Wyman screamed as Slug's charge knocked him hard against the wall. For a moment he sat there on the parapet, his hands swinging, clutching frantically at empty space. Then he lost his balance and slid backward. The scream rose in pitch, became one long, drawn-out wail that became weirdly fainter and finally choked off short.
Harper cursed softly and rolled from under Slug's legs. He gained his feet instantly, stooped, snatched up Wyman's automatic. He jumped back, covering Slug. But there was no fight in the man now. He came to his feet slowly, weaved back and forth like a drunken man, shivering violently.
“All right,” he said hoarsely. “I won't argue.” He waved his hand toward the spot where Wyman disappeared. “I won't argue, after that.” He shuffled off across the roof toward the yellow square that marked the stairs to the floor below.
GALPIN and five men were entering the door at the end of the hall when Harper emerged from the front room. Harper said, “You got men on the corner?” And at Galpin's, “Yes,” continued, “Take this guy with you.”
He drew them into the room, showed them the door to the elevator. “The rest of them have gone— they'll be in the plumbing place on the corner.”
Harper waited until Slug and the policemen had disappeared through the hole in the wall. His face was still gray. His eyes were dull and his shoulders had a tired, unnatural sag as he walked across the room to a stand holding a half-filled whisky bottle and some glasses.
He picked up a glass, turned it over in his hand, and stared absently at it for several seconds. Then he poured whisky into the glass until it was half- full. He drank quickly, without stopping. Reaching toward the tray, he dropped the glass the last few inches.
He went back to an upholstered chair. He dropped into it, stretched out his legs in front of him. His hands hung down from the chair arms; he let his fingers relax. The gun dropped to the floor, and he stared up at the ceiling until he heard Charlie come pounding down the hall.
