Джон Макдональд - More Good Old Stuff

He walked and his mind was like a closed fist; the muscles tensed, the kinetic force poised, the entire organism aimed at the careful destruction of Jean Charlebois.

It had to be a delicate destruction. You cannot shoot a man down in the street and walk away. The circumstance must be right. It must be planned like a successful civil murder. Not like military justice.

The trapper baits and sets his trap, and then backs off, removing sign and scent of his passage. He stands for a moment and tries to look at his trap with the eyes of the animal which he wishes to catch. What are the possibilities of escape?

In that way, Jan Dalquist looked at the Ancient Door. It was in a building set flush with the sidewalk, with buildings tight against it on either side. Two rooms opened onto the street. One was a small bar, dim, unclean, with rough wood walls, old flags and swords on the wall. The other room was a dining room with a small raised platform at the far end. Between the bar and the dining room was a big, ornate iron gate with a sign on it which said “Meals Served in the Court.” He noticed, then, an open door in the back wall of the bar.

He ordered a drink at the bar, picked it up and walked casually back. There was a small court there, open to the sky, with an asthmatic fountain bubbling in the center of it. A few tables were covered with soiled, checked cloths. Another sign said “Dance by Candlelight under the Stars.”

There were only two doors leading from the court, the door through the bar and one into the kitchen. Except for one old man who sat at the bar, staring moodily down into his drink, Dalquist was the only customer. Through the open grillwork of the iron gate, he saw the entrance to a stairway that went up to the rooms overhead. That would bear investigation.

He selected a position at the bar which gave him the widest view of the dining room and sipped his drink patiently. Jan Dalquist had a great deal of patience. As he waited, he went over the several plans which he had devised to accomplish the destruction of Jean Charlebois, alias Ramón Francesco, alias Pierre Duval, ex-Maquis, ex-employee of the Gestapo, ex-Frenchman, ex-human.

Two noisy couples had a drink at the bar, and then went into the dining room. Jan Dalquist watched carefully without giving the impression of watching. He relaxed internally when their order was taken by a doughy man who could not conceivably be Charlebois.

A pretty girl, her hair a close-fitting cap of blond curls, walked into the bar from the street and sat two stools from Dalquist. She had a wide face, with something secretive and sensitive about the mouth. He glanced at her hands and liked their square, competent look. It suddenly occurred to him that a couple would be far less likely to arouse Charlebois’s suspicions than a single man.

He watched her carefully, saw her look at her own image in the rounded, polished surface of a silver decanter that stood, out of place, on the back bar. He saw the little wrinkle of laughter as she saw her distorted image.

“Not very flattering, is it?” he said quietly.

She turned toward him quickly, startled by the way his words had spoken her thoughts. He saw the flicker of analysis, the debate with self whether to ignore the comment. He knew that his grave, impassive face would weigh in his favor, that she would not rule against him because of his appearance.

She didn’t. She smiled and said, “Keep a woman away from anything in which she can see her face.”

“Men are just as vain, you know. Before you came in, I was staring at that thing and imagining what it would be like to go through life with the face I saw in there. It made me feel happy about the face I have. That is a pleasure seldom experienced.”

She cocked her head to one side and inspected him gravely, a glint of humor in her eyes. “Why seldom? You’ve got a very good face. Solid and dependable-looking. Nice eyes.”

He bowed and said, “Thank you, friend. And what else do you see about me?”

She pursed her lips for a moment and then said, “Let me see. About thirty-six. Scandinavian ancestry. By the way you speak, you’ve been well educated. Your suit is well cut. There’s something sad about your face. As though you’ve had a great deal of trouble. I’d guess that you’re some sort of professional man. Maybe an engineer.”

He laughed. “You’re observant. However, I’m thirty-two. And I’ve had an average share of trouble. I have a small job to complete and then I’ll be unemployed. How did you learn to use your eyes so well?”

“I’m down here trying to paint. Let me see your hands. I can tell a great deal from hands.”

“I’d rather not.”

“What do you mean?”

“They’re not pleasant. They were injured a few years ago.”

He saw the quick compassion. He said, “I’d very much appreciate it if you’d have dinner with me. That is, if you haven’t other plans...”

Her smile became wooden. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think that—”

“I know. You’re not accustomed to meeting men in bars and being taken to dinner. But I’m perfectly harmless and I’m lonely. I have no ulterior motives. Please don’t disappoint me.”

She looked down at her cocktail for a long second and then smiled over at him. “Okay. I’m Jerry Ellis.”

“How do you do, Jerry. Jan Dalquist. Now I’ll have to give you a second chance to refuse. I told you that my hands aren’t pretty. They’re insensitive to the extent that I can’t wear gloves over them while I eat. For that reason, I haven’t had dinner with a woman in a long time.” He put his right hand, fingers spread, on the top of the bar. He looked closely at her face, saw her eyes, saw the minute tightening of her lips.

She said, “Sit over here, Jan.” He moved over and sat on the intervening stool. She put her warm fingers on the back of his hand and said, “I’d be delighted to have dinner with you. And you’re a very silly man. Very silly.”

Something about the way she said it made him want to throw his money on the bar and walk out. No ulterior motives! She was far too trusting to be dragged into what might turn out to be a nasty mess. She seemed to be a nice person.

She said: “Charles, the bartender, is going to be quite astonished. I drop in here several times a week, and at least once each week he has to tell some ardent gentleman that I prefer not to be annoyed. I brush the others off myself. He’s going to look at you and wonder why I have dinner with you.”

Jan grinned and said, “Being a bartender, he can see that I’m a harmless type. Besides, I played on your sympathies.” As he spoke, he saw a man in the white coat of a waiter walk through the dining room. Some small gear clicked in his mind. Jean Charlebois.

The hunter raises one hand and cautiously spreads the brush that impedes his view. The cold blue barrel of the rifle points toward the clearing. The buck stands, nostrils quivering, head turning slowly in all directions. The hunter cradles his cheek against the smooth stock. He takes a deep breath and lets half of it out. His right hand tightens slowly, the trigger pressing against the pad of his right index finger. The sight bead is centered on a spot just behind the flat bone of the right shoulder of the buck. The right hand tightens...

“What on earth were you looking at then?” Jerry asked. “You looked quite frightening for a minute. Like a man looking at old ghosts.”

He glanced quickly at her, annoyed that he should have changed expression on seeing Charlebois. It was important to distract her attention.

He said, “That transparent? I was wondering about you. You seem like a person it would be easy to hurt. Obviously then, you have been. You could never grow to be as wise as you are without having been hurt. I was wondering what sort of person would do that to you.”