by the wall, closed his eyes. He was therefore almost startled out of his skin when the box gave a sudden drum bellow of a sound because Quinn had swung the crowbar into the wood.
“Now!” Quinn yelled. “And remember, Cipolla, whatever is going to happen now isn’t going to happen to my corpse! Try me!” and he hit the box again, sharp and heavy, breaking wood. He spun back around to Cipolla and held the bar in both hands. He stood like that and looked like a killer.
The two sailors, with the true hireling’s caution, hung back and looked everywhere except at Quinn.
“Rush him!” yelled Cipolla.
Quinn laughed. He stood with his back to the box and laughed.
“Rush him!” Cipolla again.
“Shut up,” said Quinn, and then, talking quietly, “Shut up and turn around.” His smile was back. “You’ve got friends there.”
To Cipolla, of course, this was the oldest trick in the world. Except that Whitfield looked past Cipolla and gasped.
“Or maybe I’m wrong,” Quinn said. “Maybe you’ve got enemies.”
Cipolla couldn’t wait any longer and had to turn then. He saw Remal standing there very quietly. Remal had one Arab along and held a gun. He was holding it down by his side, as if it were not important.
“Cipolla,” he said, “you will please step aside.”
“
What?
”
“He’s mine,” said Remal and made a small flick with the gun in Quinn’s direction. Aside from that he hardly looked at him.
Oh God, thought Whitfield, what do you do when you’re afraid? Then he began to tremble. And then, because everything happened so fast and so violently, Whitfield started to scream. He stood by the wall like a child and screamed.
It seemed to Quinn that nothing mattered for the moment but Whitfield’s screaming and his fright and that he, Quinn, must now give that man a hand. The thought struck Quinn as weird and out of place even while it happened, but it was also true that with Whitfield full of fright, Quinn felt none. After that, it went fast.
One sailor got knifed by Remal’s Arab, Cipolla whipped out a gun, Quinn threw the crowbar and saw Remal stagger. And there was a shot and Quinn ran.
He had Whitfield by the arm and yelled, “Run, Whit, run!” and when they were in the warehouse there was another shot back on the pier. They ran across the cobblestone square when Whitfield started to cry.
“Run, Whit, I’ll help you—I’ll help you—” Quinn kept panting while Whitfield cried like a child, not like a drunkard, because no drink was strong enough for what Whitfield went through.
“I can’t—I can’t any more—”
“Run, Whit, the quarter, shots no good there, Whit, let me help—”
They ran through the quarter, one way or the other, and came out into the desert where the moon was like a white stone in the sky.
“Oh God,” said Whitfield, and Quinn let him stop. “God, I’m too tired to be afraid any more.” He could hardly breathe, but he made a small laugh. “And so sober,” he said.
There were two shots. In the open like that it was simple murder, though with the light as it was it was hard to tell who was shot—
But as if to a magnet which never lets go he had to come back to the box a while later. He went slowly this time, creeping through shadows, though by the time he crossed the square he no longer cared if he were seen or not. Because it was almost over and he was almost there. I’ve got nine lives, he thought, and I’m going to use all of them—
In the warehouse he could hear the voices and walked no further than the nearest stack of bales.
“He’s out there,” said the voice which was panting hard.
“You shot him and left him? Did I tell you to shoot, you son of a bitch?”
“Listen, all you said…”
“Shut up and get the tools and get the thing fixed up!”
Voice high and tense like a mouse and then Cipolla’s hard step on his extra-high heels, that too a high, tense sound coming closer.
No haste now, thought Quinn by his bale. He’ll freeze all by himself.
Cipolla did. One chopped heel sound and he stood very still by the dark bale. Quinn did not hit him. He reached out and dug his hand into Cipolla, high on the neck. This was pure satisfaction. There was no talk.
Cipolla, though small, turned out to be very strong. He started to see life and death come and go, nine lives come and go, and he now had all the strength of all his hate for everything he had ever hated.
It seemed to Quinn that he cared less than the other man. The silence of their grip on each other was much like a drug to him. I see nine lives go, he thought, and don’t care. I only care that I have none left over—
Then came a death, slow like a sigh.
When they found the body in the desert, very dry and the eyes staring up, there had been no doubt about this one because of the hair. Nobody in Okar had had hair like that; only Whitfield had blond hair, which was the only thing which had not changed on the corpse.
The one with the hole in the skull, the one who had been in the water for such a long time, there was some delay and some doubt about the identification, because so little was left. But of all the ones missing, only Remal used to wear the long shirt which was still floating around the thing.
And much later, in New York, where Ryder made a special trip for the occasion, there had been no doubt or delay when the box was opened. Ryder gave one look, stepped back quickly, and said, “I thought he was going to get back here alive.”
“Accidents happen,” said somebody.
“Stupid punk,” said Ryder and got into his car. “They don’t shrink that much, you idiot. That one’s maybe half of Quinn’s size.”
Okar, except for the missing people, did not change very much. There was talk for a while, but no change. About where the woman might be, the one who had left suddenly after having known everyone, and where the man might be, the one who had come in a box.
THE END
This edition published by
Prologue Books
an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.
4700 East Galbraith Road
Cincinnati, Ohio 45236
www.fwcrime.com
Copyright © 1962 by Fawcett Publications, Inc.
Renewal Copyright © 1990 by Jennifer Rabe
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
eISBN 10: 1-4405-4001-2
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-4001-1
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