Ashby wasn’t going to wake up. Parker abandoned the try and got to his feet again. Ignoring Kirwan, he said, “Anybody else know how he got in touch with Uhl?”
None of them did. As they were shaking their heads, Kirwan said, “The main thing is, what do we do with him?”
Stokes, a heavy and phlegmatic man, a professional driver, said, “You got a doctor around here? A safe one?”
“No,” Kirwan said. “I picked a place where I was a stranger. Who expected anything like this?”
Ducasse had come over to stand by Ashby’s head and look down at him, his expression thoughtful. Now he said. “If we leave him there, he looks like he won’t make it.”
“We’ve got to get him out of here.” Kirwan said. “Dead or alive, he’s got to go. We’ve all left prints all over the house, there wasn’t supposed to be anything happening here.”
Parker said to Kirwan, “Go get a blanket. A big one.”
“Right,” Kirwan said, and hurried away.
Stokes took the cigar out of his mouth and said to Parker, “You mind if I ask what that was all about?”
Parker told him a sentence or two about his background with Uhl, and Ducasse repeated his remark about not leaving enemies alive. Then Kirwan came back with a green blanket from a double bed. Parker took it from him and told him, “Go start your car.”
“Why my car?”
“Because it’s a station wagon.”
Kirwan went out, still upset, and Parker and Ducasse spread the blanket on the floor beside Ashby. They rolled Ashby over slowly onto the blanket, and then folded the blanket over him. Stokes put his cigar back in the corner of his mouth, got to his feet, and helped the other two pick up the blanket and carry it out of the room and down the hall and out of the house.
The house had no garage, but it did have a driveway on the right side. Kirwan had backed his wagon out even with the lawn, and was now around opening the tailgate. The four of them slid the blanket into the rear of the wagon with a couple of toolboxes and a pair of coveralls and a bunch of oily rags, and then Kirwan shut the tailgate and all four got into the car, Parker in front with Kirwan.
“Try to take it easy,” Ducasse said. “He’s still alive.”
Kirwan said, “Where do I go?”
“A different neighborhood,” Parker said.
Kirwan backed out to the street, and they drove for about five minutes, twice crossing major streets still with some late-night traffic. Then Parker said, “Stop. We’ll leave him there.”
It was a small modern church building: an A-frame, with a stylized cross on the top. A well-kept lawn fronted the church, neatly dotted with shrubbery. The four of them pulled the blanket out of the car and carried it up over the curb and across the sidewalk and set it down on the lawn. They rolled Ashby gently off the blanket, and then Parker and Stokes folded the blanket while Ducasse checked Ashby’s pulse.
Kirwan said, complainingly, “There’s blood on the blanket.”
“Burn it,” Parker said.
“Or wash it,” Stokes said. “Who knows, maybe you had a virgin.”
“He’s still alive,” Ducasse said, straightening.
“Or your girl had her period,” Stokes said.
“Let’s go,” Parker said.
As they walked back to the car. Stokes said, “Women make a wonderful alibi for bloodstains.”
Kirwan threw the blanket in back, and they all got in the car. As they started away from the curb, Ducasse said, “Find a pay phone.”
Kirwan frowned at him in the rear-view mirror. “How come?”
“Anonymous call to the cops.”
“What for?”
“The longer he lies out there,” Ducasse said, “the worse his chances get.”
“Christ,” Kirwan said. But two blocks later he stopped by a phone booth at a closed gas station. They waited in the car while Ducasse made the call, and then drove back to the house.
Everything was as they’d left it. Kirwan went away for a minute to dispose of the blanket, and Parker and Ducasse and Stokes went back to the room where they’d been talking about the robbery. The papers were still on the table there, with a foot-long narrow line cut through the blueprint of the department store’s sixth floor, where the safe was. There were no bloodstains on the floor.
Stokes patted the papers on the table. Around the cigar, he said, “Too bad. It looked like a good one.”
“Maybe we can pick it up again later,” Ducasse said.
“Mother’s Day comes once a year,” Stokes said.
“Next year, then.”
“The year I need money is this year,” Stokes said.
Ducasse gave a sour grin. “Don’t we all,” he said.
