“And you don’t want to turn him over to the police.”
“Right again.”
“I see.”
She reached out for the cigarettes on the night table. She was nude and, when she leaned to reach for the cigarettes, her breasts hung heavy for a moment. As she sat back again, they became firm again. She was a good animal.
She lit a cigarette. “I don’tsee. You aren’t what you seem to be, but you don’t want me to know what you really are. Whatever you really are, someone, somewhere, hired this man to kill you. Whatever you really are, it keeps you from wanting to be involved with the police. You want me to help you by being quiet, but you don’t want to tell me what’s going on.”
He was silent. She studied him, frowning, but he had nothing to say. He sat and waited. While he waited he watched the killer, whose head had moved again but whose eyes hadn’t opened yet. The bruise had stopped swelling, but it was an unhealthy colour. The carmine outline of the small cut had started to dull towards maroon as the blood clotted.
After a minute Parker got to his feet. He had the .32 in his right hand, the silenced .25 in his left. He went over and put the .32 on the dresser, then went back and sat down, studying the thug again.
“All right,” she said. “For now.”
“Good.”
She put her cigarette out, and nodded at the killer. “What about him?”
“We’ll talk to him.” He kicked the killer in the ribs. “You’re awake,” he said.
The killer opened his eyes. They were pale grey, gleaming faintly in the light from the table lamp on the night stand. His face was blank, as though he had no attitude about what had happened to him. He said, his voice as blank as his face, “You can’t turn me over to the law. You can’t kill me, because you can’t get rid of the body and you can’t trust the dame. And you can’t kill her because that would bring the law on you. You got to let me go.”
“You can trust me, Chuck,” she said. Her voice was low. She was half-smiling as she looked down at the pallid face of the killer.
Parker ignored her. He said to the killer, “Name of your contact. The guy who fingered me.”
The killer shook his head, rolling it back and forth on the floor, doing it carefully, as though he were part of a balancing act. His face was still blank. “No,” he said.
“And the name of your contact in New York. You work out of New York, don’t you?”
“Forget it,” said the killer.
“You can’t go to the law either,” Parker told him. He looked past the killer, over at the woman. “I’ve got to force the names out of him,” he said. “I don’t like that kind of job. You want to try it? I’ll tie him. And gag his mouth so he can’t holler.”
She smiled again, leaned far over the edge of the bed, and looked down at the killer.
“Yes,” she said. “I’ve never done anything like that. I’d like to try.” Her tongue peeked out past her lips. She moistened her lips, and looked down, and smiled.
Parker was pleased. He’d figured her right, every step of the way. He hadn’t figured the unloading yet, but that would come when necessary. When it was time to get rid of her, split with her, he’d find the way. Not kill her, just unload her.
He looked down to see if he’d figured the killer right, too. He had. The killer was staring up at the smiling face of the woman, balloon-like, in the air above him. His pale eyes seemed larger, and the sweat had started on his face again. His fingers were clenching and unclenching and his cheeks seemed hollower, thinner.
Parker said, “What’s your name?”
“Go to hell,” said the killer. But his voice was higher and thinner and not completely under control.
Parker got to his feet. “We’ll use two of my ties,” he said. “You. Get into the chair.”
The killer didn’t move.
Parker stepped on his ankle. The killer gasped, and Parker stepped off the ankle again and said, “Get into the chair.”
The woman said, “Tell him to take his pants off.”
The killer closed his eyes. His whole face seemed sunken now, more pallid. He said, “Clint Stern. That’s my name, Clint Stern.”
Parker saw the woman pouting. She leaned back against the pillow again and lit a cigarette. She wouldn’t meet Parker’s eye.
Parker asked, “Who fingered me?”
“Jake Menner.”
“Who is he?”
“A collector. He collects from the books around the hotels.”
“All right. Who gives you the assignments?”
“Jim St Clair.”
“In New York?”
