your gun that far round your belt,' I told them. 'Now let's see who you are.'
'You know who we are,' said the first one. 'What do you think we are doing in this security area?'
'Keep your hands in the air, fatty,' I said, 'or I'll come over there and give you a bruise in the other leg.'
'We're C.I.A.,' said the second man. 'We're moving Mrs Bekuv.'
'Well, why didn't you say so,' I said sarcastically. 'And then I would have known that I was being threatened by goodies.'
He didn't answer.
'Let's have your social security cards,' I said. C.I.A. men rarely carry identification papers but they are assigned a special batch of social security numbers that enable them to be identified by fellow operatives, and also by the social security computer if they are found floating in the harbour.
Reluctantly the two men reached for their wallets. They did it one at a time, and very, very slowly. All the time Red Bancroft watched the fiasco, but said nothing. Neither did the expression on her face give an indication of her feelings, until she said, 'All right, children, you've all had your fun. Now let's get on with the job.'
'O.K.,' I said. I threw the Magnum back to its owner. His catch was so clumsy that he bared a knuckle on it. I noticed that he pulled the holster round to the front before putting the pistol back into it. 'Now beat it while I say good night to the lady.'
They went. They picked up the wallets from the table where I'd left them, walked over to 'the door and left, closing it behind them. There was the sudden noise of a helicopter engine. Red went.across to the window. Over her shoulder I could see some lights and activity and then I heard the helicopter's rotors turning as the clutch was engaged. Red Bancroft said, 'Mrs Bekuv swims in the big indoor pool every morning before breakfast. This morning we'll put her in the chopper and be down in St Petersburg, Florida, before it's time for brunch.' She turned away from the window and put one arm round my waist and hugged me. 'Are you going to give me a second chance?' she asked.
I kissed her. She picked up her case and went to the door. I heard the voices of the two men and then the sound of a car engine. Soon after that the helicopter roared and lifted up over the roof tops. I still hadn't answered her.
Chapter Fifteen
Mann gave Mrs Bekuv no time to say goodbye to her husband: that was all part of his scheme. We sat in Mann's little office — originally intended for the duty nurse — and heard Andrei Bekuv walk down the corridor, calling his wife's name.
Mann sat hunched over a desk in the corner, watching the dark storm-clouds come racing in from the Atlantic. The rain beat upon the windows and the morning was so dark that Mann needed the desk light in order to read. He looked at me and winked as Andrei Bekuv came back.
'Here we go,' said Mann softly.
Andrei Bekuv was silhouetted against the brightness of the corridor lighting as he opened the door and looked in on us.
'Where is my wife, Major Mann? She wasn't at breakfast, and she's not swimming. Do you know where she has gone?'
'We've moved her to Baltimore,' said Mann without looking up from the papers he held under the desk light.
'When? When was this?' said Andrei Bekuv. He was jolted, and he scowled and looked at his watch. Bekuv was a creature of habit. Breakfast at seven, coffee at ten, a light lunch at one, dinner at seven thirty, in time for him to finish his meal and be in the armchair, with hi-fi tuned, ready for the evening concert. He insisted that the supply of vitamins in his medicine cabinet be replenished without his having to ask for them, and he liked decaffeinated coffee, served demi-tasse, in the evening, with fresh cream. And he liked to know where to find his wife.
'When?' repeated Bekuv.
'Oh, some time early this morning.' Mann turned the desk clock round to see it better. There was a barometer fitted into it and Mann tapped that. 'They should be there by now. Do you want to phone her?'
'Yes,' said Bekuv.
Mann picked up the phone and went through a pantomime of asking for a number in Baltimore. He thanked someone at the other end. And then hung up. 'Seems like we can't get through to Baltimore from here.'
'Why not?'
'I didn't think to ask. Do you want me to call the operator again?'
Bekuv came into the room and sat down. 'What game are you playing now, Major Mann?'
'I might ask you the same question, Professor Bekuv,' said Mann. From the clutter of papers and objects on the desk in front of him, Mann selected a large brown envelope. It contained something lumpy. He passed the envelope to Bekuv. 'Take a look at that, for example.'
Bekuv hesitated.
'Go ahead, take a look at it.'
Bekuv handled the envelope as if it might explode. I wondered afterwards if he guessed what was inside it. If he did, he was in no hurry to see it again. Finally, he ripped the edge of the envelope far enough to slide the contents out. There was a transparent plastic evidence bag with some typewritten labels attached to it. Inside the bag there was a flick-knife.
'The police sent that over here yesterday afternoon, Professor Bekuv. It was found near the steps of the church, during a search made during the early hours of Christmas morning. You remember Christmas morning?'
'It's the one used to wound my wife,' said Bekuv. He didn't open the bag. He dropped it back into the envelope as if it might have carried traces of some fatal contagion. He tried to pass the envelope back to Mann but the major would not accept it from him.
'That's right,' said Mann.
'What's it supposed to mean?' Bekuv demanded.
'Supposed to mean?' said Mann. 'I'm glad you said supposed to mean, because there's often a world of difference between what things mean, and what they are supposed to mean. For instance,' said Mann, 'that's the knife that caused your wife's wounds. Whether she was trying to knife you with it, or preventing you knifing her with it, or whether you were both trying to cut each other, or even turn it on yourselves, I wouldn't be too sure.'
'A man assaulted us,' said Bekuv.
'Yes, sure, that's the other theory isn't it? Didn't I mention that one? Forgive me.'
Bekuv looked at his watch. Whether he was thinking about his wife arriving in Baltimore, about his ten o'clock coffee or simply indulging in displacement activity that helped him gather his wits, there was no way of telling.
Mann picked up some papers from his desk, read for a moment or two and then said, 'Those gloves your wife was wearing… a shop in Fifth Avenue sells them for twenty-eight dollars a pair and advertises them as real kid, but in fact they make them from the skin of sheep. Now, that's the kind of dishonesty I hate. How about you, Professor?'
The professor did not commit himself: he grunted.
Mann said, 'Sheepskin. To make a pair of gloves like that, the tanning process removes the epidermal layer…' Mann was reading from the paper '… to expose the corium minor or grain layer. It is the nature of this grain layer that enables a scientist to distinguish the age, sex and species of animal from which the skin originated.'
Professor Bekuv said, 'I'm not interested.'
'Hold on, Professor. I'm not through yet. It gets better. Did you know that 'the grain pattern from any piece of animal skin is as individual to that animal as a fingerprint is to one individual man?'
'What of it?'
'I'll tell you what of it,' said Mann. He put the papers back on his desk, turned to Bekuv and smiled. 'The police forensic lab took leather prints off that knife. They say it was wielded by your bride. They say her Fifth Avenue gloves left prints on that knife as clear and as evidential as if she'd used her bare hands.' Mann picked up another evidence bag that contained the gloves, and dropped it back on to the desk again. 'The police say your wife
