The Day of the Guns (4 page)

I had made sure Talbot wasn’t home with a phone call, then rang the downstairs apartment, introduced myself to the woman who answered the lobby door as a friend of Talbot’s and asked her if she would give him a letter for me. She was very happy to and held the door open long enough for me to touch the safety button that would keep it in the unlock position. When Talbot answered the message he would simply be calling his superiors to see if there were any additional instructions for him and in the red tape of the organization little tricks like that happen all the time.

I made one trip around the block, came back to the building, went inside, after putting the lock on right, and up to Talbot’s apartment on the top floor. Getting inside was no trouble at all.

With a pencil flash I spotted all the furniture, made sure an exit was clear, then started the search systematically. John Fredericks Talbot had money, that was one thing. His clothes and accessories were the finest. He was regimented in his habits and everything indicated him to be as careful as a man in his position was supposed to be.

The garbage can in the kitchen held two empty beer cans and a fine pile of black, powdery ash. Talbot had burned some papers and made sure no one would ever know what they contained. Around the water level of the toilet bowl was another dark ring where he had flushed more of the same earlier. In all probability he had a maid, so it would have been done that day after she left.

It could be a necessary precaution in this job.

It could have been something else too.

Then I found the gun, a Colt Cobra in a belt holster, fully loaded and tucked inside one of his Chukka boots. Now there was something new to the pattern. Minor embassy employees don’t go around New York armed.

I put the gun back, made sure everything was exactly in place and went back outside. Nobody saw me come in, nobody saw me go out. I was pretty good that way.

On the corner I flagged a cab, went back midtown to an address of Stephen Midros, found his apartment number and touched the button. Midros was one of the Hungarian freedom fighters who had gotten out to fight again and right now he was leading the battle from his position in exile and doing a good job.

The man who answered the door looked ten years older than he was. The gray hair and the scar down the side of his face did that much, but the age was mainly in his eyes. They had seen too much.

I said, “Stephen Midros?”

“Yes?”

“My name is Tiger Mann. I am going to mention one name. I think that will be more of an introduction.”

He was coldly casual. “Very well.”

There was a sudden warmth in his eyes, a recognition that meant even though we had never met we were friends of the same side and had fought for the same things.
George the Third
was a final identity signal only top inside people could possibly know. He didn’t question the validity of my knowing it as I didn’t his.

He answered,
“In truth,”
and held out his hand. The identity change had been completed. But like all Europeans, there were pleasantries first and it was only over a glass of wine that he asked the question.

“What business may I help you in, Mr. Mann?”

“There is a Hungarian translator in the U.N. named Gregory Hofta.”

“Yes, I know of him.”

“Any opinion?”

His shoulders moved in a characteristic shrug. “There has never been any need for inquiry. Why?”

“He is often seen with a British subject, another translator ...”

“Ah,” he smiled. “Edith Caine. Is that it?”

“That’s it.” I drank half the glass and waited.

“So, is this intrigue political or personal?” He grinned knowingly.

I didn’t smile back at all. “It started from a personal angle, but it may have political repercussions. My interest is the Caine woman. There is a security leak in the U.N. somewhere and it could be there.”

“But Hofta is not a Hungarian Communist,” he said. “He was born in Budapest, but long ago became an American citizen. He was graduated from one of your larger colleges and has been with the U.N. since it was founded.”

“Good cover if it is that way. I don’t think I have to remind you of how planning for the future worked for the Nazis ... or the Reds either for that matter.”

His head furrowed in a frown. “But this connection ...”

“What do you know of the two of them?”

He finished his wine, refilled our glasses and sat down again. “Generally I have seen them together at certain restaurants ... Hungarian restaurants. Twice they have been at one of our gatherings, at a rally and again at a party one of my associates gave.” “How intimate were they?”

Midros spread his hands, searching for a word. “They seemed to be ... well, more than ... friends, shall we say? Other intimacies I cannot vouch for.”

“Your organization is pretty tight, isn’t it?”

“We have ways of finding things out, if that’s what you mean.”

“That’s what I mean. Can you run a check on Hofta?”

“Yes, how far?”

“See who he left behind in Europe. Let’s find out just how much of an American he really is.”

I didn’t have to explain any further. He got the connection immediately with all its implications. He had a mind like a computer, too, and was putting things in their places right then. He nodded, offered me another drink I refused and said, “It will be done, Mr. Mann. I expect that you will contact me?”

“Yes.”

Outside the rain was coming down harder, the reflected lights making a kaleidoscopic pattern in the asphalt streets. I ducked my head into it and walked to Broadway, then out over to my hotel. Out of habit I checked my box and saw the pink message slip there. When I slipped it open it read, “Edith called to get your number. Didn’t give it to her knowing how hoople you are on the subject, but she said she can be reached at EN 2-7254 between four and six.” It was signed, “Wally.”

I felt a grin twist at my mouth, found a phone booth and dialed Charlie Corbinet’s number. When he answered I said, “Tiger, Colonel. A quick favor.”

“Shoot it.”

“Get me an address from a phone number. EN 2-7254. How long will it take?”

“Five minutes.” He didn’t quibble about it.

A little less than five he called back. “It’s a pay station in a bar and grill on Second Avenue called Lyon’s. Anything else?”

“That’s fine.”

“Need help?”

“Did I ever?”

“Once that I remember.”

“Those days are done with. Thanks.” I hung up.

She was there, all right. She sat at a table in the back with Burton Selwick, engrossed in whatever he was saying, nodding and laughing like any interested woman would. I watched them for a full twenty minutes then crossed the street to another bar, dialed the number she had given me, told her I was available.

There was nothing devious about her voice. It was quiet ... almost friendly with a peculiar touch of inquisitiveness in it. She would like to speak to me. Fine. I would like to speak to her too. Where? My hotel in an hour. Hell, she made the call, let her come to me. I hung up and went back outside.

He didn’t take long ... just enough time to pay the check and leave. I didn’t wait for her. An hour from now she’d be there. But when he managed a cab I got in the one I had standing by and followed Burton back across town, down into Greenwich Village and waited while he told his taxi to hold while he went inside, then watched when he came back out with a tall brunette who had a million-dollar body and a walk to match. They got in the cab, drove to a restaurant on Fourteenth Street and got out.

For a few seconds Selwick just stood there holding his stomach, then the woman said something earnestly, seemed angry for a.moment, then took his arm gently and led him inside. There was no two ways about it ... the guy was hurting. Well hell, you don’t jump from a killer to another broad without getting stomach pains. Rondine could give any guy a pain in the gut. I suffered from mine for months, only then she did it with bullets.

I didn’t bother checking it out any further. I gave the driver my hotel and settled back to think about my date.

Things were looking up.

I sat there with my feet on the window sill looking out at the mist-shrouded roof of the city, thinking back twenty years, bringing her face back, the strange twist she could give to one eyebrow and the things we had said to each other in the dark.

Thinking of what kind of a fool I had been to expose an operation because one woman could do things to my insides and make my mind go against all the things it had been trained to do.

It had started back there, but it had ended back there too. The very thing I did made me try to prove something to myself and when Martin Grady had selected me along with several others to work in the same capacity through a civilian agency I had grabbed at the chance. There were forty when we started. Nineteen of the original group were left, but there were forty still, somebody always coming in as a replacement. The longer we lived, the better we got and the better our chances of staying alive.

Sure, the Washington agencies knew about our existence. I.A.T.S. kept a file on all of us as best it could, but none of it was explicit or important. They knew what we did only after we did it and nothing could be said because it was professionally done for the good of the country by experts in the field. It probably galled them though. It had, too. We moved in fast and hard when it was necessary and people had fallen and governments were toppled. Had we not been there it would have happened anyway, only millions of dollars and man-lives later.

By now Martin Grady would know I had hold of something and I’d get the word whether to process it or clear out, and, knowing how he hated any personal attitudes mixed in an operation, the word would be to get clear. He’d never take a chance on lousing up a job or losing a man to a pet hate. Only in this case he couldn’t move me.

I wanted Rondine dead too badly.

There was a knock on the door.

I flicked off the light, swung around and sat there with the .45 facing the door and said, “Come in.”

The knob turned, the door opened and there she stood, lovely, lovely Rondine. Beautiful as hell. With the same potential. Beauty and death inside the same shell. She still had that same hesitancy when she stepped inside a door and closed it, letting you have the full effect of the magnificence of her face and body, still the same habit of flipping open the coat so the impact of seeing the pressure of her breasts against a dress and the nipped-in waist and swell of her hips into thighs and calves of startling proportions, so that you could lose one important second of life.

I knew she couldn’t see me, but I let her hear where I was.

I thumbed back the hammer of the gun and it was the loudest sound in the room.

“Here I am, Rondine.”

She knew what I was holding. “Do I get it here, Tiger?”

“Maybe. It depends on how much you’ve sweated.”

Rondine walked toward me, her hand feeling for the furniture. She hadn’t adjusted her eyes to the darkness yet and it took a minute before she found a chair. Even in the dark, she sat down, crossed her legs with a graceful sweep that would have shown the whiteness of her thigh had the light been on, and in the dark I grinned, remembering that Cal had fallen for that same skin and had died for it.

“I think an explanation is in order,” she said.

“Forget it, kid. The past is the past.”

“But ...”

“No buts. So you laid a couple in my belly. You knocked off a friend of mine and I tally it up to my own damn mistakes for letting you live when you were an enemy. No soap, kid, no explanations. I can understand the past. I hate, I pick up the pieces and wait my time out. Now it’s here. You are as close to dying as you’ve ever been and you might make it.”

“Tiger ...”

“Shut up, doll,” I said gently. “It’s no time to explain. You have something going for you and before I knock you off I want to expose the whole bit. Then you go. Don’t even talk to me. The last time you did I wound up sleeping in a shot-up sack. Your boys really came at me.” 35

“You asked for it. You endangered ...”

“Your situation? Why, sure, honey, that’s what I’m here for.”

“Tiger”

“I said shut up. It’s my night to talk. Before, you always tried the great kiss and the roll in the hay to quiet me down, but no more, Rondine. How many times have I had you ... or was it me who was had? Twenty? We were great together. Lovers who could love in the middle of a war. Love conquers all, we said. Great, just great.

“Everything went on the line for you, honey,” I said. “Integrity, life ... the works. I saved your ass and you tried to kill mine. For twenty years I’ve had it in the back of my head. All this time I thought you were dead, now it’s fine to see you alive. Now I can take you right. No bed, no kiss, no talk is going to take you out of this one. First I bust up your play, whatever it is, then I take you. I’m a pro, kid, all the way. I’ve been practicing for a long time and it’s my game right down the alley.”

“Please ...”

“Knock it off.”

She could see me now, the rod in my hand and the expression on my face. There was nothing she could do and knew it. Very slowly she uncrossed her legs and sat there with her hands folded in her lap.

I said, “Send the boys for me. I’d like that. The next time I won’t wait to have them prove a point. I’ll put them down one by one and you’ll be the last, the big one. Now get out of here.”

She knew there was no use talking. She stood up slowly, looked at me, walked to the door and turned as if she were going to say something and thought better of it, then opened it, went out and it closed behind her.

It was a hell of a date. I let the hammer down on the .45 and put it away.