I brought him down with a vicious rolling block across the back of his legs that snapped him into the wet sand, lost him momentarily when I went right over him and turned just in time to grab his foot in my hands as he tried to kick my face in. He was a madman now, eyes bulging, every action one of pure reflex, slashing at me with desperation, bringing into play every trick of judo or karate he had ever mastered.
None of it was enough. I parried his jab to my throat, broke his jaw with a right cross that made him reel drunkenly, then threw another that caught him on the other side and he went face down into four inches of water that came in with a breaker.
He knew what I did. He was conscious of it a long time before he gave up and died. He felt my foot on the back of his neck, keeping his face pressed into the shallows at the edge of the tide, and he clawed futilely through a froth of blood from the remains of his fingers at the weight that was killing him.
When the last great shudder went through him I left him there and went back to the front of the house. I found Mason, bandaged the great gash along the side of his head and propped him up. He’d be a long while unconscious, but would live. He was another of the lucky ones.
Chapter 12
Behind the glass, heavy wire mesh had been nailed to the window frames, white metal venetian blinds drawn shut in back of that. Both front and rear doors were studded with carriage bolt heads where the interiors had been reinforced with some heavier material. It had been enough to slow down the killer who knew a forced entry could trigger the man inside into some unpredictable action and he had preferred to wait until he could gain entry at his leisure.
I took the pick out, inserted one in the keyhole of the lock and tried it. The tumblers didn’t budge. I went through four of them before getting a response from the mechanism. Then, by manipulating it easily, I forced the tumblers back one at a time.
Whoever had installed the chain hadn’t done it right. Enough slack was there so I was able to slip it out of position with a business card from my wallet. It swung down, clinking there as I pushed the door open. Inside a radio was playing softly, crackling with static as the storm moved between it and the station broadcasting.
The .45 was in my hand again, ready. I stepped in, closed the door and let my eyes become adjusted to the gray dusk in the room, picking out pieces of furniture, searching for the one I wanted so badly.
From the corner where the radio played was the barely perceptible glow of a dial, its circular face bisected by the back of a chair that faced the ocean. The crook of an elbow jutted out over the arm as the motionless figure there sat watching the sea through the partially opened slats of the blinds.
He never heard me. I had kicked off my shoes and sidled around to the side, each step calculated to take me into position for a clean winging shot if I had to.
And then I could see him, the odd box in his lap that had a pair of minute glowing red lights set in its side. He never turned his head, simply sitting there with the cigarette-sized control in his left hand, his thumb poised over one of the two buttons in its top.
I aimed the .45 at his head and said softly, “Louis...”
There was no reaction... no movement at all.
I took a step closer, ready for the slightest motion of his finger before I took his whole hand off. Only the slightest pressure now on the trigger would do it.
Sweat trickled down the center of my spine. Outside was the world. Here was its destruction.
“Louis Agrounsky,” I said again. I was almost on top of him by now. I could see his eyes, wide open, the weird smile on his face as if he were watching the greatest show of his life.
I could see something else too.
He was dead.
The syringe was lying beside him, the needle jabbed into the cushion. The rest of his kit was on the table beside the radio, the three empty capsules, the spoon with the bent handle and the stub of a candle on a saucer. Louis Agrounsky had made a decision, all right. He finally had reached it. He had been ready to carry it out, whatever it was, and mainlined himself for the event and mainlined himself right into the big black with an overdose of the heroin he had craved so badly.
I didn’t touch anything. That would be handled by the experts. I left him as he was, shoved the .45 back in the holster, the crazy relief turning my legs weak a second. I looked at my watch, saw the time and swore into the darkness.
The phone was on a side table and alive. I gave the operator the number of the apartment in New York and waited while it rang twice, then Rondine said simply, “Yes?”
“Tiger, kitten.”
Her voice echoed the relief I had felt moments ago, then came back with the fright real and imperative. “Tiger... Oh! But... where are you?”
“I found him, baby. You can wrap the world up again. It’s safe for a little while longer. You can come off it now.”
“No! No, Tiger... listen. I found it... the letter Doug Hamilton mailed. He sent it to an old address of his deliberately, knowing it would be rerouted through all of his other forwarding addresses before it was returned to him. He wrote it all down and...”
“But it’s finished, kid.”
“Tiger... it’s Camille Hunt!”
It was like having the wind blow out of the north and chill you to the bone.
“Camille?” I repeated tonelessly.
Her voice crackled in the phone. “This Henri Frank came to Belt-Aire supposedly to get a job, but what he was doing was making contact with Camille Hunt to tell her about Louis Agrounsky. Hamilton checked him out and found out he was an active Communist. Later he accidentally saw Camille and this Frank person together and suspected something, so he followed her to where she made contact with a man he described in detail... it was Vito Salvi. The address was right there. He mentioned he was going to investigate Salvi further to see what the connection was.”
My voice sounded cold and far away. “Did he back it up with any evidence?”
“Henri Frank was from the Eau Gallie area and she made several trips there. He had photostats of the tickets enclosed in the letter.”
It all wrapped up beautifully. Wait until Martin Grady found out he had personally recommended a Soviet agent and planted her in his own critical organization. What had been her background? The publications field — a great spot where a trained operative could twist the printed word to meet the demands of the slave state. And she was invited into a supersensitive industry where she could be held in abeyance until the proper time came. The only things that stymied the effectiveness of more direct moves were the double checks put on everybody’s activities by government directive.
She’d have to be high in the organization, a liaison operative who could call into operation the full forces lying in wait if the grand moment came. And that it did. One man fell out of line with a momentous scheme to crush the world his tortured mind wouldn’t let him accept any longer, and she was ready. She had the cover identity of Helen Lewis prepared in advance as she would have several others in key places, ready for immediate use. She made sure of Agrounsky’s aberration with personal contact. She was trained to read people, analyze and judge them. It wouldn’t take much to alter her appearance... makeup on a woman could make her almost anybody. When she was sure, the trap was built. Total narcotics addiction for Agrounsky, curtailing his supply, directing him to sources leading to New York where they could buy his will and his knowledge with heroin and pick his brains piece by piece.