Nolan reached for a pad and wrote out the address and handed it to Baker.
“Could I ask Miss O’Toole to do something for me, Gary?”
“Sure. Miss O’Toole, this is Pete Nolan, he’s in the business.” And he flung himself through the open door.
“Miss O’Toole, is there a flower shop open at this time of night?”
“There’s one at the Mayfair Hotel, sir.”
Nolan peeled off three ten-dollar bills.
“I want some flowers to go to Miss Maria Angelo and pay them extra so they get there tonight, please.”
“Of course, Mr. Nolan. Any particular flowers for Maria?”
He opened his mouth, hesitated and then grinned. “Yes. Make it red roses, if they’ve got them.”
“Yes, they’ll have those because of corsages for the ladies. Do you need a car?”
“No, thanks. Mine’s outside. Goodnight, and thanks for seeing to the flowers.”
Siwecki answered the door. As he peered out from the dimly lit hallway at the two men he opened his mouth to speak. One of them pushed the door aside as the other shoved him back against the wall. He saw the pistol in the man’s hand and, trembling, he walked into the sitting-room as they pushed him ahead of them.
His wife was watching the TV news-bulletin showing a pile-up on Highway 84. Without turning her head she said in Polish, “Close the door, Tad.” And when there was no answer she turned, the look of irritation melting from her face as she saw her husband and the two men. And the gun. She reached forward to switch off the TV, the gun made a noise like a tyre blow-out and her eyes grew big with fear as her hand touched her chest. She looked down to where her hand came away bright red with blood and opened her mouth to scream. The second slug smashed into her skull above the right eye, and slowly her body collapsed, hung for a moment, then slid from the sofa to the ground.
Siwecki stood as if frozen, and then, his eyes blazing as he cursed in Polish, he turned on the two men, his arms flailing wildly. When the hard edge of a hand crashed against his mouth he staggered against one of the chairs and as their hands shoved him backwards, he clutched for support as his legs buckled.
One of the men gripped the front of his shirt and pushed him into the chair. The man with the gun was pointing it at his head as the other man spoke in Polish with a heavy Russian accent.
“What did he want to know, Siwecki?”
“Nothing. I tell him nothing. I swear.”
The man’s boot slammed at Siwecki’s kneecap and he screamed.
“What did he want to know?”
“Oh Jesus. What is all this? He asked about the strike at Haig’s.”
“And you told him?”
Siwecki spread his arms, his eyes pleading.
“We send first for doctor for my wife, yes?”
“She’s dead, Siwecki. You know that. Just talk.”
“They ask about Powell. They investigate. I tell them very little.”
“You bastard.” And as the silencer jerked and spat, the man cursed in Russian when he saw that the slug had torn open the base of Siwecki’s throat. He fired once more and then put the gun against Siwecki’s head as he fired a final round.
They switched off the lights on the ground-floor before they left.
It seemed a long journey back to the house by the airfield and as he turned into the drive a 727 was coming in to land with its lights winking and its belly light pointing forward.
He signalled to the desk clerk to walk with him up the broad staircase to his room.
“Anything vitally important before I hit the sack?”
“Nothing that can’t wait. A few reports from New York and some microfiche from Langley. I don’t think it needs processing until tomorrow, sir.”
“Right. Wake me if you need to.”
Nolan undressed slowly and got into the small divan bed. For a few moments he thought of Maria Angelo and the excitement of her body. Maybe if he was down here for a time … and he slept. Not, perhaps, the sleep of the just but at least the sleep that sends you down a hundred feet into the darkness.
In what seemed like minutes, but was in reality two hours, the duty orderly was shaking Nolan awake.
“There’s a message from Washington says for you to contact the DA’s office—Mr. Gary Baker. He’s waiting for your call.”
Nolan dressed immediately and phoned Gary Baker.
“You’d better come down here, Pete. Quickly.”
“What’s going on?”
“I can’t discuss it right now. Just get here.”
When Nolan got to the DA’s office there was a tall thin man, elegantly dressed, as if the hour were normal instead of four am. Baker made a limp gesture towards the man.
“Peter, this is Hank Henney—he’s chief of police. He’s got bad news, I’m afraid.”
Henney nodded to a table and he and Baker sat on one side, leaving Nolan alone on the other. Henney looked calm but grim.
“Mr. Nolan, I understand from Gary that you work for a government department. He refused to tell me which department. You’d better identify yourself.”
“Can you tell me what it’s about, chief ?”
Henney looked hard at Nolan. “Mr. Nolan, there’s something going on in this city that I don’t know about. I’ve got the feeling you’re part of it, and unless you identify yourself to my satisfaction I’m gonna order my men to arrest you while we do some checking.”
Nolan reached in his inside pocket and laid his card on the table. Henney looked at it and handed it back. He didn’t look any the less serious.
“Mr. Nolan, you visited last night with a Mr. Siwecki and his wife. What time did you leave them?”
“About 9.30. I was in this office at about ten o’clock.”
“Why did you visit Siwecki?”
“To collect evidence.”
“Concerning what?”
“The strike at the Haig plant some years back.”
“Did you threaten him?”
“I indicated that he could be indicted on various offences but that his co-operation would be borne
