The Loo Sanction

could not carry them on your person. He said you had mailed them. All of that, I see now, was Strange's plot to neutralize any action of mine. I was supposed to sit here awaiting the cheerful call of the postman, while they made the sale and got away. And, of course, I would have done just that.'

Jonathan's concentration was still on Maggie. 'I've got to do something. I guess I could start at her apartment, then—wait a minute! Why would Yank want the films?'

'That's obvious, isn't it? Strange will pay heavily for them.'

'But Strange's dead. Yank knew that.'

'I'm afraid you're mistaken there. Yank described to me the rather gaudy mayhem you wreaked on the staff of The Cloisters. He was proud of that, you see. The virile fury of a fellow American, and all that. And he mentioned that you had inflicted a ghastly facial wound on Strange. A certain Miss Amazing... or was it Miss Grace... well, whoever... she carried Strange away to a sanctuary.'

'Did he mention a name? A place?'

From the floor Yank gasped shallowly, then moaned... like a child struggling to awake from a nightmare.

Jonathan knelt beside him. 'Yank?' he said softly. Yank was under again. 'Hey!' Jonathan slapped the chill cheek.

'That won't get you anywhere,' the Vicar said.

But Yank's eyelids fluttered. His eyebrows arched in an attempt to tug open the eyes. But they remained closed.

'Where's Maggie Coyne?' Jonathan demanded.

A moan.

'Where's Strange?'

Yank's voice was distant and mucous. 'I... wanted... I only wanted... ranch... Nebraska.'

'Where is Strange?'

'Please! Not... Feeding Station.' Yank's body stiffened and relaxed. He was unconscious again.

The Vicar stood up with a grunt. 'Ironic. He's frightened of the Feeding Station. Ironic.'

'What's ironic?'

'He doesn't realize that you have saved him from that grisly fate.'

'I have?'

'Oh, yes. There is almost no call at all for one-legged bodies.' The Vicar winked.

The Cellar d'Or

After turning over the films, Jonathan retrieved the other .45 from the blinded Lotus. As Yank's car warmed up, he checked the load; there were only two bullets left. Enough.

A soft rain and low clouds blurred the limen between night and dawn as he drove through London streets that were desolate and gravid with despair. He pulled up before the Cellar d'Or. As he descended the narrow stone steps leading to the basement entrance, he could hear the whir of a vacuum cleaner within. The door was unlocked.

A black crone with a red bandanna pushed her vacuum cleaner desultorily back and forth over the black carpet and did not look up as he entered the bar. With the working lights on, the gold and black decor looked tawdry and cheap, and the air was stale with cigarette smoke and the smell of booze. Jonathan waited a moment for his eyes to adapt to the dimmer light.

'Close the door behind you, sir. It is cold this morning.'

Jonathan recognized the basso nimble of P'tit Noel's voice. Then he saw him, sitting at the back of the lounge.

'I am sorry, sir, but we have closed. Like ghosts, our customers fade away with the cocorico of the morning rooster.'

Jonathan raised the revolver in his hand and walked back slowly toward P'tit Noel.

'It is odd, is it not, sir, that roosters around the world do not speak the same language. In Haiti, they say cocorico, while in Britain they—'

'Where's Strange?'

'Sir?'

'Don't screw around, P'tit Noel. I'm tired.'

The Haitian rose languidly and blocked the entrance to the internal stairway, his Roman breastplate muscles tense under the white knit pullover. Without taking his calm eyes from Jonathan's face he spoke in patois to the charwoman. 'Vas-toi en, tanta.'

The cleaner was clicked off, its whir dying with a Doppler fade, and the crone departed noiselessly.

'The gun is for me?' P'tit Noel asked.

'Not really. But I don't intend to grapple with you.'

'Actually, I am a strong man, sir. I could probably absorb the first bullet and still get a hand on your throat.'

'Not a bullet from this gun.'

P'tit Noel looked into the big bore.

'Are they upstairs?' Jonathan asked.

'They were expecting someone. Not you. Someone with a package.'

'He won't be coming. Listen, I don't care about Grace. If she stands between me and Strange, I'll cut her in half. If she stands back, I'll let her go.'

P'tit Noel considered this. He nodded slowly. 'Mam'selle Grace has a gun. Give me a chance to get her out of the room. If you do not harm her, I shall leave you alone. The man is nothing to me.'

He turned and led the way up the stairs and down a corridor. Raising a hand to gesture Jonathan back, he tapped at the door softly.

Amazing Grace's voice was strained. 'Yes?'

'It is I, Mam'selle Grace. He is here, the one you await.'

Jonathan pressed back against the wall as the lock clicked and the door opened. 'Where the hell have you— Hey!'

P'tit Noel's hand snapped in with the speed of a mongoose and snatched Grace out into the hall by her arm. She screamed as her little automatic arced across the corridor and clattered to the floor. 'Max!' Then she saw Jonathan, and fury glittered in her eyes. 'It's Hemlock, Max!' She threw her diminutive naked body toward him, fingernails spread like talons, her lips drawn back revealing thin sharp teeth. 'I'll kill you, you son of a bitch!' P'tit Noel swept her up as though she were weightless. It took all of his strength to hold her as she squirmed and snarled in his arms, her naked body oily with the sudden sweat of rage. 'Let me go, you nigger bastard!' He began to walk clumsily toward the stairs, his awkward, savage burden screaming and kicking and clawing at him. But he could not bring himself to strike her, or even to protect himself from the punishment of her impotent, desperate anger. She dug her fingernails into his cheek and tore four deep furrows of red through the brown, but he only looked at her with resigned, unhappy eyes.

'Please, please!' She sobbed and panted promises. 'I'll let you screw me if you let me go! Max! Max!'

He made consoling sounds as he continued down the stairs. She clung, pale-knuckled, to the railings, but the steady power of his momentum tore them slowly away.

Even after they disappeared down the stairs, Jonathan could hear her screams and invective. There was one last tormented wail, then the sound of sobbing.

A muffled voice spoke from within the apartment. Jonathan kicked open the door and dashed across the opening to draw fire. But no shot came. The muffled sound again. Incomprehensible words, as though someone were speaking through a gag. He pressed against the wall outside, the revolver before his face.

The words became distinguishable. The voice was a guttural whisper through clenched teeth. 'Come... in, Dr. Hemlock.'

Jonathan eased the door farther open with his toe and looked through the crack. Strange lay limp on the red velvet sofa, his shirt off and a wet towel covering half his face. He had both hands lifted to show that he had no gun.

Jonathan entered and locked the door behind him. He crossed to the bedroom, checked it out, then returned.

Strange's uncovered eye followed his every movement, hate and pain mixed in its expression. He spoke with