“This is going to be some night, Bart,” he said.
“You can say that again.”
The two cops came over and peered at me, then nodded to O’Flagherty who lifted the barrier.
It had been agreed at the meeting that Carl should be alerted. He opened the gates to let me in. He too was excited. We went up to the cottage to find Jarvis with drinks and sandwiches. I told them what was about to happen.
“There could be a lot of noise,” I said. “Better give the old nut a real shot so he sleeps through it.”
Jarvis said he had already done that.
I looked at my watch. Another hour. I ate the sandwiches, took a drink, then walked down to the tree.
So far, it was going beautifully, I thought, but the crunch would come when I walked in to take Nancy to the chopper. Man! Could that turn sour!
Suppose she recognized me and blew the whistle on me to Coldwell? I thought about this, and although the thought gave me goose pimples, I told myself in the heat of the moment, the noise, the confusion, the cops trampling around, she might not connect me with the guy who had tried to blackmail her. Besides, with luck she would be half doped. It was a gamble I had to take.
I climbed the tree. Immediately below me, I could see shadowy figures. The FBI and the cops were already gathering. I looked over at the ranch house. It was in total darkness.
I wondered if they had posted a guard: either Jones or Pofferi, but doubted it. They must have felt completely secure behind those electronically controlled gates and on the Largo.
I recognized Coldwell’s tall figure.
“All in darkness,” I called down softly. “No movement.”
He glanced up, grunted, then drawing the group to him, he began going over his instructions again in a whisper.
The men were standing by the gates.
Faintly, in the distance, I could hear the approaching chopper. Nick had instructions from me to stay overhead until I flashed a torch, then he was to turn on his floods, and make a landing on Hamel’s lawn.
Coldwell said, “The current’s off.”
The moon, coming from behind a dense pack of cloud, cast light on the gates.
I saw a car being pushed down the road by four cops. Coldwell and his men shoved open the gates and the four cops pushed the car onto the drive to the ranch house. They had some hundred of yards to cover before they reached the vast expanse of lawn. There they stopped. Coldwell’s men fanned out and moved into the shrubs, keeping away from the nakedness of the lawn.
I was puzzled by the car until suddenly the headlights went on: not ordinary headlights, but powerful beams, specially fitted to the car.
The beams lit up the front of the house.
Coldwell, using a bullhorn, began yelling to Pofferi to come out with his hands in the air. His voice, greatly magnified, seemed to hit the house like the blows of a sledgehammer.
Nothing happened.
Coldwell’s voice continued to hammer against the house. I felt a trickle of sweat run down my face.
Coldwell was taking no chances. He just kept yelling. All his men were now lying flat, concealed in the many flowering shrubs.
Still nothing happened.
Coldwell stopped yelling.
Overhead was the noisy clatter of the chopper, its lights winking. I wondered how Nick was enjoying this movie-like scene.
Then there came a clunk, and the first gas bomb smashed a window. A moment later, gas began to drift out onto the lawn.
Jones was the first to appear. He threw open the front door, then a gun blazing in his hand, he tried to run towards the shadows, away from the blinding lights.
A gun banged and Jones reared back, clawing at the air. The gun banged again and Jones slid down on his knees and straightened out.
One down and two to go, I thought, watching tensely.
Coldwell began to bawl through the bullhorn.
“Pofferi! Come on out with your hands behind your head!”
The gas smoke was thinning. I thought of Nancy, and hoped they wouldn’t fire more gas bombs.
Then out of the shadows at the far end of the house came gunfire. One of the headlights of the car went out. Flashes lit up the darkness. I heard a cop yell. Another cop sprang upright, then staggered back and dropped.
The other cops and the Agents directed a withering fire in the direction of the flashes. Then I saw Pofferi, outlined in the light of the single beam, a revolver in either hand, move crab-like, half bent double, his white shirt stained red with blood, but he kept firing.
A burst of gunfire. I saw bullets slam into him. He was swept off his feet and fell.
I wiped the sweat off my face.
Two down, and one to go.
“Come on out, Lucia!” Coldwell bawled. “With your hands behind your head!”
A long pause, then I heard screams. Lucia came out into the dazzling light as if she had been projected from a cannon.
I saw her clearly.
She had on black slacks and a scarlet shirt. As she staggered through the doorway, she screamed, “Don’t shoot!” Her hands were waving frantically. She had an object in each hand. She hadn’t taken more than ten steps before she exploded.
There were two blinding flashes, two bangs that sent me rocking on the tree branch, then the whistling sound of shrapnel.
Rather than be taken, Lucia had blown herself to pieces, Japanese style, with hand grenades.
I looked down at the scene, feeling sick. All that was left of Lucia Pofferi was a ghastly mess of ripped flesh, intestines and shattered bones.
It was the finish!
I shimmed down the tree, ran across the road, paused to signal to Nick, hovering overhead, then ran up the drive.
The Agents and the cops were moving around: some of them attending to the two wounded cops, some checking Jones’ body, others Pofferi’s body. Coldwell was staring at the gruesome remains of Lucia.
I didn’t stop. I ran into the house, ran down the long corridor, pausing to throw open doors until I reached a locked door.
The gas smoke was now so weak, it only irritated my eyes. Standing back, I slammed my foot against the lock of the door. As I did so the electric current was restored and the corridor lit up.
The door swung open.
I stood in the open doorway, looking into a big, lighted room: a woman’s luxury bedroom. There was a double bed facing me. Sitting on the bed, her face in her hands, was Nancy Hamel. She was shivering, and frightened whimpers came from her.
Bart, baby, I thought, if she recognizes you and flips her lid, this set-up is going to turn sour. I moved slowly into the room.
“Mrs. Hamel.”
She stiffened, snatched her hands from her face and stared at me. Her eyes were wide, her mouth slack. Then like a frightened animal, she sprang to her feet.
“It’s all right, Mrs. Hamel,” I said in my soothing voice. “You are safe.”
She stared at me.
“My sister!” Her hands covered her face and she moaned. “She said she would kill herself. What happened?”
I began to relax. She hadn’t recognized me!
“It’s over, Mrs. Hamel,” I said. “I’m here to take you away from all this. Mr. Palmer has arranged to get you to the Spanish Bay hotel where you can rest. There’s a helicopter waiting.”
“Lucia is dead?” She stared at me. “They are all dead?”
“Yes. Let’s go, Mrs. Hamel. Is there anything you want to take with you?”
She hid her face and began to sob.
I waited, looking at her. She was wearing a dark green trouser suit. If she was to stay out of sight at the Spanish Bay hotel, she would need other clothes. I looked helplessly around.
“Mrs. Hamel!” I put a bark in my voice. ‘You’ll need things. Let me help you pack.”
She shuddered, then waved to a closet.
“The bag.”
I opened the closet door and found a big suitcase.