I told him.
The girl said, “Go out to your car and start the engine. I will follow in a minute or so.”
I turned to Cooky and clapped him on the back. “When I get through saying this see how loud you can laugh. O.K. You can start any time.”
Cooky laughed, the girl laughed, and I laughed. We shook hands and said
It had grown cool, and I turned my coat collar up as we hurried toward the Mercedes. A car parked down the block started its engine, flicked on its lights, and spun its tires in its hurry to get away from the curb. It roared toward our corner and I jerked at Cooky’s arm. The car was long and dark and looked something like a postwar Packard. It seemed to be aimed at us and we stumbled backward on the sidewalk. The car drew abreast and slowed slightly and I saw that there were two men in the front seat and one in the back. The two in the front didn’t look at us. The back door flew open and a man spilled out, somersaulting once before he came to rest on his back in the gutter.
A face looked up at us with open eyes and long black hair that was mussed and dirty. Yet the teeth gleamed as whitely as ever. None were missing, but the smile held no humor. Bill-Wilhelm lay dead in the gutter, and the car kept on going and skidded around the corner, the engine straining, the back door still flapping as the man in the rear seat tried to close it.
“Let’s go,” I said, and raced for the Mercedes.
I started the engine and pounded the horn ring three times. The girl seemed to have understood, because the cafe door opened and she ran toward the car as I flicked the lights. When she saw the body she paused slightly but not much. I had the back door open, and the car was moving when she slammed it shut.
“What happened?”
“They dumped an American agent on us. Which way?”
“Straight ahead and then left at the second crossing. He looked dead.”
“He was. Is Padillo all right?”
“He was an hour ago.”
“That’s a long time in this town.”
“Where are we going?” Cooky asked.
“I’m just following directions,” I said.
“We’re being followed,” she said.
I caught a glimpse of the headlights in the rearview mirror, “Brace yourself,” I told her. “How good are you with that pistol, Cooky?”
“Not bad.”
“Can you get a tire?”
“From thirty or thirty-five feet. No more.”
“O.K., I’m going to take the next corner fast and then slam on the brakes. Jump out and see what you can do.”
I sped up, threw the Mercedes down into second, and yawed around the corner on fat springs. I braked quickly to the curb and Cooky jumped out and ran to the corner. His gun was in his hand. He shielded himself with the edge of the building. The car started the corner fast, the driver making excellent use of gears and brakes. Cooky aimed carefully and fired twice. The car’s right front and rear tires blew, giving the gun’s blast a double echo. The car slewed toward the curb and I could see the driver wrestling for control, but it was too late, and it bounced over the far curb and crunched nicely into a building. By then Cooky was back in the Mercedes and I had it in low, the accelerator pressed hard against the floor board. It wasn’t competition pickup, but it was steady. Cooky took out his flask and drank. He offered it to the girl in the rear seat, but she refused.
“Which way?” I asked her.
“We must take the side streets. They’ll have radio contact.”
“Which way?” I snapped.
“Left.”
I spun the wheel and the Mercedes bounced around another corner. I was hopelessly lost.
“Now?”
“Straight ahead for three streets … then right.”
I kept the Mercedes in second to provide braking power if we needed to turn quickly.
“I wonder why they dumped him on our doorstep.”
“Burmser’s boy?”
I nodded.
“Maybe they thought he was a friend of ours.”
“I hope they weren’t right.”
CHAPTER 11
