“Mr. Newton is out of town,” the receptionist had said the first day, and the next day, and the next.
And Gerard: “Be patient. They’re worried. They want time to see if you’re going to make the first move. They’ll be tracing back on you, too.”
Three blasted days of cooling his heels. Grace was feeling the tension of it as badly as he was. And Old Quilliam calling her every day like that, demanding to see her. Nothing to do but sit in the apartment and read, worry about him.
Movius glanced at his watch, turned around. It was a large room—CR-14—perhaps forty feet wide and sixty long. The left wall was taken up by doorless offices separated by low, frosted glass partitions. Along the opposite wall was a row of maps on movable stands. One map had been pulled into the room. It was dotted with colored pins. Almost precisely in the center of the room was a long dark wood table, chairs around it at odd angles as though a conference had just ended. They’d been that way for three days now while people wandered in and out of the room, not speaking, not appearing to notice Movius.
Three men and a woman entered. The woman was the only familiar one, a large, squarish figure with face to match. She reminded Movius of someone. He’d been trying to remember who and had meant to ask Gerard who she was. The man were all of a type—muscular with looks so average they would be difficult to separate or remember. They had dangerous eyes which searched but seemed never to find. The woman and one man went into one of the cubbyhole offices. The other two men pulled out a map and stood looking at it, talking in low voices. They ignored Movius.
A medium height, red-haired man walked into the room. He had a wolfish, narrow-jawed look, evasive eyes which flitted across Movius without seeming to notice him.
Red hair, thought Movius. That will be Newton. He examined the man as Newton went to the two men by the map. So this was the man who had ordered Gerard’s first investigator thrown down a light well. Movius touched the gun at his lapel.
The red-haired man turned away from the map, came up to Movius. “Are you Movius?” A colorless voice. The narrow-set eyes stared at Movius’ lapel.
You shifty-eyed low-opp, thought Movius. You know who I am. He said, “That’s right.”
“I’m Newton.” The eyes came up, flicked over Movius’ face, back to the lapel. “I run this department. I’ll explain your duties later.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder toward a cubbyhole near the end. “Your office is number five. Somebody should’ve told you.”
Movius felt tension rising in the room.
Newton took his arm. “Here, I’ll show you the place and where things are.” He steered Movius across the room.
Yes, there was tension in the room. The two at the map had stopped talking. Movius glanced back. They had turned and were watching his progress toward the little office, Movius felt every sense in his body come was a trap! They had decided to get rid of him quickly. A compartment. What kind of a trap?
“In here.” Newton was urging him to go ahead.
Movius pulled back, brushed his hand over the bulge of the gun in his lapel holster. “You first, Mr. Newton.”
Tension in the room was electric. Movius flashed his left hand down to Newton’s elbow and, using upward leverage, thrust the red-haired man into the office. Newton’s scream was cut off by a stuttering sound, the shattering of glass. Movius slapped his lapel and the tiny gun dropped into his hand. He waved the muzzle across the two by the map and the man and woman who had come out of the end office. The four were in various stages of thrusting hands into pockets.
“Bring your hands out empty,” said Movius.
The hands come out of the pockets empty.
“Over against the wall.” He motioned with the gun. Their faces showed shock and fright. “Face the wall and lean against it with your hands.” He knew he did not need to look into the office. Rafe Newton had the reputation for laying excellent traps.
The four had eleven guns and an evil-looking dart projector designed from a stylus. After he had disarmed them, Movius ordered them to a position near the window, backed up to his cubbyhole. He glanced inside. Newton was sprawled on the floor in a spreading pool of blood. Atop a filing cabinet beside the door was a black box with a stutter gun fastened to it. Electric eye trigger. He had heard of them. Movius turned back to the four he had disarmed.
“All right. Walk ahead of me. Go slowly; don’t make any quick movements. We’re going upstairs.”
Warren Gerard stared at the four Movius had lined up against the office wall. “They were to be witnesses to your dreadful accident, eh?” He leaned forward, peered at each one. They fidgeted. “You’re somewhat of a problem.”
The woman cleared her throat, glanced sideways at the three men with her. “Make us an offer.”
Gerard leaned back. “Oh? You’re for sale?” He turned to Movius. “See anything you’d like to buy?”
“I’ve been thinking,” said Movius. “Say we call in Bu-Con and explain that there has been an accident. We show them Newton’s prints on the trap gun.” He looked at the woman. “They are on the trap gun, aren’t they?”
“On the electric eye box. He was going to get rid of the box, leave the gun on the floor with your prints on it. An accident with a gun.”
“On the box,” said Movius. “That’s even better. We’ll say he must’ve been setting a trap for somebody. We’ve no idea who.”
“What’s in it for us?” asked the woman.
The anger flared in Movius. That had been a close one down there. Too close. “There’s immunity from falling seventy-one floors to the courtyard!” he barked, glaring at her.
“You don’t give us any choice,” said one of the men.
“Nobody’s giving you a choice,” said Movius. “Just her.”
“But…”
“Shut up!” Movius turned to Gerard, who was grinning broadly, a cold, sadistic grin. “Do you have anyone who could look after these three? I’ll have to go down with what’s-her-name here to see if the job’s done right.”
Gerard pulled a gun from a drawer. “I’ve still some I can trust. Go ahead.”
Addington sent six men from Bu-Con. Movius had never seen them before, but they knew him, called him by name. They took photographs, measured, dusted for fingerprints, listened to the woman’s story.
“Who was Newton laying the trap for?” A sharp glance at Movius.
She shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine.”
“The fingerprints check.” The Bu-Con man studied the woman. “Tell us what happened in your own words.”
The story came out of her mouth with a pat sureness, as though it had been rehearsed. She was merely substituting Newton’s name for Movius.
They took her name. “Tyle Cotton.” And that caused Movius to stare. The cook’s sister, he thought. Now he saw the resemblance. She reminded him of the big, ungainly Marie Cotton. And Gerard’s ex-mistress. Bulb-head hadn’t batted an eye while looking at her, not shown by any sign that he knew her. A cold fish, Gerard.
“Mr. Movius, would you care to come over to Bu-Con and give your statement?”
He almost laughed. “Yes, I’d care. I’d care so much that I’m not going to do it.”
The Bu-Con men tensed.
“If you want out of this building alive you’ll just go quietly,” said Movius. “You know who he was setting the trap gun for. It backfired when he got careless.”
The investigator made a short note on a pad, waved his men out of the room, followed them. Presently, three men arrived with a stretcher, carted away what was left of Newton. Movius remained in the office with Tyle Cotton.
“What did they pay you for this?” asked Movius.
She turned a calculating look on him. “Promises.”