“Hello, Hilda.” He came into the kitchen and closed the door behind him.
She took another backward step. She shook her head and spoke through the trembling fingers that pressed against her lips. “It isn’t—”
“Yes,” he said. “It is.”
Her hand fell away from her mouth. The moment was too much for her and it seemed she was going to collapse. But somehow she managed to stay on her feet. Then her eyes were shut tightly and she went on shaking her head.
“Look at me,” he said. “Take a good look.”
She opened her eyes. She looked him up and down and up again. Then, very slowly, she summoned air into her lungs and he knew she was going to let out a scream. His hand moved fast to his coat pocket and he took out Oscar’s knife and said quietly, “No noise, Hilda.”
She stared at the knife. The air went out of her without sound. Her arms were limp at her sides. She spoke in a half-whisper, talking to herself. “I don’t believe it. Just can’t believe it—”
“Why not?” His tone was mild. “It figures, doesn’t it? You came to Philly to look for me. And here I am.”
For some moments she stayed limp. Then, gradually, her shoulders straightened. She seemed to be getting a grip on herself. Her eyes narrowed just a little, as she went on looking at the silver-handled switchblade in his hand. She said, “That’s Oscar’s knife—?”
He nodded.
“Where is Oscar?” she asked. “Where’s Coley?”
“They’re dead.” He pressed the button on the handle and the blade flicked out. It glimmered red with Oscar’s blood and Coley’s blood. He said, “It’s a damn shame. They wouldn’t be dead if they’d let me alone.”
Hilda didn’t say anything. She gave a little shrug, as though to indicate there was nothing she could say. He told himself it didn’t make sense to wait any longer and the thing to do was put the knife in her heart. He wondered if the knife was sharp enough to cut through ice.
He took a forward step, then stopped. He wondered what was holding him back. Maybe he was waiting for her to break, to fall on her knees and beg for mercy.
But she didn’t kneel and she didn’t plead. Her voice was matter-of-fact as she said, “I’m wondering if we can make a deal.”
It caught him off balance. He frowned slightly. “What kind of deal?”
“Fair trade,” she said. “You give me a break and I’ll give you Riker.”
He changed the frown to a dim smile. “I’ve got him anyway. It’s a cinch he’s upstairs sound asleep.”
“That’s fifty percent right,” she said. “He’s a very light sleeper. Especially lately, since he heard you were out of Quentin.”
He widened the smile. “In Quentin I learned to walk on tip-toe. There won’t be any noise.”
“There’s always noise when you break down a door.”
The frown came back. “You playing it shrewd?”
“I’m playing it straight,” she said. “He keeps the door locked. Another thing he keeps is a .38 under his pillow.”
He slanted his head just a little. “You expect me to buy that?”
“You don’t have to buy it. I’m giving it to you.”
He began to see what she was getting at. He said, “All right, thanks for the freebee. Now tell me what you’re selling.”
“A key,” she said. “The key to his room. He has one and I have one. I’ll sell you mine at bargain rates. All I want is your promise.”
He didn’t say anything.
She shrugged and said, “It’s a gamble on both sides. I’ll take a chance that you’ll keep your word and let me stay alive. You’ll be betting even-money that I’m telling the truth.”
He smiled again. He saw she was looking past him, at the kitchen door. He said, “So the deal is, you give me the key to his room and I let you walk out that door.”
“That’s it.” She was gazing hungrily at the door. Her lips scarcely moved as she murmured, “Fair enough?”
“No,” he said. “It needs a tighter contract.”
Her face was expressionless. She held her breath.
He let her hold it for awhile, and then he said, “Let’s do it so there’s no gamble. You get the key and I’ll follow you upstairs. I’ll be right in back of you when you walk into the room. I’ll have the blade touching your spine.”
She blinked a few times.
“Well?” he said.
She reached into a flap of the bottle-green velvet and took out a door-key. Then she turned slowly and started out of the kitchen. He moved in close behind her and followed the platinum blonde hair and elegant torso going through the small dining-room and the parlor and toward the dimly lit stairway. He came up at her side as they climbed the stairs, the knife-blade scarcely an inch away from the shimmering velvet that covered her ribs.
They reached the top of the stairs and she pointed to the door of the front bedroom. He let the blade touch the velvet and his voice was a whisper saying, “Slow and quiet. Very quiet.”
Then again he moved behind her. They walked slowly toward the bedroom door. The blade kissed the velvet and it told her to use the key with a minimum of sound. She put the key in the lock and there was no sound as she turned the key. There was only a slight clicking sound as the lock opened. Then no sound while she opened the door.
They entered the room and he saw Riker in the bed. He saw the brown wavy hair and there was some grey in it along the temples. In the suntanned face there were wrinkles and lines of dissipation and other lines that told of too much worry. Riker’s eyes were shut tightly and it was the kind of slumber that rests the limbs but not the brain.
Ken thought, He’s aged a lot in nine years; it used to be mostly muscle and now it’s mostly fat.
Riker was curled up, his knees close to his paunch. He had his shoes off but otherwise he was fully dressed. He wore a silk shirt and a hand-painted necktie, his jacket was dark grey cashmere and his slacks were pale grey high-grade flannel. He had on a pair of argyle socks that must have set him back at least twenty dollars. On the wrist of his left hand there was a platinum watch to match the large star-emerald he wore on his little finger. On the third finger of his left hand he had a three-karat diamond. Ken was looking at the expensive clothes and the jewelry and thinking, He travels first-class, he really rides the gravy train.
It was a bitter thought and it bit deeper into Ken’s brain. He said to himself, Nine years ago this man of distinction pistol-whipped your skull and left you for dead. You’ve had nine years in Quentin and he’s had the sunshine, the peaches-and-cream, the thousands of nights with the extra-lovely Mrs. Riker while you slept alone in a cell—
He looked at the extra-lovely Mrs. Riker. She stood motionless at the side of the bed and he stood beside her with the switchblade aiming at her velvet-sheathed flesh. She was looking at the blade and waiting for him to aim it at Riker, to put it in the sleeping man and send it in deep.
But that wasn’t the play. He smiled dimly to let her know he had something else in mind.
Riker’s left hand dangled over the side of the bed and his right hand rested on the pillow. Ken kept the knife aimed at Hilda as he reached toward the pillow and then under the pillow. His fingers touched metal. It was the barrel of a revolver and he got a two-finger hold on it and eased it out from under the pillow. The butt came into his palm and his middle finger went through the trigger-guard and nestled against the back of the guard, not touching the trigger.
He closed the switchblade and put it in his pocket. He stepped back and away from the bed and said, “Now you can wake up your husband.”