said, “Understand you tripped him, stomped his hand, kicked his piece away, then kicked his face in. That right?”
“Yes.”
“You know who he was?”
“I knew he’d just shot Mr. Warnock.”
“But you didn’t know who Purchase was?”
“No.”
“But Warnock knew.”
“He called him by name.”
“What’d he say exactly—Warnock?”
“He said, ‘Hey, Purchase.’ ”
“And that’s when Purchase shot him, trotted by you, and you tripped him?” Not waiting for an answer, Pouncy examined McCorkle curiously and asked, “Aren’t you getting on up there in years to be pulling damn fool stunts like that?”
“Want me to promise never to do it again?”
Pouncy smiled. “Warnock works for you, right?”
“Not quite. My partner and I retained his firm to provide security for a friend of ours.”
“Granville Haynes?”
“Yes.”
“Granville doesn’t seem to be up in his room,” Pouncy said. “You think Warnock might’ve been keeping an eye on an empty nest?”
“I think Mr. Haynes may have decided to go somewhere more secure.”
“Where’d that be?”
McCorkle shrugged.
“Moving your shoulders up and down like that could mean, ‘I don’t know,’ ‘Who cares?’ or ‘None of your beeswax.’ Which?”
“It means he could’ve gone to see his lawyer, a friend or to another hotel.”
“But you’re pretty sure Granville was the target Purchase wanted to hit?”
“I assume so.”
“Lemme tell you a little about Horse Purchase and who he really was. Horse started killing folks for a living when he was nineteen years old. But it was all legal then because he was with Special Forces in Vietnam. When Horse got killed here today he was forty-five. He went to Vietnam in ’sixty-three and stayed on till ’sixty-nine. After he came home and got out of the Army, he went into the killing business as an independent contractor.”
“Who hired him?”
“Folks that could afford it. The street says he charged fifty thousand a job and tried to do at least two a year. He got half up front and the rest on completion. They say he never had a dissatisfied customer and I’d say you’re awful lucky to be alive, Mr. McCorkle.”
“You’re probably right.”
Pouncy finished his cappuccino, sighed his appreciation and said, “Ever know a Mr. Gilbert Undean?”
“No.”
“What about Isabelle Gelinet?”
“I knew Isabelle.”
“Tinker Burns?”
“I know Tinker.”
“Seen him recently?”
“Not since Friday, but my partner had a phone call from him Sunday. Yesterday.”
“Then he’s probably still alive,” Pouncy said. “Reason I say that is because Mr. Undean and Miss Gelinet were both murdered and Tinker Burns discovered their bodies. Now, there were only four mourners—I reckon they were mourners—at the burial of Steadfast Haynes on Friday and here it is Monday and half of ’em are already dead. What I’m getting at, Mr. McCorkle, is that I sure hope I don’t get another call from Tinker Burns telling me he’s just stumbled across the body of Granville Haynes.”
“I hope not either,” McCorkle said.
“If you see Mr. Burns, you mind telling him he oughta call me?” Pouncy paused. “Might even put it a little stronger than that.”
“You try his hotel?”
“Been trying all morning. He’s not there.”
“If I see him, I’ll tell him,” McCorkle said. “Is that it?”
