. . . . .
The door that the hotel’s kitchen help used
was off a side alley, almost hidden behind a row of huge trash
barrels that smelled like the devil and were emptied only once a
week, winter or summer. But one couldn’t very well use the fire
escapes in broad daylight, and at least Christiansen could come in
this way without having to worry about the police. No one would
notice him. Delivery men, the fellow who repaired the pipes, and
one or another kind of crook or huckster were always streaming
through here. Besides, it was the short cut to Hirsch’s room and
Christiansen wanted a word with him before he saw Esther. There
were a few things to get settled.
It was the last of the big lunchtime rush,
when everybody was too busy with their sinks full of dirty dishes
to notice an unfamiliar face or two. No one even looked at him as
he brushed through to the staff quarters. Hirsch was at the desk in
his room, sorting through a stack of registration cards.
“It didn’t go very well. We got him out, but
he took a bullet along the way. He didn’t make it.”
“Anyone else killed?”
Hirsch looked up at him with blank eyes, as
if they were discussing the laundry count. His manner suggested
nothing except a certain impatience.
“Everyone else is fine. I was under the
impression Mordecai was a friend of yours.”
“He was. I’ve worked with him for nearly
three years. So what? Is it any of your business?”
“No. Sorry.
“Forget it.”
Christiansen sat down on one of the flimsy
little wicker chairs that one found everywhere in the hotel. He lit
a cigarette, realizing for the first time how tired he was. He felt
like hell. He didn’t blame Hirsch a bit for not liking him.
“Hagemann will make his try at Esther now,”
he said, watching the smoke curl upward from his hand—the sight of
it depressed him. “He doesn’t have any choice now that Mordecai’s
dead. But if he doesn’t come by, say, midnight, then I’ m going
after him. One way or the other, we nail him.”
Hirsch merely smiled. “What’s the matter,
Christiansen? You feeling guilty because you couldn’t get the old
boy out alive?”
“I just want to know if you’re coming
along.”
It was a long silence. The two of them sat
there, hardly moving, almost within arm’s reach of each other. It
could have ended any way at all.
Finally Hirsch stood up and went over to a
small wooden cabinet on the wall beside his bed. There was a bottle
inside. He grabbed it by the neck and carried it and two glasses
back over to his desk.
“I think we could both use a drink, “ he
said, pouring the clear liquid into first one glass and then the
other. “White Moroccan rum—not at all bad once it burns away the
nerve endings.”
It tasted exactly like nail polish remover,
but by the time he had finished half the glass Christiansen
discovered he was no longer so sick of life.
“I take it the others are ready to go along
with you in this piece of foolishness. Yes? I thought so.” Hirsch,
who apparently was more used to the stuff, poured himself a second
glass of rum. “I think you’re all crazy, but I’m prepared to be
practical. If you’ll wait until midnight, you can count me in. I
still think he’ll come here.”
“I hope you’re right. Those cliffs scare the
hell out of me.” .
The both laughed, perhaps a trifle
uneasily.
“Okay. Now tell me about what happened to
Mordecai.”
. . . . .
It was only by chance that Christiansen
happened to see him. The passageway that led from the staff
quarters to the back stairway happened to have a door that opened
onto the lobby, and that door happened to have a small triangular
pane of glass in it, and Christiansen happened to look out through
it as he passed. The man was sitting at one end of a sofa, in his
overcoat, pretending to read the newspaper. His face was partially
obscured by a frond of one of the potted palms, but it was him. The
night before he had been sitting at Hagemann’s table at the Café
Pícaro,
He was a big man in his early twenties, with
yellowish-blond hair. His face had a deceptive look of innocence,
which only meant, if he was one of Hagemann’s bodyguards, that he
hadn’t learned anything from experience. He was keeping his
overcoat on so the outline of the Luger he carried under his left
armpit wouldn’t show through the jacket.
And if this lug was around, that could only
mean that Hagemann was somewhere in the building, way ahead of
schedule.
Christiansen felt his throat tighten as he
fought off the temptation simply to push through the door, gun in
hand, and start shaking the big dumb thug down. Except, of course,
that he might not be a big dumb thug, and there was nothing to be
gained by starting a fight at this stage. Esther was upstairs in
her little third-floor room and, for all anybody knew, Hagemann
might be up there with her. It was a time for walking on
tiptoes.
He had to find Hagemann first.
The man was showing signs of getting ready
to leave. He pulled back the sleeve of his overcoat to look at his
wristwatch and then refolded his newspaper and set it down on the
table beside him. His right hand crept up and pressed briefly
against his chest and arm, as if he sought to be reassured that he
hadn’t left his Luger at home.
Christiansen forced himself to begin
climbing the stairs. He dreaded what was coming next.
The stairwell was narrow and opened onto
every floor through a fire door. It was the perfect place for an
ambush, but Christiansen managed to get all the way to the third
story without running into any more of Hagemann’s bodyguards.
Perhaps he felt sure enough of himself that the one man downstairs
was deemed sufficient.
It was a question of waiting and seeing. If
Hagemann was in the room with Esther he couldn’t leave without
Christiansen knowing about it. There was always the fire escape, of
course, but Esther’s room faced the front of the building and
Hagemann would be unlikely to attempt an escape with an unwilling
hostage where he could be seen by anybody who happened to be
walking by on the street. Besides, what was the goon for unless he
planned to come back down through the building?
And if the goon came up to the third floor,
then that was where Hagemann had to be. And it was necessary to
take care of the goon first—it wouldn’t do to make a move on
Hagemann unless one knew one’s back was safe.
He hated it. He hated the very idea of
leaving Esther alone in there with a creep like Hagemann. But there
was nothing to do except to wait and see.
Christiansen listened for the sound of
footsteps on the carpeted stairs. He didn’t have to listen
long.
This kid had never learned that he wasn’t
invincible. The Reich might fall, the Fatherland might lie in
ruins, but this particular son of Germany seemed to think he had
nothing to worry about. He wasn’t expecting any trouble. Who the
hell could give him any trouble? He didn’t care how much noise he
made.
A smart man knows how to deal with people
who hide behind doors. He just pushes the door all the way open and
squashes the poor bastard flat. This didn’t seem like a very smart
man, but Christiansen wasn’t taking any chances. He stood with his
back to the wall, on the same side as the hinges but far enough
away that the door couldn’t catch him as it swung around. He kept
his gun under his coat. This was not the time for guns.
The door opened, only about three feet—so
much for precautions—and when it closed again Hagemann’s trained
dog was looking around, trying to figure out which way the room
numbers ran. By the time he saw Christiansen it was already too
late.
It all happened in a blink and a half. The
man turned a little to his left and something in his face changed
as he realized he didn’t have the place to himself. He was too
surprised to know what to do—he never even got his right hand out
of his overcoat pocket. Christiansen gave him a push on the
shoulder, just enough to turn him a little so they faced each other
straighter, then he caught him with a good, solid jab to the
floating ribs. This was a big boy, so he gave it everything he
had.
It seemed to be enough. The wind shot out of
him in a rush and almost at once he blushed bright pink, all the
way up to the hairline. He wouldn’t be shouting for help any time
soon—and he wasn’t going to live any longer than that. Christiansen
hit him again, just for insurance, and then, while the man sank
quietly to his knees, reached into his coat pocket and took out the
coiled length of catgut that was his constant companion.
As soon as he had made a noose he slipped it
over the man’s head and pulled it tight. They tear at the air and
they fight—you have to give them “A” for effort—but there’s nothing
they can do. There was a faint gurgling sound, cut off sharp, and
the man’s legs kicked out wildly as Christiansen dragged him down
the hall toward a storage closet that someone had left with the
door ajar.
Good. Let the son of a bitch enjoy
himself.
It was a distance of no more than eighteen
or twenty feet, but Hagemann’s boy had already stopped struggling
by the time they got there. He might even have been dead already,
but in any case it wouldn’t be long. Christiansen made a second
loop, tied it, took out his pocketknife to cut away the slack—he
was running short and might need the rest of it for later—and hung
the fellow up from a coat hook. The next person to come in here for
a couple of rolls of toilet paper was going to be in for a nasty
surprise.
The pistol was a Luger sure enough.
Christiansen left it right where it was, in the inevitable shoulder
holster under the man’s left armpit. The fewer complications the
better.
The hallway down to Esther’s room seemed to
go on forever. Christiansen walked as quietly as he could,
listening for the slightest sound. It was the middle of the
afternoon—who would be in his room at this hour?
But someone must have been listening for him
as well—or, perhaps, just listening—because quite suddenly, as if
it had been planned as a surprise, the door to Esther’s room
staggered open. No one came out. Christiansen took the pistol from
his waistline and waited.
“Rudi, is that you?”
So much for the element of surprise.
Christiansen decided there was nothing to be gained from playing it
coy—after all, the man was in there waiting for trouble and there
was no point in panicking him into anything drastic.
“No, Colonel, it isn’t Rudi. Rudi isn’t
coming.”
There was silence. Christiansen didn’t
move—he simply took his pistol in both hands and pointed it toward
the open door—and apparently Hagemann didn’t move either. It was a
stalemate.
“It’s you, isn’t it, Mr. Christiansen.”
“Yes, it’s me.”
“Yes, of course, it would be. I thought you
would still be off with your Jewish friends.”
In the pause that followed, Christiansen
could hear what sounded like a struggle, with the advantage all on
one side, of course. There was movement—the noise clothing makes as
it brushes against furniture—and, at intervals, a few tiny female
gasps. At least he hadn’t killed her.
“Tell me, Mr. Christiansen, did you get
Leivick out?”
They were talking now not to be polite, but
to keep track of each other’s position. It was a kind of unspoken
truce that would last until Hagemann decided it was time for him to
come through that door.
“Yes, we got him out.”
“You did? Mr. Christiansen, you never cease
to astonish me. It will serve to remind me that I’m dealing with
one of my own kind now. I’ll have to be more careful—the Jews don’t
have your sort of enterprise.”
That was the moment he chose to step out
into the corridor. Christiansen was ready to drop him at the first
little flurry of movement, and then he saw that what he would be
shooting at wasn’t Hagemann, but Esther. He had his arm around her,
just at the rib cage so he could hold her arms down, and the muzzle
of his Luger was pressing against her neck.
“As you see, it’s a difficult position.”
Hagemann grinned at him over the girl’s shoulder. Yes, Mordecai had
been right—the man was insane. “If you shoot, I’ll shoot. Even if
your bullet kills me instantly, my finger will still contract on
the trigger, a reflex action of my dying nervous system, and Miss
Rosensaft’s brains will be scattered all over the corridor wall. Of
course, I’m assuming you do care something about the state of Miss
Rosensaft’s brains, but perhaps the evidence of your presence in
her room last night is nothing from which to draw hope. Perhaps a
man like you takes a more dispassionate view of our little
melodrama, and the sight of her head split open and gushing blood
wouldn’t disturb you so very much after all.”
He was smiling. He actually found the idea
amusing.
Christiansen lined up on a spot just a
quarter of an inch or so below the inside corner of Hagemann’s
right eye. He didn’t look at his gun—he didn’t have to—and the last
thing he wanted to look at was the expression on Esther’s face. He
concentrated on Hagemann. All Hagemann had to do was to move the
muzzle of his pistol so much as two inches and he would be a dead
man. He would never feel a thing or even hear the sound of the shot
that killed him. He would simply die.
“Take it easy,” Christiansen murmured. “Just
relax, Esther, don’t try to fight him. Don’t struggle at all. Just
be a limp weight.”
He didn’t want to look into her eyes. He
didn’t want to see them huge with fear. He could just imagine. .
.
Her feet weren’t even touching the
floor—Hagemann was carrying her under his arm like a child’s doll,
but then she didn’t weigh very much.
“I’m going to the stairwell, Mr.
Christiansen.” The smile on Hagemann’s face had taken on a fixed
quality. He wasn’t fooling anybody—he was just as scared as
everybody else. “You are going to back away to let me pass.”