Fear is the Key

"I wish you were," I said feelingly. "Don't worry, it's just about over now." I wasn't even kidding myself, and Kennedy knew it. I nodded to him, went inside and closed the door. I heard Kennedy turn the key in the lock and leave it there. I listened, but I didn't even hear his footsteps as he left: for so big a man he was as silent as he was fast.

Now that I was alone, with nothing to do, the pain struck with redoubled force. The pain and the nausea came at me in alternate waves, I could feel the shores of consciousness advancing and receding, it would have been so easy just to let go. But I couldn't let go, not now. It was too late now. I would have given anything for some injection to kill the pain, something to see me through the next hour or so. I was almost glad when, less than two minutes after Kennedy had left, I heard the sound of approaching footsteps. We had cut things pretty fine. I heard an exclamation, the footsteps broke into a run and I went and sat behind my desk and picked up a pencil. The overhead light I had switched off and now I adjusted the angle extension lamp on the wall so that it shone directly overhead, throwing my face in deep shadow. Maybe, as Kennedy had said, my mouth didn't show that it had 'been hit but it certainly felt as if it showed and I didn't want to take any chances.

The key scraped harshly in the lock, the door crashed open and bounced off the bulkhead and a thug I'd never seen before, built along the same lines as Cibatti, jumped into the room. Hollywood had taught him all about opening doors in situations like this. If you damaged the panels or hinges or plaster on the wall it didn't matter, it was the unfortunate proprietor who had to pay up. In this case, as the door was made of steel, all he had damaged was his toe and it didn't require a very close student of human nature to see that there was nothing he would have liked better than to fire off that automatic he was waving in his hand. But all he saw was me, with a pencil in my hand and a mildly inquiring expression on my face. He scowled at me anyway, then turned and nodded to someone in the passageway.

Vyland and the general came in half-carrying a now conscious Royale. It did my heart good just to look at him as he sat heavily in a chair. Between myself a couple of nights ago and Kennedy to-night we had done a splendid job on him; it promised to be the biggest facial bruise I had ever seen. Already it was certainly the most colourful. I sat there and wondered with a kind of detached interest — for I could no longer afford to think of Royale with anything except detachment — whether the bruise would still be there when he went to the electric chair. I rather thought it would.

"You been out of this room this evening, Talbot?" Vyland was rattled and edgy and he was giving his urbane top executive's voice a rest.

"Sure, I dematerialised myself and oozed out through the keyhole." I gazed at Royale with interest. "What's happened to the boy friend? Derrick fall on him?"

"It wasn't Talbot." Royale pushed away Vyland's supporting hand, fumbled under his coat and brought out his gun. His tiny deadly little gun, that would always be the first thought in Royale's mind. He was about to shove it back when a thought occurred to him and he broke open the magazine. Intact, all the deadly little cupro-nickel shells there. He replaced the magazine in the automatic and the gun in his holster and then, almost as an afterthought, felt in his inside breast pocket. There was a couple of flickers of his one good eye that a highly imaginative character might have interpreted as emotions of dismay, then relief, as he said to Vyland: "My wallet. It's gone."

"Your wallet?" There was no mistaking Vyland's feeling, it was one of pure relief. "A hit-and-run thief!"

"Your wallet! On my rig? An outrage, a damnable outrage! "The old boy's moustache was waffling to and fro, he had the Method school whacked any day. "God knows I hold no brief for you, Royale, but on my rig! I'll have a search instituted right away and the culprit-"

"You can save yourself the trouble, General," I interrupted dryly. "The culprit's got the money safely in his pants pocket and the wallet's at the bottom of the sea. Besides, anyone who takes money away from Royale deserves a medal."

"You talk too much, friend," Vyland said coldly. He looked at me in a thoughtful way I didn't like at all and went on softly: "It could have been a cover-up, a red herring, maybe Royale was knocked out for some other reason altogether. A reason you might know something about, Talbot."