The Day of the Guns (10 page)

I shrugged. “Exploitation, to put it simply. The people I represent go into undeveloped areas and open them up. Five years ago it was rubber, then tin and tungsten, now we’ve located an untapped source of mahogany.”

“You enjoy your work?”

“As long as you don’t mind heat or cold, bugs, snakes, dry spells, cities or desert it isn’t bad. How about you?”

“Oh, I’m satisfied.”

“Why don’t you stay with your painting?”

She lifted her drink again. “It isn’t enough. I rather enjoy being with the U.N. Things are happening there that are important to the world.”

“Nuts.”

Before she could answer there was a clash of cymbals and immediately the flutes and drums started. Down on the floor the dancers came out, six of them, their only costume a head-dress and gauzy veil. They were all dark-skinned and beautiful with hair black as coal, their bodies going in a frenzied motion that made you almost ignore their nakedness under the gauze.

Minute by minute the beat and rhythm of the music got more intense until it was one demanding tempo of seduction and the girls spun on bare feet so that the veils were wafted out in huge circles at their shoulders. Those at the tables below couldn’t take their eyes from them and you could see the fine glisten of sweat on the foreheads of the men at the ringside. The women were the same way too and when I looked at Gretchen I could see the heat of it getting to her. There was a tight set to her body as if she were ready to go out there with them, ready to strip the clothes off her body and join the six. The tip of her tongue kept wetting her lips and the knuckles on the backs of her hands were white.

The man joined the dancers with a whip, an Arab in the loose white cotton of the desert tribes. He raised the lash, snapped it between the girls, twisted and spun in the rituals of the dance, every so often snaking the whip around the waist of a dancer to draw her to him and at the very moment of being ready to take her, changing his mind to go for another. One by one he tried them all, discarded them, then stood there, angry.

The drum beat was a signal. The girls stopped, then raced off the floor and in their place came the most exotic woman I had ever seen. She was evidently a Eurasian, combining the loveliness of the races. Each wrist and ankle was covered with bracelets that made music of their own as she came out in the classic motion of the dance.

And that was all she had on.

Her jet-black hair hung down to her waist and she could swirl it to cover or expose herself as she wished to. A look of greed and longing crossed the face of the Arab as he watched, then decided and went into motion with the whip. The lash snapped, ripped out and furled about her, to all appearances cutting her to ribbons, but it was as if she weren’t there at all. No mark appeared on her bare skin at all, no welt showed and the girl’s face simply smiled at the faces in the audience as she tinkled past the men and women who were plainly caught up in the act as if they were part of it. One woman was even half standing, her hands gripping the edges of the table and behind her a waiter hovered, waiting to restrain her if she moved. They had evidently seen it happen before.

The Arab was great with the whip, turning it into a living thing, then in a sudden climax he caught the girl up in the folds, this time refusing to let her go and slowly brought her close to him. The music went higher and higher, the tempo getting more furious as he wrapped her inside his cloak and with a sudden smash of the cymbals again the pair folded to the floor as the lights went out completely.

When they came back on again the floor was empty.

Gretchen said breathlessly,
“Good gracious!”

“Stuns you, doesn’t it?”

She looked at me, frowning. “How can you just sit there.”

“I’ve seen it all before, kid.” Then I grinned. “You almost joined the act.”

Her face flushed and she licked her lips again, nervously this time. “I know. I felt like it. There’s something ... hypnotic about the whole thing.”

“It’s supposed to be.”

“Inside, I feel like ... I feel ...”

“I know,” I said.

“You know too damn much.”

The bearded waiter came in, took the order I gave him and disappeared. Gretchen said, “How many languages do you speak?”

“Chow and girls I can order in almost any language. Conversationally I stick to English.” It was a lie, but she didn’t have to know it. Abruptly I said, “You know Edith Caine long?”

“Only since she came to the U.N.”

“Close friends?”

“Pretty much. You know how girls are. How come you didn’t take her out tonight? Have a fight?”

“We’ve known each other too many years. I rub her wrong. She ever tell you about her family?”

“A few times she’s discussed them. They’re quite important in England. Society, government and all that. She feels that she has to contribute something too and being part of the U.N. is the post she selected.”

“Like the company?”

“The delegates?”

“More or less,” I offered.

“Well ... if you live on an intellectual plane—”

“Do you?” I interrupted.

“Yes, very much so. When you do you can find the work and the company fascinating. Considering that the people involved are all carefully selected and represent the highest order of culture and learning each country can bring here, working with them and sometimes adding to what they have is a satisfying thing.”

“We’ve had nothing but wars, kiddo.”

“True, but could we have had
bigger and more
wars if they hadn’t been there?”

“It’s a thought,” I said. “How’s Burton Selwick to work with?”

Gretchen made a face. “I’m not assigned to him often. Only twice have I had occasion to be with his staff. He’s funny.”

“How?”

“Oh, he has that staid British humor and isn’t afraid to mix a little fun in with his work. All the girls like him. He’s extremely intelligent. I had a professor like him once.”

“Where?”

“College here in New York.”

“Edith seems to think a lot of him.”

“They’re countrymen, that’s why. Whenever they go out to lunch all they talk about is England. He uses her a lot after hours like all the rest of the Embassy bunch. That woman will work night and day without pay just to be ‘doing her bit’ as they say.”

“She was always like that. Real close-mouthed, though.”

“You have to be. Everyone is cleared security-wise and you don’t last long if you talk out of turn. Look what happened last month and before that with that attaché.”

The waiter came then with a steaming tray of strange dishes that had the pungent aroma of the Orient. He set them down, waited for a smile of satisfaction and went back through the curtain.

Gretchen asked, “What is it?”

“Maybe I’d better not tell you,” I said. “Just eat it.”

She gave a mock shudder of excitement and dipped her fork into her plate. What she tasted pleased her and we ate with small talk about the place itself. I pointed out a couple of politicians, an actor and two big hoods on the level below and gave her some background on the
Hall of the Two Sisters.
Before we finished Dell came up, spoke in my ear and when I shook my head, smiled and left.

“What did he say?”

I laughed and pushed my plate away. “He wanted to know if the lady and I were interested in sharing a room for the night. It seems that he has just the thing available.”

“And you said no?” she teased.

“Sure. The beds are hard, the mirrors two-way and for a seat behind them somebody who goes for the oddball kicks pays Dell five yards. Besides, your place is better.”

She leaned her elbows on the table, her chin cupped in her hands. “Tiger,” she said, “you are completely overbearing and the picture of supreme over-self-confidence.”

“So do we go to your place?”

“Certainly,” she said.

 

The fire was still inside her, the picture of the dancers there in her mind. She let me unbutton the dress then shrugged out of it and stood in the soft light from the dresser and shed the black lace that was left. Slowly, she undulated across the room toward me, not dancing, but with the innate classic movement of every female who had ever lived and wanted just one thing. She was tall and sleek and stalked with the subtle grace of an athlete; breasts high and thrusting, swelled with excitement. Her belly was a concave region tense with excitement, merging with hips and thighs that were taut with demand. The Eurasian girl was just that compared to her ... a girl.

“Now you,” she said and reached for the buttons on my shirt.

In the living room the phone rang, a sudden discordant note. I looked at her and she shook her head. It rang twice more and stopped. Then her fingers were inside my shirt brushing my skin and I pushed her away to do it quicker.

Outside the Village had gone quiet and beside me Gretchen slept curled on her side, one arm flung across my chest. I lifted her hand, felt the pulse in her wrist steady, her breathing regular, dropped her arm on the bed and rolled out. I got dressed, threw the cover over her and walked to the door.

I looked back, said, “Nice. Very nice,” then left.

The story of the kill the night before was all over the morning papers. The pictures were there showing the guy on the ground and the one in the car. The accompanying story identified them as Tommy (Chum) Williams and the driver as Max Sweiber, both known hoods with police records whose regular base of operations was Chicago.

I put in a call to Thomas Watford and, when he wasn’t in, told his secretary I’d be up there in an hour. Watford would know what I meant. He’d have everybody assembled, no doubt about that. I finished typing my report, dropped it in the mail chute beside the elevators and knocked on Toomey’s door. He didn’t answer so evidently he had already left on business of his own. He had a key to my room so I stuck a copy of the report under the empty bottom drawer of the dresser on the plywood dust panel where I told him I would and went downstairs for breakfast.

At nine-thirty, I finished, grabbed a cab to Watford’s place and went in to the receptionist. She was smiling and busy, told me to go right in and nodded toward the door.

Just the two of them were there, Thomas Watford and the heavy gun from I.A.T.S., and the look on their faces meant trouble. Both were seated at the desk going over a stack of papers and looked up when I came in with dark, foreboding glances and sat back, forgetting what they had been doing until I slipped into a chair across from them.

“You saw the ballistics report, I guess,” I said.

Watford nodded.
“Your
gun, Tiger. The bullet checked with the one we already had.”

“Now what?”

The big guy leaned forward, his attitude challenging. “Both dead men were armed, so in a way you’re off the hook. The papers and the police are attributing it to an attempted gang rub-out and luckily someone saw the action from a window, said it was a deliberate attack, but couldn’t identify the intended victim except to say that it was a man.”

“Buddy,” I stated flatly, “you’re the one who wanted me to be the sacrificial cow. If it happens, don’t point any fingers toward me.”

“At this point we won’t,” Watford told me, “not as long as you cooperate.”

I shrugged. “Who’s holding back?”

“All right. What were you doing at that particular place at that particular time?”

“Visiting Edith Caine,” I said.

Both of them exchanged quick looks.

“Why don’t you check with her?”

Watford flipped the key on the intercom and gave his receptionist instructions. While he waited he said, “Someone knew how to find you.”

“Sure. She told them. I left her place and she had time to make a phone call. If she had somebody on hand for such an eventuality it could have been an easy hit. Hell, there were two carloads of them. The first missed and the second was insurance. You get anything on the guys?”

It was the big guy’s turn and his tone was reluctant. “A contract setup. They flew here out of Chicago two days ago. Nothing more than that and I doubt if there will be anything more than that.”

The call came in then. Watford spoke briefly into the hushaphone on his desk and though nobody could hear what he was saying I knew the answer. He put the phone down and looked at his friend solemnly. “He was there,” Watford said. “A friendly visit and the time fits.”

“The local police going to move?”

“In this case we have jurisdiction.”

I grinned at him a long moment. “Or does Martin Grady?”

I thought the big guy would bust. His face was a tight, florid thing filled with loathing of the big pro for the little pro and his hand slammed down on the desk. Very quietly, in spite of his rage, he said, “Damn Grady and the rest of you. I’m making a point of breaking up that clique!”

“You said that before. I think it’s been tried several times.”

“Money can’t always buy everything.”

“Almost everything,” I said. “It couldn’t buy me.”

Neither of them spoke.

I said, “I asked you for information on Edith Caine. What did you find out?”

After a few seconds Watford said, “Clear. Security marks her clean. You have nothing there. I’d like to know what you expect to find.”

“A killer, Tommy boy,” I said. I got up and put my hat on, watching the guarded expressions on their faces.

Finally the big one said, “Whose?”

“It’s a long story, friend, but mine among others,” I told him. “Do you want a formal statement from me or will you handle this the usual way?”

“Do we have a choice?”