“Liberty is a girl. That doesn’t count. But no man is going to touch me until my wedding night.”
“Well, I’ll be damned.” I stood up, resigned, and pulled up my pants. “Go on and finish what you were doing,” I told Phoebe. “No point in both of us being frustrated.”
“You spoiled the mood,” she pouted. “It’s hard enough without a phone.”
“ ‘Hard enough,’ ” I observed with a sigh of regret. “But let’s get back to business. What about Tom Swift. Do you know where he is? Do you know what he’s trying to do?”
“I can tell you some things,” Phoebe started to say. She was interrupted by the door being flung open. The Russian stood there with a large Luger in his hand. It was pointed straight at me.
“I warned you to tell this man nothing!” he reminded Phoebe. “Now you have signed his death warrant!”
His finger squeezed the trigger of the Luger. . . .
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The sound of the shot was deafening. It split the silence like an atomic blast. It echoed beyond the opened staff-room door and reverberated through the corridors of the darkened, empty library.
A look of surprise spread over the face of the Russian. He swayed for a moment like a man balancing on a tightrope. Then he pitched forward, a small glob of blood oozing from a neat hole in the center of his back. The Luger slid from his hand, unfired.
“He’s dead.” My voice sounded dazed in my own ears. I still couldn’t quite believe that the sound of the bullet wasn’t the last sound I’d hear in this world.
Soft, padding footsteps—unhurried—-and then another figure was framed in the doorway. “Japanese products are not to be trusted.” The voice was soft, cultured, precise. “I purchased this revolver in Hong Kong. It was manufactured in Nagasaki. There is a warranty. But it does not cover the silencer. Naturally. Those wily Japanese. The silencer, as you have noticed, does not work.”
I recognized the tall, slender Oriental man who had been sitting in the library and reading about table-tennis rackets just before it closed. What do you say to a man who’s just saved your life? A man to whom you’ve not even been properly introduced? Some situations Emily Post doesn’t cover. I improvised. “Thanks,” I told him simply, but with heartfelt sincerity. It was, as things evolved, premature.
“The window!” Phoebe, who had been even more dazed than I, snapped out of it and answered her own unspoken question. She stood clutching her hot pants around her waist, her blouse billowing loosely-—rumpled but decent.
“That was his means of entrance.” The Oriental man nodded to her. “Before you closed it,” he told me.
“And you . . .”
“Also the window,” he admitted. The revolver still dangling casually from one hand, he turned to me. “I wonder if I might impose on you,” he said politely. “I have a bad back.”
“I’m sorry,” I told him, meaning it. The way I felt about him, I would have shed tears over a pimple if it gave him pain.
“A slipped disc,” he explained.
“How awful for you.”
“The perils of athletics,” he sighed.
I clucked sympathetically.
“The result of a particularly strenuous table-tennis match,” he said.
“Threw out your back diving for a long one, I’ll bet.” I nodded understandingly. “It can happen to experts. It’s a dangerous game.”
“No.” He contradicted me. “It was a direct ,blow -- a backhand slice, I believe —from my pal1ner’s paddle. A tricky shot to the third vertebra.”
“Such things happen in the heat of the game.”
“It did not happen in the heat of the game. It happened after the match was over. We lost. As is the custom, we bowed to our opponents, we bowed to each other, congratulations all around on a game well played, and then my partner chastised me for setting him up for a slam by giving the opposition an easy forehand return. I responded with a forehand push that bounced three of his front teeth over the net. In the ensuing volley, he threw sportsmanship to the winds and placed the illegal shot responsible for my slipped disc.”
“Treachery!” I was filled with righteous anger for my newfound Oriental friend.
“Yes,” he agreed. “Table-tennis diplomacy,” he summed up, “can sometimes be very difficult.” He sighed again. “The reason I mention it,” he continued after a short pause, “is that I do have this bad back, which makes it difficult for me to lift things. And so I wonder if I might impose on you to . . .”
“Of course. What is it that you want . . . ?”
He gestured toward the body of the dead Russian. “I would like to dispose of that,” he told me.
“Why not just leave him where he is?” I inquired.
“Littering is against the library rules,” Phoebe interjected. “Even in the staff room.”
“Neatness is next to godliness,” the Oriental man agreed.
I hefted the body over my shoulder and carried it to the door. He stood aside politely to allow me to pass. Phoebe followed, and he brought up the rear.
It was still pitch black in the corridors of the library. “Where do you want him?” I asked, panting under the weight of my burden.
“Put him on the cart with the other unfiled items,”
Phoebe suggested. “Excellent,” he agreed. “And then, if you’ll be good enough to wheel the cart to the rear, I’ll arrange for disposal of the body.”
“You really don’t have to bother,” Phoebe said. “Tomorrow’s the day the central library picks up the mutilated books. I can ship him out with them.”
“Won’t that cause comment?” I wondered.
“Not really. They’ll just assume he’s a researcher who died in harness. It happens frequently, you know. Sometimes the bodies get misfiled, and it’s days before they get gamy enough to be found again.”
But the Oriental had different plans for the body, and for us as well. He had me pull the cart to a halt in the shadows near the window. Someone had opened it again. Four of the shadows detached themselves, and before I could quite grasp what was happening, they had surrounded us. The Oriental flicked on a flashlight. They stood there, obviously waiting to take their orders from him.
As the flashlight beam swept over their faces, my jaw dropped and stayed that way. I recognized them! I’d never expected to see them again. I sure as hell never wanted to see them again. But here they were!
Rifle! Knife! Revolver! And Strangler!
“You’re a mafioso!” I pointed an accusing finger at the Oriental man.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he replied. “I don’t even look Italian.”
Maybe he didn’t know. It seemed impossible, but he had saved my life, and I was quick to give him the benefit of the doubt-—no matter how far-out the doubt might be. “Those guys work for the Mafia,” I hissed to him, whispering.
Rifle overheard me. “Not anymore,” he told me. “The recession, you know. There was an economy cut. They let us go.”
“All four of you?”
“Yes.” He shook his head ruefully. “Not enough tenure.”
“You people ought to unionize,” I suggested.
“We’re trying to make arrangements to talk to Hoffa11 ,” Rifle told me. “But it’s not likely he’ll do anything concrete until after the next elections. He’s in a very sensitive position himself. So, meanwhile, we have to eat. And Mr. Pong has been good enough to take us on temporarily. Piecework, as it were.”
“Mr. Pong?”
“I’m afraid I’ve neglected to introduce myself. “Pingtse Pong is my name.” The Oriental man bowed formally. “How do you do, Mr. Victor, Miss Phreeby.” He bowed again to Phoebe.
“Have you checked their references?” I demanded.
“I’m afraid not. It’s hard to get decent help these days. One can’t be too particular. And hiring is a particular problem for my organization.”