“You think I’m stupid? I was a punk with the mob, but I got out of it and I’ve done all right. I make over a million dollars a year. What do you do?”
“I haven’t made a million dollars in my whole life. But then there are a lot of things I’ve never done. I’ve never been a pimp, I’ve never—”
Dane’s foot kicked him in the face. Alder’s head snapped back. Dane said ominously, “The little time you got left, you keep your trap shut. You got to say something, you say, Mr. Dane, please...!”
Nikki’s soft palm covered the new bruise on Alder’s face and Alder felt no pain from it.
Dane moved away, back toward the door and Alder got to his feet, Nikki holding his arm, helping him.
“Mister Dane, please,” Alder said, “may I ask you a question?”
“Keep on, Alder,” warned Dane, “and I won’t wait. I don’t think it’s going to make any difference, anyway.”
“What I have to say might.”
Dane regarded him suspiciously. “I don’t think I’d believe you.”
“You might.”
Dane’s eyes slitted. Alder said, “I read your fan club magazine, Mister Dane, please—” He held up his hand. “You served in Omar Bradley’s tank corps. You told me yourself, how you won the Battle of the Bulge.”
“What the hell!”
“My colonel, during the war,” Alder continued, “he also happened to be my very good friend — is named Charles Mattock. He is today Major General Mattock. His office is in the Pentagon.”
“So what? You’re not impressing me,” snapped Dane. “I know generals, admirals, senators, congressmen.”
“The General,” said Alder, “is in a position to look up service records. No one named Auguste Pleschette served in our armed forces during the war.”
“Pleschette, hell, I’ve used a lot of names.”
“That is right,” agreed Alder. “I tried some of them on the General. He came up with the service record of Daniel Koenig.”
“It’s a common name,” Dane’s eyes were a little more open and they smoldered. “I wouldn’t believe a damn thing you said, anyway. I can think up generals’ names, too.”
“Follow me, then. ‘Inducted, February 10, 1943, at Fargo, North Dakota. Basic training, Fort Snelling, Minnesota. August, 1943, transferred to Luke Airfield, Arizona. AWOL twenty days. Thirty days guardhouse. Transferred to South Carolina. Served in Quartermaster Corps until August, 1945. Inducted as private, private first class, when discharged.’ Silver bars, lieutenant? Tanks?”
“You said your piece. You won the war, I suppose. All by yourself. You got yourself a trunkful of medals—”
“You’re missing the point, Dane,” said Alder. “I talked to General Mattock only two days ago. He knows Leroy Dane is Auguste Pleschette, alias Daniel Koenig.”
Dane’s breath came out of his mouth so heavily it almost became a whistle. “You’re stupider than you look, Alder. The little chance you had you just kicked in the teeth. No reason for me to wait for big brother now.”
“No reason for you to kill me now, Dane. Or anyone else. You’re through.”
“Maybe,” said Dane. “Maybe I am, but I’ll kill you for the fun of it. One more don’t make any difference. Or two—” His eyes went to Nikki. “I got to hand it to you — you’re better looking than any of the babes I’ve knocked off. Even the young ones. Might be fun before I give it to you. Especially if you give me a good tussle like you did the first time, when I—”
He broke off as Alder came toward him. “You crazy—!” he gasped.
Alder lunged for the barrel of the shotgun. Dane jerked it aside, just in time. He brought it back, a slashing blow that Alder could not quite break. The stock of the gun crashed against his chin. He reeled, clawed for Dane even as he went down. His hand gripped the stock, clung to it.
Dane fought to get it clear. He whipped Alder back and forth in the savage struggle. Nikki sprang forward, but at that instant Dane got clear. He sprang back into the open doorway.
“That’s it!” he snarled.
He brought the muzzle of the shotgun forward toward Nikki, but then moved it down to where Alder was on his knees, bracing his hands on the dirty floor, trying to win back enough strength to rise and make the supreme attempt of his life.
Old Frenchy cried out: “Gus — a car! I hear it.”
Dane wheeled, half stepped out of the cabin. “Don’t shoot now,” the old man babbled. “He hear shot, get ’fraid.”
Dane came back into the cabin, circling Nikki, but lashing out at Alder with his foot. He knocked him over.
“Everybody keep their traps shut,” he snarled.
The droning of the automobile motor was clear now. It was approaching the cabin. Even Alder, getting back to his knees, heard it. He looked up.
“Bash him, old man,” Dane ordered. “Hit him with something to keep him quiet.”
An automobile horn honked outside. It was an incongruous sound, breaking the tenseness of the scene in the cabin.
“Hallo, Papa!” called a voice outside. “It’s me, your long-lost son!”
“Go out,” said Dane. “Set him up.”
Dane pointed the shotgun at Alder. “One peep out of you—”
Old Frenchy was loath to go outside, but he went, shuffling through the door.
The car motor was shut off and the voice of Big Frenchy boomed. “Papa, it’s me, Jacques, your first-born son! Your wayward, wandering boy. Ah, the time we will have today and tonight — reminiscing about old times—”
A car door slammed and then Dane stepped through the door into the open air.
“Welcome home, big brother!”
“Brother! Of course, my dear, dear younger brother. Auguste.” Big Frenchy’s arms were thrown wide. He was going to enfold his father in his embrace, possibly his brother. Then he saw the shotgun in Dane’s hands.
“What is this? A gun. My dear boy! Is that a way to greet the older brother you have never seen? The oldest son of your father? Dear old papa!”
“I never saw you,” said Dane savagely. “I never wanted to see you, but I heard about you. When I first went to the big town they’d talk about you. I got fed up with hearing about Big Frenchy, the king of the con men. Some people even called me Little Frenchy until I knocked out a few teeth. I changed my name because of you. And I guess I’m here now, holding this gun on you, because of what you did — what you’re trying to do.”
“To you, dear Auguste? I try to do something to you — my very own brother?”
“Shut up, you bag of wind. I’ll do the talking. You and that damn hag that worked for me, you were in cahoots. You put the pieces together, traced me down.”
“I traced you, yes, but—”
“I said shut up! You were with her in the shakedown.”
“My dear brother. Shakedown! I abhor the word.”
“Blackmail, then. Call it by its right name. I killed her and you got scared. Enough to run off, but I see it now. It was you sent me the telegram. Not Alder, like I thought.”
“Telegram, my boy?”
“Telegram, I said. I’ll give it to you. ‘Go to the scene of your youth. Go to the Dakotas, where danger stalks the unwary.’ I heard you were a flowery bastard.”
“Bastard, brother!” cried Big Frenchy. “You insult our dear father. Papa, tell him I am no bastard.”
“I say nothing,” growled Old Frenchy, who had spawned these two monsters. “Jacques, you are no son of mine. In forty-five, fifty year, you never send one dollar to me.”
“I’ve been saving it,” cried Big Frenchy. “I have money for you now. Thousand-dollar bills. Look—”