Don't Lie to Me (22 page)

“You sure?”

“He said he'd be here around five. That means he'll show up within the next hour.” I glanced at the phone. “But he'll call back first,” I said, and as I finished talking the phone rang. I said, “See what I mean?” and picked up the receiver.

It was Crane. He said, “Listen, man, I wanted to be sure it was really okay. Five isn't too late, is it?”

What he'd wanted was to be sure I was really here. I said, “No, I'll be here all night.”

“Fine,” he said. “See you later, Mitch.”

“See you later.”

We hung up again. Hargerson said, “That was him, huh?”

“Yes. He'll be coming over pretty soon now.”

“Right,” Hargerson said, and got to his feet, and walked out of the room. I watched him go, and it occurred to me that my life was now in that man's hands, and I experienced one moment of doubt and misgiving. What if Hargerson simply waited till Crane killed me? Then he'd catch the killer red-handed, and also repay me for the blinding of Grinella.

Except that I didn't believe Hargerson's mind worked that way. He would do his own vengeances, he would move in straight lines and perform blunt actions. And somehow, in the last hour, he and I had become something of a partnership; a very tenuous and short-term partnership, and one without much liking on either side, but a true partnership just the same.

We had come here to the museum, and Hargerson had used his police authority to send my replacement guard home, after I'd assured him he would be paid for a full night's work. I'd thought of using him in the trap, but he wasn't armed and he shouldn't be expected to involve himself in dangers that had nothing to do with his job, so it was better that he went home.

Now the two of us were alone here in the museum. As usual, the lights were out everywhere but in this office. Hargerson was to have stationed himself where he could watch the approach to this room, and all I had to do now was sit here in the light and wait for Crane to come to me. I also had to remain conscious, which was the most difficult part of all. The black iris wanted to close itself entirely; it was a constant struggle to keep it even partly open.

Crane was even more cautious than I'd expected. He called again about five after two: “Listen, Mitch, this thing looks like it's going on here the rest of the night. It'll be more like six when I get there, okay?”

“I go off at seven,” I said. “Any time before then.”

“Crazy. See you around six.”

We both hung up, and I wondered if Hargerson was hiding close enough to have heard my half of the conversation. The temptation was strong to call out to him, but I knew I shouldn't, and that it was pointless, and that if he was smart he wouldn't answer anyway. But I did wish for the contact.

About ten minutes later I thought I heard a sound out there in the hall, something like the anonymous scuttle a rat makes inside a wall. Was it Hargerson shifting from one place to another? Was it Crane arriving? I waited, looking at the doorway, the iris almost completely gone, my body tense as my ears strained to hear something more. But nothing further happened, and I relaxed again, and five minutes later Phil Crane was standing in the doorway, grinning at me. “Hi, Mitch,” he said.

I looked at him. I wanted to look past him for Hargerson, but I didn't. “Hello,” I said.

He'd been standing with his hands relaxed at his sides, but now he lifted one and showed me the gun he was holding. An efficient-looking revolver, with a longer barrel than most concealment weapons. It was more like the kind of gun they used in the Old West. Still grinning, he said, “I don't want to Bogart you, man, but right now I want you to get up and walk over here.”

I said, “What are you doing? What's this all about?”

“Forget it, Mitch,” he said, smiling happily at me. “You didn't fake me out for a second on the phone, man. We know all about each other. Now come over here.”

I got up and went around the desk and walked toward him. There was nothing to say. But where was Hargerson?

Crane gave me a faintly surprised look. “Man, you look like you've been in a pit with alligators.”

“I have.”

He stepped back as I reached the doorway, and gestured with the gun. “Go down to the front door,” he said. “Be careful you don't trip over your pal.”

I walked forward into darkness, and behind me Crane switched on a flashlight, so that I could see Hargerson lying like a sack of laundry on the floor. I stepped around him, and walked on.

“Open the door, Mitch.”

All three locks were fastened. I opened them, and pulled open the door. Not looking around, I said, “Where are we going?”

“Just outside. No more killings in the museum, Mitch, it makes people suspicious.”

Damn Hargerson. I stepped outside, and went down the stoop, and behind me Crane said, “I want you to walk right across the street.”

I knew he meant to shoot me when I reached the middle of the street. I moved slowly, hoping Hargerson would regain consciousness in time to save me, hoping traffic would come down the street, pedestrians, something, anything, and all of a sudden Dink Campbell came boiling out of a car to my right, running toward me, yelling, “Tobin, I've got to talk to you!”

Crane was firing as I turned, but he was shooting at Dink and me at the same time, and we were both moving, and the sudden change had startled him, and he didn't hit a thing. I ran forward crouching and hit him in the stomach with my shoulder, and the two of us went crashing to the sidewalk. But Crane still had the gun in his hand, and he was fresher and stronger than me, and no matter how I flailed after that revolver, I couldn't reach it.

Then Dink was beside us, and he kicked Crane twice; once in the gun-hand and once in the head. Crane flopped like a wet towel flung to the floor, and I rolled painfully off him and sat up in the street, blinking and panting.

Dink said, loudly and angrily, “What the hell did you do to the guys? The cops were around my place, they think
I
did it! I'm not taking any raps for you, Tobin!”

He'd just saved my life. I wondered how he'd feel about it when he knew. “Oh, shut up, Dink,” I said, and the iris closed in completely, and I went away.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1972 by Tucker Coe

Cover design by Alexander Doolan

978-1-4804-2896-6

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