Оливер Блик - The Highbinders

“What do you want?” Styles said.

“The monkey wrench.”

I took the wrench and tightened its jaws around the iron pipe that stuck out from the tree. I gave the pipe a tug with the wrench and felt it beginning to unscrew. After a few more tugs with the wrench I could unscrew it with my hand. When it came loose I slipped it off and in the light of the torch the ruby seemed to wink at us.

“It’s the bloody sword!” Styles said, forgetting to whisper.

“What did you think I was looking for, the candy canes?”

“It’s inside the tree.”

“I know it’s inside the tree. It just fits. Now you can help get it out.”

Styles held the tree’s trunk up while I pried off the cap that Curnutt had fashioned to cover the pommel of the sword. He had sawed off a thick section of the tree from the base to form the cap. Then he had sawed off another section, hollowed it out until it was large enough to conceal the sword’s hilt. He had then split the tree very carefully far enough up to sheath the entire blade. He had then wrapped the wire tightly enough around the split trunk so that no crack was visible. The two sections of iron pipe, of course, had concealed the sword’s crosspiece and had also served as a stout brace to hold the tree upright in the pail. Curnutt had even been so meticulous as to countersink the finishing nails that held the cap onto the base of the tree. He had covered the countersunk holes with plastic wood that had been dyed or colored the same as that of sawed pine.

Although the hilt and the crosspiece were now free, the blade was still inserted in the split trunk. I took the trunk from Styles’s hands and said, “You’ve got a pure heart, pull it out.”

He pulled and it slid out easily, as if he were drawing it from its scabbard. He held it up wonderingly and stared at it. “How did you know?” he said.

“You might keep a Christmas tree up through March or even April. But not through May, not unless you want a nine-foot-tall tinderbox in your living room. Curnutt was too careful and too neat for that. He had to be using it for something else and who would ever look inside a Christmas tree?”

“You would,” Styles said and there was nothing but admiration in his voice. I can take a compliment as well as anyone. I didn’t quite blush. Instead, I said, “Let’s get out of here.”

“Here,” he said, handing me the sword that some people thought was worth three million pounds. “You take it. I’ll gather up the tools.”

“We should have worn gloves,” I said. “I should have thought of a flashlight and I should have thought of gloves. I can see I’ve got a great future as a second-story man.”

“I didn’t touch anything except the tree and the pail, did you?”

I tried to think. “The outside doorknob. I think we touched that:”

“We can wipe it off on the way out.”

Styles led the way to the stairs, carrying the bag of tools and the flashlight. I followed with the sword. At the bottom of the stairs, he stopped, turned, and held the flashlight so that I could see the steps.

I started down the steps and his flashlight wavered. It wavered because a voice said, “Hold it right there, mate.” The voice sounded as though it belonged to a gun. It also sounded as though it belonged to Tick-Tock Tamil.

I stopped on the second step from the top. Tick-Tock stepped into the light that came from Styles’s torch. Tick-Tock was all dressed up in a black turtleneck sweater and black slacks and black sneakers, looking every inch the well-dressed cat burglar. He also carried a very large flashlight, about two feet long, and a very large pistol, a revolver with a long barrel so that it would shoot straight.

The gun I saw was jammed into Styles’s kidney. “All right,” Tick-Tock said to Styles. “Move over against the wall there, nice and easy now.” Styles moved over until his back was against the wall.

Tick-Tock switched on his giant flashlight and shined the light up at me. It almost blinded me. “Okay, St. Ives,” he said. “Now just walk down the stairs, one step at a time, nice and slow.”

I didn’t argue. I started down the stairs, one at a time, holding the sword at something like port arms. The light still blinded me. I felt for the next step with my left foot, found it, or at least thought I did, and started to move my right foot. But my left foot had lied to me and it slipped off the riser. I started to fall and the only thing I thought of was to get rid of the sword so that I could use my hands to catch myself. I flung it away, but I kept on falling. There was a scream — a long loud scream and then I was at the bottom of the stairs, sitting on the bottom one really, looking down at the face of Tick-Tock Tamil who looked up at me.

Tick-Tock’s wrinkled, young-old face was working itself about, the mouth twisting down and then up, the eyes closing and opening. His hands were working, too, I noticed in the light from the torch that Styles still held. Tick-Tock’s hands were working on the blade of the Sword of St. Louis which had gone right through him, just below his breast bone. He was trying to pull the sword out, or maybe just trying to make it hurt less. He looked up at me again and said, “It hurts. It hurts bad.”

I couldn’t think of anything to say or anything to do. So I did nothing. I just sat there on the bottom step and stared down at Tick-Tock. He tried a grin, or maybe it was a grimace, and when he was through with that he said, “I always was an unlucky bastard.” Then he died. I knew he was dead because I saw him die and because I could smell him.

“He’s dead, isn’t he?” Robin Styles said.

“He’s dead,” I said. I stood up carefully. There was nothing broken, but there was a lot that was bruised. I held out my hand and tried, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to do it.

“Here,” Robin Styles said, “let me.” He planted his left foot firmly on the dead Tick-Tock’s chest, wrapped his right hand around the hilt of the sword, and pulled it out. Then he methodically wiped its bloody blade on Tick-Tock’s black turtleneck sweater. He did it all with one easy flowing motion, gracefully and well, as he did almost everything. He handed me the sword again. “Here,” he said. “I’ll drive.”

We hurried to the door that led to the alley. It was open. We had left it closed. I used my palm to smear its knob. “Wait a second,” I said to Styles. “There may be somebody else out there.”

“I’ll go first and get the engine started. I left the keys in the ignition. Then you can hop in the other side and we’re off.”

It sounded like a sensible plan, even to a suddenly deposed leader. Anyhow, it was the only plan there was. Styles dashed for the Volkswagen and got the door open. When the door opened, of course, the interior light came on and somebody shot at him. He had a choice. He could slam the car door shut and duck back into the shop with me, or he could gamble on making it inside the car with the interior light staying on until he got behind the wheel and closed the door.

He gambled on getting into the car and, as always, he was a rotten gambler. Whoever was shooting at him shot three more times, using the interior light of the Volkswagen to aim by. It must have been all the light that was needed because Styles was hit three times.

The first shot seemed to strike him in the shoulder and the second one in the leg. By then whoever was shooting had zeroed in and the third shot slammed into his side. Still on his feet somehow, Styles staggered toward me, then fell back against the car door, closing it, and extinguishing the interior light. Then he started sliding down the outside of the Volkswagen until he landed, with a kind of a plop, in a sitting position on the alley pavement, his back against the car. He held his side as well as he could with one hand because it seemed to hurt the most.