Стюарт Стерлинг - Collection of Stories

The man answered pleasantly enough, “Getting ready to give an exhibition of fancy pigeon-nicking, Sue. One’ll get you ten if you think it’ll be the first time a pigeon’s had all its feathers stripped off without being blown to ribbons.”

“What kind of double-talk is that!” Suzanne sounded frightened. “You know who that fellow on the couch is?”

Don said, “I told him. He doesn’t buy it. He thinks I came up here to pile in bed with you.” He made a movement to turn his head.

“Don’t try it,” Clem warned him agreeably. “I’d have to scrape your brains off that period wallpaper. Let’s put it this way. You’re here, mister. And she’s here. Neither of you figured on my being here. That’s about the size of it. Now, far be it from me to play the spoil-sport. You’re going to go right ahead as if I weren’t here at all.”

Suzanne caught her breath sharply. “Clem! What’s the matter with you? This man Marko knows all about the Betterson order. He might find out about the others, too, and—

“Less talk,” Clem cut her off curtly. “More action. Get those feathers off, my pigeon.”

“Wha-a-at?” She was clearly stunned with terror.

“Take your clothes off, my beautiful.” Clem was less affable. “Get ready to give the fella what you promised him.”

Her voice shook. “You must be off your rocker!”

“Undress. Strip. Now.” All the banter was gone from Clem’s tone. The words had a whip’s lash. “Don’t stall. Don’t argue. Take your clothes off! Or I’ll shoot ’em off!”

“Clem!” she pleaded. “Clem, I don’t even know the man! I told you—”

“I’ll count to ten.” The whip-crack words were harsher. “If you don’t have your skirt off by then...”

She moaned, and Don heard her coat drop to the floor, heard the zipper on her skirt come open. He found his face wet with sudden sweat. The guy must be nuts!

The hooks unsnapped on her blouse. Would it be his turn next, Don wondered, to satisfy this lunatic’s peculiar jealousy? Or was it something more sinister than jealousy?

Don heard the snap of the elastic. A prickly sensation crawled around the back of his neck.

“Okay, Sue.” Clem said. “Now get over there. Lie down. Beside him.”

“No! I will not!” The fear had gone from her voice. In its place was a dull hopelessness.

Don slid his right palm against, the wall, bracing himself to shove the couch away from the wall and get leverage enough to roll out of the way of the shotgun blast if it came.

“Listen, you.” he said angrily, “I don’t know how far you think you can carry this gag, but I’ll tell you! Not a damn bit further as far as I’m—”

He gave a mighty heave. The couch slid away from the wall only six inches or so but he got enough purchase to roll and hit the floor on hands and knees as the gun roared. He had a smoke-blurred glimpse of the girl’s nakedness, a snapshot glimpse of a tall, slim figure swinging up the shiny barrels. A face masked with a red triangle of bandanna. Slitted eye-holes, short-cropped, carroty hair.

He dived for the man’s knees, one hand flung out and up to seize the shotgun. His ears rang thunderously, exploded. A tremendous concussion knocked him sideways. The red mask and the ivory-and-blonde nakedness dissolved beneath blinding waves of unbearable brilliance.

He was living through one of the nerve-shattering nightmares of his flight training days — coming in to the field too low on his solo, trying to zoom her up too quickly, going into one of those sickening spins, whirling helplessly, faster and faster, tautening his muscles for the crash that would mash him into a shapeless pulp.

He thrust forward on the stick in one last spasm of effort to pull out of the spin. The controls were rigid, immovable. He forced himself to open his eyes. The “stick” was the double-barreled shotgun. He lay face down, with long blonde hair beneath his mouth.

The fireplace revolved dizzily. The sketches and paintings tilted away from him nauseatingly, swung back over him like the side of a wallowing ship. The noise of the prop wash continued — deafening, paralyzing in its intensity.

Slowly, painfully, he pushed himself up to hands and knees. The naked girl lay face down on the oyster-white carpet beside him, one knee drawn up beneath her, both hands under her stomach. The only visible sign of a wound was the glistening red ribbon circling her right forearm where her body rested against it.

Her forehead touched the thick carpeting so her neck seemed to be arched up. There was a twitching at her throat.

She was alive! She was trying to say something!

Don thought it would be futile to try to hear anything other than the thunderous roaring within his own head, but he put his ear down close to her mouth.

“What?” He was startled at the far-away sound of his own voice. “Say it again!”

“Benny.” The voice was surprisingly strong.

“Yes? What about him?”

Sue’s shoulders quivered. “Tell Benny — pay off — Clem for this.” The shoulders sagged.

Don stumbled to his feet, steadying himself against the bookcase. He could focus his eyes only by squinting. It was some seconds before he was even able to spot the telephone, yards away on a small table in the foyer.

He couldn’t have seen the numbers on the dial clearly enough to ring a particular number, but he felt for the last hole on the disc, twirled it.

“Police emergency!” he said when the operator answered.

“Who is this calling?”

“Collinson.” He made a mighty effort of concentration. “Lorraine 8-6217. Hurry it up, will you?”

When the bored voice of the desk sergeant announced, “Headquarters,” Don rattled off:

“Can you get an ambulance over to 619 West Seventy-fourth in a rush? Been an accident.”

“What’s the trouble, there, mister?”

“Been shot — bleeding to death. Hurry, or it’ll be too late!”

Don slammed down the receiver in numbed disbelief. Looking down at the phone, he’d noticed his bare legs. His pants had been taken off! He looked at his arms. All he wore was his shorts and socks!

That murdering maniac in the bandanna mask had stripped Don of his raincoat, coat, vest, trousers, shirt, undershirt and shoes.

Other things beside the objects in the studio began to come into focus now. The killer had planned the whole setup neatly, getting the girl to undress, shooting her, knocking Don for a loop and then peeling him to his underwear so the police would find them as if there had been what the French called “a crime of passion!”

Wouldn’t that make a nice, stinking trap! Don had told Cora this poor kid on the carpet had invited him up to her place, and he’d told her he was going up to accept the invitation. Of course it had been kidding on his part, and Cora had known it, but it would sound lousy if a prosecutor should force her to repeat it on the witness stand.

Then there would be plenty of nasty talk about the odd way this Suzanne had managed to escape from his office. It wouldn’t be too hard to get a jury to believe he’d let her get away on purpose.

He pulled his pants on, shoved his feet into his shoes. His fingers wouldn’t coordinate enough to tie the laces.

He reeled unsteadily into the kitchen-dinette. On top of the ice box were two liquor bottles, one of Fundador, the other a Rhine wine. He grabbed the brandy, pulled the cork with his teeth, gulped half a tumblerful straight from the bottle. It stung and choked him, but it cleared his brain a little.

He took the brandy back to the living room. The girl’s neck was no longer arched. Her mouth was pressed flat against the carpet. Beside the arm with the glistening circlet a creeping crimson stained the oyster-white of the carpet from her shoulder to her slender waist.