A flailing elbow hit Johnny in the eye as the desk sagged onto them. They kicked it out into the center of the room. It smashed down and dissolved like a house of cards. Jigger Kratz snatched up a broken-off desk leg and hit Johnny alongside the ear, knocking him over sideways. Johnny felt the ear puff up like a toadstool.
Adrenalin-charged anger powered him upright again. He took the next swing of the club on his shoulder, got his hands on it and wrenched it away, and with one savage smash fused Kratz's mouth and teeth into a bloody smear. He dropped the desk leg and went for Kratz's throat with both hands.
The big man bellowed hoarsely and rained blows on Johnny's face. They rolled over and over, crushing the lightweight furniture in their path. Johnny held on grimly, his lungs on fire with the effort. He could feel Kratz's blows weaken as the man heaved convulsively. Johnny redoubled his straining exertion, channeling every ounce of strength in his body into his hands. It was some time before he realized dimly that all movement beneath him had ceased.
He was so exhausted it took a distinct struggle to remove his hands from Kratz's throat. His thumbs were imbedded a quarter inch. He pulled himself to his knees and the room swam in circles around him. Doggedly, he jerked himself upright and fought to remain there. The sound he had been hearing for some time was his own breath whistling raggedly in his throat. Blood ran from somewhere down into his left eye. He slapped at it, impatient to remove it.
He looked around at the wreckage in the room. The heavy bodies had made matchsticks of the furniture. Daddario lay on his face, still unconscious. Kratz lay on his back. Johnny looked more closely. He was still breathing.
Johnny forced himself into motion. His legs felt heavy as iron posts yet trembled violently. He couldn't remember the last time he felt so completely drained. He hauled himself through the apartment, opening doors, supporting himself with handholds on every solid-looking object. He stumbled into a bathroom and in the medicine cabinet mirror stared into a face he didn't recognize. He pulled a towel from the rack and blotted off the face. He stared at the crimson imprint on the towel. The touch of the towel on his ear hurt so badly he looked in the mirror again. The ear was a blue-black puff-ball, and even as he looked it exploded and blood drained down his neck onto his collar. He wiped it off mechanically.
He took two cautious sips of water after rinsing his mouth and turned resolutely away. He knew his stomach would rebel at anything more. He felt a little better. Some of the iron-banded tightness had left his chest.
He resumed his search of the apartment, losing count of the rooms. Daddario hadn't stinted himself in his living. And then Johnny opened one more door and stared at a small, pajama-clad, bright-haired pixie sitting up on the bed returning his stare with interest. She looked about twelve.
“You've been fighting,” she said in a clear, cool little voice. “Your mother's going to be mad.”
“Yeah,” Johnny agreed. He cleared his throat. It seemed to have a pound of cotton in it. “Where's your mother?”
“Oh, she comes to see me afternoons.”
“Afternoons?” Johnny could taste his disappointment. Had all this been for nothing? “She's not here?”
The bright head shook itself negatively. “I'm getting awful tired of seeing her only afternoons,” she confided.
He could see that she had Micheline's features and he supposed that Micheline's dark hair and Carl Thompson's red thatch could combine to produce the taffy-colored halo on the bed. He remained in the doorway, afraid to move closer for fear his battered appearance would frighten the child, but aware he had to do something and do it quickly. “I knew your mother when she wasn't much bigger than you are,” he said tentatively.
“Betcha you didn't,” she said immediately, bright-eyed.
“Betcha I did, too.”
“You don't even know my name!” she scoffed.
“Sure I do. You're Genevieve Thompson. And your mother was Micheline Laurent when I knew her.” The taffy head bobbed in wondering agreement. “I think we'd better go and find your mother, Genevieve.”
She was immediately cool to the idea. “Mother said I should wait for her here.”
“But this is an emergency!” Johnny said desperately.
She shook her head, but not so decisively. “You do look like an emergency,” she decided. “Can I go back to school when we find my mother?”
“You bet your life you can,” he said fervently.
“And you won't let her be mad at me for not doing what she says?” Johnny crossed his heart silently. “Okay, I'll get dressed.”
“We don't have time,” Johnny said swiftly. “Would it be all right if I carried you?”
“In my pajamas?” she inquired doubtfully.
“We'll do you up in a blanket like an Indian maiden.” He advanced to the bed and bundled her up elaborately, picked her up and sat her on his arm. “There. Okay?”
“Okay,” she agreed. “I don't like these people, anyway, but mother said I should pretend.”
Johnny was already walking out through the apartment. He pulled the girl's blanket up like a hood before they reached the room in which the fight had taken place. The first glance showed Daddario and Kratz still on the floor and the uniformed doorman picking his way through the debris like a horror-stricken, long-legged crane. He whirled at the sound of Johnny's approach. “Don't make a move, Jack,” Johnny advised him. At sight of Johnny's face the doorman backed off hastily.
“Who was that?” Genevieve inquired with interest, riding Johnny's arm onto the elevator. “I couldn't see. Was that one of the bad men?”
“I figure him for just mediocre bad,” Johnny said, and she giggled. He carried her through the deserted lobby and out through the front door under the canopy. A taxi was at the right and a man in a tan topcoat was just about to enter it. Johnny crossed the walk in three long strides and tapped him on the arm. “Emergency, Jack,” he said.
When the man turned his eyes were at the level of the girl's blanketed figure. “What kind of-” He started to say, and his eyes came up to Johnny's face. “Jesus!” he said involuntarily. “Take it.”
Johnny was already depositing Genevieve inside. “Thanks, Jack,” he said, and climbed in himself. “546 Circle Drive,” he said to the driver.
He leaned back and slowly released breath he seemed to have unconsciously been holding for a long time.
CHAPTER X
In the lobby of Jessamyn Burger's apartment building Johnny lowered his blanket-wrapped burden to an overstuffed armchair and turned the chair so that its small occupant was hidden from casual view. “Now you wait here for me while I scout out the ground,” Johnny said to Genevieve.
“You won't be gone long?” she queried with her first hint of timidity.
“I'll be right back,” he promised. “Scout's honor.”
Clear gray eyes looked up at him trustingly. “You should do something about your face. I have a hankie in my 'jamas. Would you like to borrow it?”
“I've got one, thanks,” Johnny said hastily, and groped for it. “Quiet like a mouse for you now-right?”
“Comme la souris,” she echoed sturdily. Johnny grinned, patted the taffy-colored halo, dabbed at the deeper of his welling facial cuts with the handkerchief, and left the lobby for the corridor and the door of 2-A.
“Who is it?” he heard in answer to his knock.
“Killain.”
The door opened three inches on a chain latch. Johnny looked in over it at Jessie Burger in a housecoat and dark glasses. “Dear God!” she exclaimed at the sight of him. The chain rattled loosely and the door opened wide. “Come in. Quickly.”
“You afraid of snow blindness?” Johnny asked as he stepped inside and she closed the door behind him. The chain latch was immediately restored. On a hunch he turned her around and removed the dark glasses. She ducked her head but not before he saw two savage-looking black eyes. The left side of her face was swollen. “Kratz?” he
