Rondine stood there unmoving, then said softly, “What was it, Tiger?”
I pointed to the head high spot on the surface rust of the angle iron, a dimpled indentation the size of a nickel barely reflecting the dull gray color of freshly spattered lead. “We almost were suckered, kid. They pulled that cruising game out front to force us into a back exit. Somebody’s been planted across the way waiting for us to show. They couldn’t make a hit on the street without taking too many chances. We damn near fell for the bit.”
“Are you...?”
I shook my head. “Uh-uh, baby, I’m not going to do a thing. Whoever fired that shot expected to get me. He isn’t the kind who misses, either. In this light all he saw was a body fall and the feet are still there to prove it. This guy and me are both about the same size and for now he’ll think I was the one coming through the door. When our friend here comes around he’ll go back on duty with a little larger hat to cover his bump and a pocket full of dough to salve his pain and we’ll get out of here as nice as you please. If someone’s spotted around to watch the action we’ll make it nice and authentic for him.”
She got the picture fast enough. A simple sketch was all she needed and she grinned from her position against the wall and said something soundlessly that would not have gone with the common concept of a cultured British broad and I grinned back because I knew what she said and that she meant it.
It was fifteen minutes before the doorman let out his first feeble groan and reached for his head and massaged it gently, his eyes flicking open a moment before he squeezed them shut again.
“Can you read me, buddy?”
“Yeah, but not too loud. What the hell happened?”
“Don’t sweat it. I’ll explain later. Stay right like you are and you’ll get paid for the trouble.”
“Somebody’s gonna get his head in his hands for that one.”
“That’s not what you’re getting paid for. You ready?”
“Okay, okay, just not too loud. Damn, who busted me?”
“Just figure yourself lucky. You could’ve been killed.”
“So I’m lucky. Somebody else is going to be miserable. Wait.”
“Concentrate on a grand in your pocket. You’ll feel a lot better.”
He opened his eyes all the way and peered at me in the near dark. “I feel better already. Tell me more.”
“Later.” I looked up at Rondine. “Can you handle it?”
“Go ahead,” she said.
From the lobby phone I reached Wally Gibbons. He was still in his office at the paper and didn’t bother going through the futility of asking questions. He arranged for the private ambulance to get to the address and forwarded my call to Charlie Corbinet so the timing would be right and the cover set through I.A.T.S. They weren’t going to like it, but then, they didn’t have to. All they could do was go along and let it ride like that.
There wasn’t much time, but we worked it out. The ambulance got there first and before it was parked we had the doorman snaked out of his position. From outside all anybody could see was feet moving back through the door and that would have satisfied them. The doorman was back moving traffic along outside the apartment, keeping the curious away while they wheeled me out, face covered with a sheet on a stretcher, loaded me into the ambulance with a supposedly bereaved woman going along for the final ride at my side. We were making the turn at the corner when the first of the squad cars came screaming up the street and I sat up in the ambulance to look into the face of a completely cynical, white coated attendant who said, “What’s the gag, friend?”
All I did was reach in my pocket, lay two big bills in his hand and answer, “What difference does it make?”
He took the cash, held out a clipboard with a printed form on it that I could sign, and when I did said, “None at all, friend. The bill is paid. What’ll I do with the change?” he asked cautiously.
“Split it with the driver,” I told him.
“Call on us any time. Here’s our card. Now where to? We charge by the mile.”
I gave him the corner two blocks away from my new quarters and he relayed the information through the window to the driver. The guy at the wheel said nothing. He turned off the overhead light, fired up a cigarette and relaxed back against the seat to enjoy the ride. I had thought the cabbies in New York were blase, but they never came near these guys at all.
Rondine and I got out without attracting any attention at all, stopped at a deli to pick up some sandwiches long enough to make sure we weren’t being tailed, then walked down to the sign that said Shigley’s and went up to the apartment Martin Grady had so thoughtfully supplied.
In another couple of hours the evening papers would be carrying the story of the dead man shot in the classy residential district, identified by papers he carried as one T. Mann, an employee of the Martin Grady organization, the reason for his death unknown, but suspected of being caused by a prowler attempting to force an entrance into the building. I.A.T.S. had no choice but to go along, but the stuff was going to hit the fan when Hal Randolph and I got face to face.
The rain had started again. It slashed against the windows like fingers of an animal trying to get in, driving and clawing momentarily before taking a respite to make another attack, then under cover of the sudden glow of lightning and the rumbling of thunder from across the Hudson River it would charge in to beat and hammer in a furious onslaught of nature against man. There was a childish fury in the storm, an ineffectual pounding that was insistent and annoying, but lacking the cold skill of the adult beasts that were piling up in the Caribbean, massing themselves for a concerted attack in a month or so, disguised by innocuous female names they give to hurricanes in this age of suffrage.
A half hour ago the late news had mentioned the supposed killing at Rondine’s address and somewhere out there in the city Niger Hoppes was sitting back smugly thinking his primary mission was accomplished and counting his reward when the report was in. Somewhere he was satisfied that he had won and the rest of the mission was a fait accompli because the biggest obstacle was already disposed of.
Somewhere out there was a guy who was going to get the biggest surprise of his life.
The phone rang, a jarring note in the stillness. I picked it up and waited, then heard Martin Grady code his identification. When I gave mine he said, “Newark Control just gave me the information, Tiger. Anything to add to it?”
“Not yet. Did any of our people cut it at Rondine’s apartment?”
“We had two spotted there. Between the police and I.A.T.S., they did a good job, but some big explanations are going to be forthcoming. Your old Colonel put a tight squeeze on them. Incidentally, he passed on the information that the slug was a high-velocity .22, so the picture is coming together.”
“But no sign of Niger Hoppes though?” I asked him.
“Not yet. We’re trying some left-field tactics to get an ID on the guy. Somebody on his side will have to know him by sight and if we can run down just one we’ll get a description. You’ll get it the minute it comes through.”
“Good enough. Any repercussions in Washington yet?”
Grady let out a chuckle. “Talk of reorganization in certain departments. That means they’ll be promoting the eggheads up out of sight instead of dumping them. If the State Department would get on the ball they’d take an ax to some of their bunch. When this is over we’re going to concentrate on certain key personnel up there and get their activities out in the open.”
“It’s about time.”
“Okay then, Tiger, stay in touch. Don’t hesitate to ask for anything you need.”