impatient! If you stall, Philippe will call again. If you don’t answer, he will come up.
Suddenly there was a noise at the front door a dozen feet away. Vera felt him stiffen behind her, and the knife slid down and across her throat. At the same instant the door opened and Vera let out a cry against the hand over her mouth.
Osborn stood in the doorway. In one hand was the key to her apartment, in the other, Henri Kanarack’s automatic. He was full in the light. Vera and the tall man were almost completely in the dark. It made no difference. They’d already seen each other.
The hint of a smile crossed Oven’s lips. In a blink he shifted Vera to the side and the blade came up in his hand. In the same instant, Osborn raised the gun, screaming for Vera to hit the floor. As he did, Oven threw the knife at Paul’s throat. Instinctively, Osborn flung up his left hand. The stiletto struck it full force, pinning it like a donkey tail to the open door.
Crying out, Osborn twisted around in pain. Shoving Vera aside, Oven dug for the Walther in his waistband. Vera’s scream was lost in a stab of flame that was followed by a tremendous explosion. Oven fell sideways and Osborn, still pinned to the door, fired again. The big automatic thundered three times in rapid succession, turning the hallway into a howling storm of muzzle flashes punctuated by the deafening roar of gunshots.
On the floor, Vera caught a glimpse of Oven as he fled down the hallway and through the kitchen door. Then Osborn was tearing his hand from the door and hobbling past her after him.
“Stay here!” he screamed.
“Paul! Don’t!”
Blood was running down Oven’s face as he crashed through the pantry. Tipping over a rack of pots and pans, he flung open the service door and bolted down the stairs.
Seconds later, Osborn eased out into the dimly lit stair well and listened. There was only silence. Craning his heck, he looked up the stairs behind him, then back down.
Nothing.
Where the hell is he? Osborn breathed. Be careful. Be very careful.
Then, from below, came the slightest creaking. Looking down, he thought he saw the door to the street just swing closed. Beyond it, on the far side of the landing, was gaping blackness where the stairs continued down, bending in a curl and vanishing into the basement below.
Swinging the automatic toward the door, Osborn took a guarded step down. Then another. Then another. A wooden stair moaned beneath his foot and he stopped short, his eyes probing the darkness beyond the door.
Did he go out? Or is he down there in the basement, waiting? Listening to me come down the stairs.
For some reason the thought came to him that his left hand felt cold and sticky. Looking down, he saw the tall man’s knife still sticking in it. But there was nothing he could do. If he pulled it out, it would start bleeding again and he had nothing to stop it. His only choice was to ignore it.
One more step and he was on the landing opposite the door. Holding his breath, he cocked his head toward the basement. Still he heard nothing. His eyes went to the door to the street, then back to the darkness below it. He could feel the blood begin to pulsate around the knife in his hand. Soon the shock would wear off and the pain would begin. Shifting his weight, he took a step down. He had no idea how far the stairs went before they reached the cellar floor or what was down there. Stopping, he listened again, hoping he could hear the tall man breathe.
Suddenly the silence was broken by the scream of a car’s engine and the shriek of tires on the street outside. In an instant Osborn had pushed off with his good leg and was at the door. Headlights raked his face as he came through it. Throwing up an arm, he fired blindly at a green blur as the car swept past. Then, tires squealing, it rounded the corner at the end of the block, flashed under a streetlight and was gone.
The automatic fell to his side and Osborn watched after it, not hearing the door as it slowly opened behind him. Suddenly he did. Terrified, he swung around, bringing the gun up to fire.
“Paul!” Vera was in the doorway.
Osborn saw her just in time. “Jesus God!”
Somewhere off came the singsong of sirens. Taking his arm, Vera pulled him back inside and closed the door.
“The police. They were waiting outside.”
Osborn wavered, as if he were disoriented. Then she saw the knife sticking in his hand.
“Paul!” She started.
Above them a door opened. Footsteps followed. “Mademoiselle Monneray!” Barras’ voice echoed down the staircase.
The reality of the police brought Osborn back. Tucking the gun under his arm, he reached down, grasped the hilt of the knife and pulled it out of his hand. A splattering of blood hit the floor.
“Mademoiselle!” Barras’ voice was closer. By the sound of it, there was more than one man coming down the stairs.
Pulling a silk scarf from her neck, Vera wrapped it tightly around Osborn’s hand. “Give me the gun,” she said. “Then go to the basement and stay there.” The footsteps were louder. The inspectors had reached the floor above and were starting down.
Osborn hesitated, then handed her the gun. He started to say something, then their eyes met and for a moment he was afraid he would never see her again.
“Go on!” she whispered, and he turned and hobbled out of sight around the curve of darkened stairs, vanishing into the black of the basement below. A second and a half later, Barras and Maitrot reached the landing. “Mademoiselle, are you all right?”
Henri Kanarack’s gun in her hand, Vera turned to face them.
59
IT WAS 9:20 before McVey heard anything about it. His sojourn to the Brasserie Stella on rue St.-Antoine two hours earlier had started off as a flop, nearly became a fiasco, then ended with a jackpot.
Arriving at 7:15, he found the place packed. The waiters were running around like ants. The maitre d’, seemingly the only one who spoke even a hint of English, informed him the wait for a table was at least an hour, maybe more. When McVey had tried to explain he didn’t want a table but only to speak to the manager, the maitre d’ had rolled his eyes, thrown up his hands saying that tonight even the manager couldn’t get him a table, because the owner was giving a party and taking up the entire main room—and with that he’d rushed off.
So McVey simply stood there with Lebrun’s police sketch of Albert Merriman in his pocket and tried to figure out another approach. He must have looked lonely or lost or both because the next thing he knew a short, slightly inebriated Frenchwoman in a bright red dress took him by the arm and led him to a table in the main room where the party was and began introducing him as her “American friend.” While he was trying to extricate himself politely, somebody asked him in broken English where in the States he was from. And when he said, “Los Angeles,” two more people started throwing questions about the Rams and the Raiders. Somebody else mentioned UCLA. Then an exceedingly thin young woman who looked and dressed like a fashion model slid between them. Smiling seductively, she asked him in French if he knew any of the Dodgers. The black man translated for her and stared, waiting for an answer. By now, all McVey wanted to do was get the hell out of there, but for some reason he said something like “I know Lasorda.” Which was true because Dodger manager Tommy Lasorda had been involved in a number of police benefits and over the years they’d more or less become friends. At mention of Lasorda’s name, another man turned around and in perfect English said, “I know him too.”
The man was the owner of Brasserie Stella and within fifteen minutes two of the three waiters who had wrestled Osborn off Henri Kanarack the night of Osborn’s attack were assembled in the manager’s office looking at the sketch of Albert Merriman.
The first looked at it.
