Murder in Black Letter, Poul William Anderson [best ebook reader ubuntu TXT] 📗

"I wonder where a chronically broke small-time entertainer gets money to splurge, all at once," said Kintyre.

Guido set his drink down again. Behind the loose, open blouse, his breast muscles grew taut.

"Never you mind," he said, in the bleakest voice Kintyre had yet heard him use. "Forget I mentioned it. Run along home and play with your books."

"As you wish. But when you're being officially grilled—and you will be, sonny—I wouldn't talk about Bruce in exactly the terms you used tonight. It sounds more and more as if you hated him."

Kintyre had no intention of leaving. Guido was disquietingly hard to understand. He might even, actually, be a party to the murder. Kintyre didn't want to believe that. He hoped all the tough and scornful words had been no more than a concealment, from Guido's own inward self, of bewildered pain. But he couldn't be sure.

He would have to learn more.

He sat back, easing his body, his mind, trying not to expect anything whatsoever. Then nothing could catch him off balance.

But the third party jarred him nonetheless.

A man came over toward the booth. He had evidently just made an inquiry of the waitress. He wore a good suit, painstakingly fashionable, and very tight black shoes. His face looked young.

Guido saw him coming and tightened fingers around his glass. A pulse in the singer's throat began to flutter.

"Get out," he said.

"What's wrong now?" Kintyre didn't move.

"Get out!" The eyes that turned to him were dark circles rimmed all around with white. The tones cracked across. "I'll see you later. There could be trouble if you stay. Blow!"

Kintyre made no doubt of it. Ordinarily he would have left, he was not one to search for a conflict. But he did not think any man could be worse to meet than the horror, and he could feel the horror still waiting to take him, as soon as he stopped having other matters to focus on.

He poured out the rest of his beer. Then the man was standing at the booth.

He was young indeed, Kintyre saw, perhaps so young he needed false identification to drink. His face was almost girlish, in a broad-nosed sleepy-eyed way, and very white. The rest of him was middling tall and well muscled; he moved with a sureness which told Kintyre he was quick on his feet.

"Uh," said Guido.

The young man jerked his head backward.

"He was just—just going," chattered Guido. "Right away."

"When I finish my beer, of course," said Kintyre mildly.

"Drink up," said the young man. He had no color in his voice. Its accent wasn't local, but Kintyre couldn't place the exact region. More or less Midwestern. Chicago?

It was a good excuse to get his back up. "I don't see where you have any authority in the matter," said Kintyre.

"Mother of God," whispered Guido frantically across the table. "Scram!"

The young man stood droop-lidded for a moment, considering. Then he said to Guido: "Okay. Another booth."

"Won't you join us here?" asked Kintyre. "You can say your say when I've gone."

The young man thought it over for a second or two. He shrugged faintly and sat down beside Kintyre, a couple of feet away. Shakily, Guido poured a drink into the unused glass of ice.

"Th-th-this is—Larkin," he said. "Terry Larkin. This is Professor Kintyre. He was a friend of my brother, is all."

"Are you from out of town, Mr. Larkin?" said Kintyre.

The young man took out a pack of cigarettes. It was the container for a standard brand, but the homemade cylinders inside were another matter. He lit one and sat back, unheeding of the whisky.

Kintyre would not have thought an ordinary drug addict anything to reckon with: the effects are too ruinous. But in spite of all the lurid stories, marijuana is a mild sort of dope, which leaves more control than alcohol and probably does less physiological damage than tobacco. If it came to trouble, Larkin was not going to be inconvenienced by a reefer or two.

"Friend of mine," said Guido. He was still tense, his smile a meaningless rictus. But a hope was becoming clear to see on him, that the episode would pass over quietly.

Kintyre did not mean for it to. There was more than coincidence here. If Larkin simply had private business to discuss, even illegal business, Guido would have had no reason to fear trouble. Larkin could merely wait until the professor took his bumbling presence home.

The trouble is, thought Kintyre, I've been asking so many questions. I might irritate Happy here.

Wherefore he dropped his bomb with some care: "Perhaps you can help me, Mr. Larkin. I suppose you know Guido's brother was murdered. Guido won't tell me where he was during that time, Saturday and Sunday, and I'm afraid he might get in trouble with the law."

Guido regarded Larkin like a beggar.

Larkin sat still. So still. It must have been half a minute before he moved. Then he looked through a woman's lashes at Kintyre and said:

"He was with me. We went out and picked daisies all weekend."

Kintyre smiled. "Well, if that's all—" His bomb had missed. He dropped another. "To avoid trouble, though, you'd better both go to the police with a statement."

"You're no cop," said Larkin.

"No. It was only a suggestion." Having bracketed the target, Kintyre dropped his third missile. "If they happen to ask me first what I know about it, I can refer them to you. Where are you staying?"

"Gèsu Cristo," groaned Guido out of a lost childhood.

Larkin's face remained dead. But he laid down his cigarette and said slowly and clearly: "I told you to run along home. This time I mean it, daddy-o."

Kintyre bunched his muscles—only for an instant, then he remembered that he must be at ease, at ease.

"I'm beginning to wonder what you really were doing last weekend, Terry," he said.

There was hardly a visible movement. He heard the click, and the switchblade poised on the bench, aimed at his throat.

"End of the line," Larkin told him without rancor. "On your way. If you know what's good for you, you won't come back."

"Do you know," murmured Kintyre, "I think this really is a case for the police. Ever hear of citizen's arrest?"

Guido's wind rattled in his gullet.

Larkin's blade spurted upward. It was an expert, underhand sticking motion; Kintyre could have died with hardly a noise, in that booth designed not to be looked into from outside.

From the moment the steel emerged, he had realized he was going to get cut. That was half the technique of facing a knife. His last remark had been absolutely sincere: the law needed Larkin a prisoner, now. His left arm moved simultaneously with Larkin's right. The blade struck his forearm and furrowed keenly through the sleeve. It opened the skin beneath, but little more, for Kintyre was already lifting the arm, violently, as the follow-through slid Larkin's wrist across. He smacked the knife hand back against the booth wall.

His own right hand slipped under Larkin's knee. Then he half stood up; his left came down to assist; and he threw Larkin out of the booth.

He followed, out where there was room to deal properly with the boy. Larkin had hit a table (Western movie style, grinned part of Kintyre) and the whole business crashed and skated over the floor.

The bouncer ran ponderously to break up the fight. Kintyre had nothing against him, except that any delay would give Larkin too much time. He ran to meet the bouncer, therefore, stopped a fractional second before collision, and took the body's impact on his hip. It was elementary art from there on in. The bouncer bounced.

Larkin was back on his feet, spitting fury and blood. He'd lost his knife—should be easy to wrap up—Hold it!

The second switchblade gleamed among candles. Kintyre had almost impaled himself. He fell, in the judo manner, cushioned by an arm. Whetted metal buzzed where he had been. Rolling over on his back, Kintyre waited for Larkin to jump at him. Larkin was not that naïve. He picked a Chianti bottle off a table and threw it.

Kintyre saved his eyes with an arm hastily raised. The blow was numbing. He whipped to his feet again. The bartender circled on the fringes, gibbering and waving a bungstarter: the typical barroom fight is ridiculous, these two meant what they were doing. The bouncer dragged himself to his hands and knees.

"Call the police," snapped Kintyre. "And for God's sake, some of these tablecloths will start burning any minute!"

The customers were milling away. One of the fairies screamed; the butch stood on a chair and watched with dry avid eyes. Larkin backed off along the wall. Kintyre followed. Larkin wasn't foolish enough to rush; Kintyre would have to.

He waited till there was a small space clear of tables before him. Then he crouched low and ran in. His left arm was up, for a shield. He'd take that toadstabber in the biceps if he must.

Larkin, back against the bar, drew into himself. Almost on one knee, thought Kintyre as he plunged in, like a Roman gladiator trying for the belly. A tactical change was called for.

He shifted course and met the bar six feet from Larkin. His palms came down on it, he used his own speed to leap frogwise up to its surface, pivoting to face Larkin. He made one jump along the bar. His second was into the air. He landed with both feet on Larkin's back, before the other had more than half straightened.

Larkin went down, the knife flying from his hand. Kintyre fell off and went in a heap. This wasn't judo, it wasn't anything; Trig would laugh himself sick if he could watch. But—

Kintyre rolled back. Larkin was climbing unsteadily to his feet. Kintyre pulled him down and got a choking hold from behind. He lay on Larkin's back, his legs and sheer weight controlling the body, one arm around the throat, hands gripping wrists.

"Okay," he panted. "Squirm away. You'll just strangle yourself, you know."

Larkin hissed an obscenity. He was lighter, but Kintyre could feel a hard vitality in him. No matter, he was held now.

"Bartender," wheezed Kintyre. "Call the police—"

Something landed on his head.

It was like an explosion. For a moment he spiraled down toward night. He felt Larkin wriggle free, he groped mindlessly but his hands were empty and the world was blackness and great millstones.

Then he was aware once more. Guido crouched beside him, shaken and sobbing, and pawed at his bleeding scalp with a handkerchief. "Oh, God, Doc, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Are you hurt?"

Kintyre looked around. "Where'd Junior go?" he croaked.

"Out the back door. Christ, Doc, I had to, you don't know what—Mary, Mother of God, forgive me, but—"

Kintyre stood up, leaning on Guido. A small riot was developing among the clientele and the help. He ignored it, brushing someone aside without even looking. The singer's stool lay at his feet. Guido must have clobbered him with that.

"Suppose you tell me why," he said.

"I—Get out. Get out before the cops come. I'll cover for you—tell them I don't know who you are, you were a stranger and—Get out!" Guido pushed at him, still weeping.

"I don't have anything to fear from them," said Kintyre. "It strikes me that maybe you do."

"Maybe," whispered Guido.

"Bruce died in a nasty way."

"This isn't—nothing to do with—I swear it, Doc, so help me God I do. Think I'd ever—It's something else, for Christ's sake!" Guido spoke in a slurred muted scream. "It's not only the cops I'm scared of, Doc, it's the others. They'd kill me!"

Kintyre studied him for a long second.

After all, he thought, this was Bruce's brother. And Corinna's.

"Okay," he said. "I promise you nothing. I, at least, will insist on knowing what this is all about. When I do, perhaps I'll decide the police ought to be told, and perhaps not. But for now, good night, Guido."

He turned to go out the rear exit. Faintly through the main door, he heard approaching sirens, but there