start a trail from there. And it would take more than an hour and a quarter to find somebody named Angel hanging around the Union Station area somewhere. If Handy was still alive, he’d be alive till one o’clock. Then, when Scorbi and Wilcoxen didn’t show up, whoever had Handy would know there was trouble. The easiest thing would be dump Handy.
So it had to be done from the other direction, through the girl.
Parker nodded to himself. “All right, Jimmy,” he said. “You can go. Roll over so I can untie you.”
“You mean it? Honest to Christ?”
“Hurry, Jimmy.”
Wilcoxen scrambled away from the wall and flopped over on his stomach.
“You’re all right, honest to Christ you are. You know it wasn’t nothing personal. There wasn’t even supposed to be nobody here, just suitcases and like that. We ain’t torpedoes or nothing.”
“I know,” Parker said. He untied Wilcoxen’s hands and stepped back. “Undo your ankles yourself.”
Wilcoxen had trouble making his hands work. While he was loosening the belt from around his ankles and putting his shoelaces back in his shoes, Parker got the Terrier out of the suitcase, and held it casually where Wilcoxen could see it. He left the Beretta where it was; he didn’t like .22’s much.
When Wilcoxen got to his feet, Parker said, “Scorbi’s in the bathroom. Go untie him.”
Wilcoxen suddenly smiled, beaming from ear to ear. “I know you didn’t throw Donny out no window,” he said. He hurried over and opened the bathroom door. “Donny! He’s lettin’ us go, Donny!”
After a while Scorbi came out, walking lame like Wilcoxen. He looked sullen, not joining in Wilcoxen’s happiness. Parker said, “Out the way you came in.”
“What about our dough?” Scorbi asked.
“Hurry,” Parker said.
“Come on, Donny,” said Wilcoxen. He tugged at Scorbi’s sleeve. “Come on, let’s go.”
“Our rods and our dough.”
Parker said, “Go on, Jimmy. Either he follows you or he don’t.”
Wilcoxen hurried over and climbed out the window on to the fire-escape. Scorbi hung back a second, but then he shrugged and went out the window. The two of them started down the fire-escape, making even more noise then they had coming up.
Parker stowed the Terrier away inside his coat and picked up the phone. When the operator came on, he made his voice high-pitched and nervous. “There’s somebody on the fire-escape! Get the police! Hurry! They’re going down the fire-escape!”
He hung up while the operator was still asking questions, switched off the light, and left the room. He took the elevator down and crossed the lobby and went outside. A prowl car was parked down to the left, with the red light flashing. Hotels get fast service.
Parker stood on the sidewalk, and a couple of minutes later two cops came out of the alley alongside the hotel, pushing Scorbi and Wilcoxen in front of them. So that was that. Because the Scorbis and Wilcoxens never talk to the law, it couldn’t get back to Parker. So no matter how good a story they thought up, they’d miss that one o’clock meeting and whoever had Handy wouldn’t be warned. It was better even than keeping them tied up in the bathroom.
Parker turned and walked the other way. A block later he hailed a cab.
2
IT WAS just over the Maryland line, in Silver Spring, a squat, faded apartment building called Sligo Towers. Built of dark brick aged even darker, the brick widely separated by the plaster, it looked like an old Thirties standing set left over on the Universal back lot. Thirties-like imitations of Gay Nineties gaslights, containing twenty-five-watt bulbs, flanked the arched entrance to the courtyard.
The courtyard was just concrete, but pink colouring had been added before it set. It was bounded on three sides by the building, rising eight storeys, and sprouting air conditioners here and there like acne. On the fourth side was a double arch with a concrete pillar, separating courtyard from sidewalk. Beyond, dark cars slept at the kerb, hoods mutely reflecting the street lights from down the block. A car purred by, without pausing.
Parker turned the far corner and came striding towards the Sligo Towers. He wore a grey suit and a figured shirt, the suit coat open despite the night chill. He looked like a businessman, in a tough business. He could have been a liquor salesman in a dry state, or the automobile company vice-president who takes away the dealerships, or maybe the business manager of one of the unions with the big buildings downtown around the Capitol. He could have been a hard, lean businessman coming home from a late night at the office.
He turned at the double arch and went into the courtyard, his shoes with the rubber soles and heels making no sound on the pink concrete. There were walls on three sides of him, all around the courtyard, with a door in each wall. Each was marked with a letter so rococo it looked like a drawing of an ivy-covered window.
He didn’t know which door. Slowing down would spoil the effect, stopping would tip any watcher that he was a stranger here. He kept on towards “B”, the door straight ahead. Three brick-lined pink concrete steps led up, and then the door was metal, painted to look like wood. It was a double door, and inside there was a metal bar like those found on the doors of schools and theatres. A half flight of metal stairs painted red led up to a hallway running at right angles. There was no interior door, which was a surprise. With no trouble at all, he was already in the building.
Facing the stairs, on the wall, was a double row of brass mailboxes, with name plates. Parker read the names, but didn’t find the one he wanted. He looked to right and left, and in both directions the hallway ended short at apartment doors, so the three sections of the building weren’t connected at this level. They would be, in the basement. He went back down the half flight, past the entrance doors, and down another half flight of a longer hallway, this one walled with rough plaster and dimly fit. He turned left.
At the far end, the hallway made a right angle to the left. Parker followed it, came to another flight of stairs, and went up. He was now in section A, and the name he wanted was under the fifth mailbox from the left on the
