The man shook his head emphatically.
“All right, start talking.”
The man shook his head again. The muscles in Nick’s face tightened. Killmaster or not, he didn’t like what he was going to do.
“Then get up and turn your face to the wall.” Nick s voice was ice and his mouth closed in a cruel, determined line.
The man looked back at Nick and got slowly to his feet, a big bullock of a fellow with deep, angular tattoo marks on his cheeks.
“Either turn around or talk,” Nick lashed at him.
The man opened his mouth but neither turned around nor talked. Instead he leaned slightly forward and put his head back, pointing into his mouth like a kid bragging about a newly extracted tooth.
What was missing was not a tooth. It was his tongue.
Nick’s eyes widened involuntarily as he stared.
The incomplete mouth closed and the tattooed face took on an expression that was half-fearful, half-contemptuous.
“Who did that — the people you work for?” The question at least drew some reaction.
The head wagged vigorously from side to side.
“Who, then?” The tongue had been cut out many years before; perhaps his own people had done it. “Your tribesmen?” A negative shake of the head. “Rival? Witchdoctor?” Two more decisive shakes. “White man?” An emphatic, multiple nod, and a baring of the teeth. “Portuguese?” Again a nod. “French?” Another nod. “Belgian?” Nod. Nick raised a mental eyebrow, though his face was stony. What was this — a variation on the all-white-men-are-the-same theme? “American?” Emphatic nod. “Russian?” A half-nod that stopped in the middle. “Chinese?” A shaking, nodding, rolling motion accompanied by confusion of the eyes and a troubled frown. “English?” A nod that finished with a chin on the chest and downcast eyes. The man without a tongue knew he had goofed. “Recently?” No reaction. “Long ago?” No reaction.
Nick surveyed his victim without satisfaction. He and Hugo could probably extort something out of this man before the day was out. A jab here, a nod there, a pinprick now and a headshake then, and some kind of answer would eventually emerge. But would it be worth the time it would take? Doubtful. And there was no guarantee that he was going to be left undisturbed for as long as he needed.
“Put those hands behind your back and hold them there,” he ordered. “That’s better.” Nick studied him. The man wore his European-style suit without ease, as though he were uncomfortable in it. And he wore his ill-fitting shoes as though they were instruments of torture. He was not an unusual type for an African city. Nevertheless...
“You can write, can’t you?” Hugo wagged threateningly.
The man shook his head triumphantly. Hugo darted at his face with vicious speed and bit lightly into the fleshy part of his left cheek. He gasped and took an involuntary step back.
“You can write, can’t you?” Hugo nipped hungrily at the other cheek and withdrew with incredible speed.
The head shook violently. Surprise and pain replaced the scorn on the man’s face and little mewling sounds came from his throat.
“Show me your hands. Slowly. Bring them from behind your back. One side first, then turn them over.”
The hands reached slowly and — it seemed — supplicatingly toward Nick.
They were the scarred and calloused hands of a man who worked in the soil and on the carpenter’s bench and maybe with bricks. None of the calluses had anything to do with holding a pencil or pushing a pen. Nick sighed silently to himself. It was not conclusive, but the man was probably telling the truth.
“All right, then. There’s only one way you can answer me and you’re going to do it. Remember, I’m armed with more than a knife. And I’m not alone, as you seem to think.”
Blood trickled down the dark face from the two small perforations and two wary eyes watched Nick uncertainly.
“You’re going to take me to the people who sent you here,” Nick said conversationally. “And if you do it without trying to tip me to them you may even live through the meeting. Or you may not. Let’s go. But first of all you can pick up that buddy of yours and put him in the closet. Hurry, friend. I haven’t got all day.”
Hugo sliced the air, waggling impatiently.
The man stayed where he was. He was cringing now and shaking his head without the slightest trace of arrogance or scorn, and pitiful gurgling noises came from his throat.
“Get moving.” Nick’s voice was as cold as Hugo’s steel; and Hugo spoke as he did. The lightning blade slashed down one large, fleshy ear and slid gracefully off the bottom of the chin.
Nick’s victim growled and backed away, shaking his head like a lion in pain. He seemed to be trying desperately to form words.
“What is it?” asked Nick. “Do you want someone to talk for you?”
The head swung wildly and the thick lips drew back to show the teeth and gums.
“Then move!” Nick rapped.
The fellow moved with the speed of desperation and struck with the blind strength of terror. His arms tore at Nick’s knife hand and the sounds he made were those of an animal fighting for its life. Nick let his grasp tighten, then pivoted on the balls of his feet and flipped the man over his shoulder to the floor.
“Get up!” he grated. “You’ve got one last chance to do as I tell you or you’re through.”
The man squirmed to his feet and stood there panting. Then he leapt again, grasping for the knife and grappling like a madman. Nick raised his knee sharply and brought it up into the dumb man’s crotch. His visitor made an awful gasping sound but went on clawing at Nick. One tremendous arm tried to lever the knife arm down while the other went for Nick’s face.
Nick threw him off once more.
“You fool!” he said, almost pleadingly. “Take me where I want to go — or I’ll kill you.”
The man drew himself into a crouch and leapt. Hugo met him in the air and plunged into his heart.
The body was still fighting for a life already lost when Nick pulled the twitching arms away from him and let the dead weight fall to the floor.
Nick moved swiftly then, thinking bitterly to himself of the hazards of hotel living and how he always managed to get his room cluttered up with dead or dying or escaping visitors. He dragged the stilled, speechless man into the bathroom. He had the bellhop halfway across the floor when his door vibrated with a heavy knock. He dumped the man onto his companion in the bathroom and ripped off his own jacket and tie. When he reached his bedroom door he picked up his bag, tossed it on the bed and opened it. He tore off his shirt and tossed it onto the nearest chair. His feet moved smoothly against the scuff marks on the carpet and his hand was on the doorknob by the time the second knock began. His other hand was ready for whatever was outside.
He pulled the door open several inches and snapped: “Who is it?”
Another bellhop stood outside, his hand still raised for knocking.
“Sir, excuse me,” said an obsequious voice. “The porter Amos — may I speak to him?”
“By all means speak to him,” snapped Nick, “but don’t bother me about it. If you mean the fellow who brought my bag up, he left some time ago. Now if you don’t mind...” He glanced down at his bare chest and tried to look as though he’d been disturbed in the middle of changing. The man’s gaze traveled up the arm that loosely held the doorframe and stopped on the inside of Nick’s right elbow. His eyes clung to the little blue axe-shaped tattoo that had been a part of Nick ever since he’d joined AXE years before.