But six months is too long to be out of practice and expect perfect results, even when fighting an untrained amateur. The kick missed Malcolm’s face, but thudded into his left shoulder. The blow knocked Malcolm into the wall. When he bounced off he barely dodged the swinging hand chop follow-through blow.
The mailman was very angry with himself. He had missed twice. True, his opponent was injured, but he should have been dead. The mailman knew he must get back into practice before he met an opponent who knew what to do.
A good karate instructor will emphasize that karate is three-quarters mental. The mailman knew this, so he devoted his entire mind to the death of his opponent. He concentrated so deeply he failed to hear Wendy as she opened and shut the door, quietly so as not to disturb Malcolm’s sleeping. She had forgotten her checkbook.
Wendy was dreaming. It wasn’t real, these two men standing in her living room. One her Malcolm, his left arm twitching to life at his side. The other a short, stocky stranger standing so strangely, his back toward her. Then she heard the stranger very softly say, “You’ve caused enough trouble!” and she knew it was all frighteningly real. As the stranger began to shuffle toward Malcolm, she carefully reached around the kitchen corner, and took a long carving knife from a sparkling set held on the wall by a magnet. She walked toward the stranger.
The mailman heard the click of heels on the hardwood floor. He quickly feinted toward Malcolm and whirled to face the new challenge. When he saw the frightened girl standing with a knife clutched awkwardly in her right hand, the worry that had been building in his brain ceased. He quickly shuffled toward her, dodging and dipping as she backed away trembling. He let her back up until she was about to run into the couch, then he made his move. His left foot snapped forward in a roundhouse kick and the knife flew from her numbed hand. His left knuckles split the skin just beneath her left cheekbone in a vicious backhand strike. Wendy sank, stunned, to the couch.
But the mailman had forgotten an important maxim of multiple-attackers situations. A man being attacked by two or more opponents must keep moving, delivering quick, alternate attacks to each of his opponents. If he stops to concentrate on one before all of his opponents have been neutralized, he leaves himself exposed. The mailman should have whirled to attack Malcolm immediately after the kick. Instead he went for the coup de grâce on Wendy.
By the time the mailman had delivered his backhand blow to Wendy, Malcolm had the sten gun in his hand. He could use his left arm only to prop the barrel up, but he lined the gun up just as the mailman raised his left hand for the final downward chop.
“Don’t!”
The mailman whirled toward his other opponent just as Malcolm pulled the trigger. The coughing sounds hadn’t stopped before the mailman’s chest blossomed with a red, spurting row. The body flew over the couch and thudded on the floor.
Malcolm picked Wendy up. Her left eye began to puff shut and a trickle of blood ran down her cheek. She sobbed quietly, “My God, my God, my God.”
It took Malcolm five minutes to calm her down. He peered cautiously through the blinds. No one was in sight. The yellow van across the street looked empty. He left Wendy downstairs with the machine gun huddled in her arms pointed at the door. He told her to shoot anything that came through. He quickly dressed, and packed his money, his clothes, and the items Wendy had bought him in one of her spare suitcases. When he came downstairs, she was more rational. He sent her upstairs to pack. While she was gone, he searched the corpse and found nothing. When she came down ten minutes later, her face had been washed and she carried a suitcase.
Malcolm took a deep breath and opened the door. He had a coat draped over his revolver. He couldn’t bring himself to take the sten gun. He knew what it had done. No one shot him. He walked to the car. Still no bullets. No one was even visible. He nodded to Wendy. She ran to the car dragging their bags. They got in and he quietly drove away.
Powell was tired. He and two other Washington detectives were covering covered ground, walking along all the streets in the area where Malcolm had last been sighted. They questioned people at every building. All they found were people who had been questioned before. Powell was leaning against a light pole, trying to find a new idea, when he saw one of his men hurrying toward him.
The man was Detective Andrew Walsh, Homicide. He grabbed Powell’s arm to steady himself. “I think I’ve found something, sir.” Walsh paused to catch his breath. “You know how we’ve found a lot of people who were questioned before? Well, I found one, a parking-lot attendant, who told the cop who questioned him something that isn’t in the official reports.”
“For Christ’s sake, what?” Powell was no longer tired.
“He made Malcolm, off a picture this cop showed him. More than that, he told him he saw Malcolm get into a car with this girl. Here’s the girl’s name and address.”
“When did all this happen?” Powell began to feel cold and uneasy.
“Yesterday afternoon.”
“Come on!” Powell ran down the street to the car, a panting policeman in his wake.
They had driven three blocks when the phone on the dash buzzed. Powell answered. “Yes?”
“Sir, the medical survey team reports a Dr. Robert Knudsen identified Condor’s picture as the man he treated for strep throat yesterday. He treated the suspect at the apartment of a Wendy Ross, R-o…”
Powell cut the dispatcher short. “We’re on our way to her apartment now. I want all units to converge on the area, but do not approach the house until I get there. Tell them to get there as quickly but as quietly as they can. Now give me the chief.”
A full minute passed before Powell heard the light voice come over the phone. “Yes, Kevin, what do you have?”
“We’re on our way to Malcolm’s hideout. Both groups hit on it at about the same time. I’ll give you details later. There’s one other thing: somebody with official credentials has been looking for Malcolm and not reporting what he finds.”
There was a long pause, then the old man said, “This could explain many things, my boy. Many things. Be very careful. I hope you’re in time.” The line went dead. Powell hung up, and resigned himself to the conclusion that he was probably much too late.
Ten minutes later Powell and three detectives rang Wendy’s doorbell. They waited a minute, then the biggest man kicked the door in. Five minutes later Powell summed up what he found to the old man.
“The stranger is unidentifiable from here. His postman’s uniform is a fake. The silenced sten gun was probably used during the hit on the Society. The way I see it, he and someone else, probably our boy Malcolm, were fighting. Malcolm beat him to the gun. I’m sure it’s the mailman’s because his pouch is rigged to carry it. Our boy’s luck seems to be holding very well. We’ve found a picture of the girl, and we’ve got her car license number. How do you want to handle it?”
“Have the police put out an APB on her for… murder. That’ll throw our friend who’s monitoring us and using our credentials. Right now, I want to know who the dead man is, and I want to know fast. Send his photo and prints to every agency with a priority rush order. Do not include any other information. Start your teams looking for Malcolm and the girl. Then I guess we have to wait.”
A dark sedan drove by the apartment as Powell and the others walked toward their cars. The driver was tall and painfully thin. His passenger, a man with striking eyes hidden behind sunglasses, waved him on. No one noticed them drive past.