Gilded Canary (21 page)

“I went with you at first because, really, she talked me into it. I wasn’t particularly apprehensive. But then when I saw
you in action, realized just how unstoppable you really were…. Well, I took a shot at you, there in the potato field, hoping
to kill you and let the police assume you’d been gunned down by the others. I had a chance for a second shot, too, you know,
but changed my mind. After all—I did owe you. And I—I still didn’t want to think I was quite that bad. And then when you showed
me your trust and allowed me to come with you, even after that, well I—I just couldn’t. It was as if by then you were the
only one holding the last shred of my manhood together.”

The muzzle began to rise now, tracing its way up Lock-wood’s spine, then along his neck, until it came to rest at the back
of his skull.

“But of course, Stephanie was another question. She was too much of a handful, Hook. I hadn’t really planned to kill her.
Just wanted to see her, to speak with her, assure myself I could be safe with her. But instead, she became hysterical. In
one breath she tried blackmailing me into loving her and going off with her, and in the next, reviled me, compared me to you,
with myself coming off decidedly second best. My guess, Hook old boy, is that by then, she was on the verge of transferring
all her affection to you. So I led her into the bedroom, and when she turned her back for a moment, I—I did it. Put my hands
around her neck and squeezed. Squeezed till I thought the veins in my arms would burst. She was threatening everything I held
dear, Hook, and so I felt I had to do it.”

He jammed the gun harder against Lockwood’s head. “And of course you’re responsible for all of this. You just couldn’t dog
it, had to keep on coming, until you’d found out all that you needed. And I resent it. I tell you, I had a wonderful life
before you turned up. Wonderful.” He pulled back the hammer. Lockwood heard it click.

“So long, friend.” Lockwood whirled as the hammer fell, and they both stood stock still for a moment, in surprise. No sound
of gunfire came out of the barrel, just a loud, empty “snap.” The chamber had been empty.

Lockwood’s hand came up, the .32 still in it, pulling the trigger as Raff tried again, and simultaneously from The Hook’s
gun came the same hollow sound as Raff’s. Bunche, like Raff, had expended all his bullets.

They stood facing each other, Raff’s expression incredulous. “Fancy! Both of us caught with our drawers down. I suppose now
it’s a case of ‘shall the better man win.’”

He flung himself at Lockwood, and the two closed on each other, arms around each other’s necks, feet grappling with one another,
each of them trying to trip his opponent to bring him down, but they were too evenly matched. In a moment, Raff dropped his
arms and leapt back. “Revised Marquis of Queensbury, I guess,” he smiled, his fists raised in front of him. “Kicking, gouging,
and biting very much in order.” His eye fell for the first time on Lockwood’s bleeding arm. “And handicaps get no special
privilege.” For the first time Raff looked confident about beating him, and Lockwood couldn’t blame him. The wound was beginning
to tell on him; he could feel himself weakening.

Raff advanced on him, his doubled-up hands looking slightly wrong as they assumed a boxing position. Raff evidently had had
no tutoring in this department, but he was wiry and athletic, and his two arms against Lock-wood’s one seemed to put him very
much in the favorite’s seat.

The Hook watched him warily, his left hand cocked, the right affording only a semblance of defense.

Raff let loose with a flurry of punches, poorly directed, with not much power behind them, and Lockwood fended them off as
best he could. He returned with two quick lefts, the second snapping Raff’s head back. His foe seemed surprised, then angry,
and he came in at him again, this time putting more weight behind his punches. He missed with all but two; one of them a grazing
right to Lockwood’s chin, the second more telling as it landed on his right arm flush on the bullet wound, sending almost
shattering pain shooting up the arm, into the shoulder, and even halfway up the neck. He couldn’t take many more of those,
if any.

Raff came at him again, and this time one of four punches landed, catching Lockwood on the chin and sending him reeling back.
But when Raff rushed after him, sensing a kill, Lockwood jolted him with a hard left to the midsection and another to his
cheek.

A vein in the middle of Raff’s forehead was standing out now, throbbing, and, in desperation, he kicked at Lockwood, catching
him in the thigh. The Hook buckled, fell to the floor. Raff came in to finish him, foot aiming at his head, a murderous grin
on his face.

But Lockwood had seen the .32 on the floor where he’d dropped it, and his hand went for it, cobra-like. As Raff kicked out,
Lockwood replied in kind, forgetting all the rules, and jammed the gun up between Raff’s legs.

Raff went down, in intense agony, and the wounded Hook took no chances. He sprang behind Raff, and, as the former wartime
hero tried to twist around, crashed the .32 down on the back of his head.

There was a sickening thud, and Raff slumped, seemed to recover for an instant, and then went down and stayed there.

Lockwood sank to the concrete floor. It was all over, finally. He brushed the perspiration off his face, out of his eyes,
and as his vision cleared, he saw the drops of blood dotting the floor. His blood. Slowly, carefully he removed his jacket.
The bullet hadn’t hit an artery, he saw, relieved, but the blood was still flowing freely. He removed his shirt, and with
his teeth and left hand, managed to tear off a strip. He then ripped off a sleeve, pressed it against the wound, then painstakingly,
again with one hand and his teeth, bound the strip tightly over the compress.

He rose now, and turned to the door. He pushed against it, on the chance Raff, in his haste, had tried opening it incorrectly.
But it was locked. He banged on it then, once, twice, three times, shouting out as well, but no one responded.

Raff was stirring, and Lockwood knew he had no other choice. He took the gun and pistol-whipped him a second time, then dropped
the weapon, stooped, and with his one good arm, slung Raff across his back.

He trudged up the stairs, trying the door at each landing, every muscle screaming its protest as, foiled, he once more moved
to climb yet another flight. At the fourth floor, Muffy’s floor, the door was open, and again he found himself in the same
corridor, the corridor he’d stood in for the first time just five days ago, when he’d attended Muffy’s opening night party.

There were sounds down at the end of the hall, and as he came closer, he saw that Muffy’s door stood open. The cops were there,
probably. The sound of gunfire had undoubtedly brought them in a matter of minutes.

He still had Raff over his shoulder when he entered the suite. Jimbo was there, at the back end of the room, kneeling behind
the sofa. He saw Lockwood immediately, and instantaneous concern filled his hard-bitten face.

But he was the same old Brannigan. “Jesus,” he said. “You sure make life around here tough on the chambermaids.” He pointed
down behind the couch, where Bunche’s body still lay, in a pool of congealing blood. “I assume this is some of your work.”

Lockwood nodded wearily and slowly let Raff Spencer slip off his body onto the couch, a few feet from where Muffy sat, dressed
now, but haphazardly, the buttons not mated to their respective holes, her hair mussed, her face red and marked, probably
from being dug as far into the carpet as it could get.

Raff was beginning to stir. “Better handcuff him,” Lockwood told Brannigan. A cop near Lockwood took out his handcuffs and
looked inquisitively at his superior.

Brannigan gave him no answer, instead asking Lockwood, “Why?”

“He killed Stephanie Meilleux, Set up the robbery.”

Brannigan didn’t even bother looking at the cop. “Cuff him,” was all he said.

Lockwood suddenly realized he didn’t feel too good. He lowered himself into a chair and fought to keep from losing his breakfast.

“Take a look at his arm,” Brannigan told the doctor who’d just arrived.

“Did you recover the jewels?” he asked.

The Hook looked around, surprised. “Didn’t you find them when you came in?”

“No.”

Lockwood’s eye dropped to the floor where he’d last seen them. Then he looked at Muffy. She was staring into space, seemingly
out of it.

“Muffy,” he said firmly. “I want the jewels.”

She looked at him, and then away.

“Muffy.”

She ignored him.

He raised up a bit in the chair, and his voice made even Brannigan look uneasy. “Take off your blouse.”

You could see she was trying to fight him, but already her body had sagged, her eyes gone frightened and childlike.

“Do it.”

Everything about her suddenly softened into something submissive, and her hand went to her shirt.

“What’s the idea?” Brannigan began, but then his mouth fell open as Muffy reached down between her breasts and pulled all
of it out; necklace, earrings, bracelet, her hand going back each time for another article. And then she sat there, quiet
and passive, palm upturned in her lap, the jewels glittering as they lay over her flesh and the rich material of her skirt.

“What’s
she
doin’ with them?” Brannigan asked, as puzzled-looking as Lockwood had ever seen him.

“I’ll explain later,” The Hook said. “Could you send somebody down the fire stairs for my jacket and what’s left of my shirt?”

The people in the lobby stared as they trooped through: the cops, Brannigan, the two ambulance drivers with the stretcher
carrying Jock Bunche, the doctor, coroner, the manacled Raff, Muffy, also in handcuffs, and the battered Lockwood.

In the street, a crowd formed around them, the meat wagon pulling away first, then a silent and subdued Raff in the first
police car driving off. Muffy was in the back seat of the other cop car, next to Brannigan. She was coming back to herself,
and had the window open, chattering at Lockwood.

“Nothing will happen to me, you know,” she insisted, hands daintily rebuttoning her blouse, her hair already in place, every
strand of it. “I’m so tangentially involved, really, what can they possibly accuse me of? Besides,” she added brightly, “I’ve
got money, you know. My family can afford to hire the best lawyers. And we will.”

Lockwood just looked at her, saying nothing.

This seemed to nettle her, and she began working harder, trying to get a response. “You know, I was angry with you. Very,
very angry. But I’m not anymore. You’re a very exciting man. Doing what you did to Jock. And then to Raff.” She was beginning
to look herself again, golden and healthy and beautiful, and totally involved with no one but herself.

“What an idiot that Jock was. He wasn’t supposed to be noisy and rude on opening night. That was to be the second night. But
like everything he did, he got it all wrong. You could never be like that. By the way,” she smiled up at him, “I’m still planning
that party. And I still love my idea, don’t you? You know, where you pretend you’re the security guard, and….”

She was still talking as the car drew away, shouting back at him as it moved off into traffic. The Hook stood there for a
moment, impassive, watching the flawless skin and the shining blond hair grow smaller and smaller, fading into the distance.
Then, he turned on his heel and walked away.

in the black satin gown is

wailing in the nightclub spotlight.

She can’t sing worth a damn.

But the legs are great and

they’re only a sample of

the rest of the package.

Trouble is her jewels are missing, and

her boyfriends keep turning up dead.

is on the case.

He’s Bill Lockwood, insurance investigator.

Background: Ivy League and

the hell of World War I.

He wears a Brooks Brothers suit—

and a Colt .38.

And someone’s trying to splatter him

on the sidewalks of New York.